Chapter 4 Royce
ROYCE
“Idon’t get it.”
“Why is it so hard to believe?”
“Because you’re you and I’m me.”
“See, Roy? That’s your first problem. Putting yourself down.”
Kinsley and I have been in her apartment for an hour now, take-out containers littering her coffee table as she stares at me and sits cross-legged on her couch.
She’s so damn pretty, with long black hair and bright green eyes that have flecks of something that sparkle when the light hits them just right.
She’s also freaking nuts.
“Have you seen me?” I ask, exasperated—again—because the thought of Kinsley Dane, professional soccer player, being my dating coach is more than laughable.
“Of course I’ve seen you.” She grins and that wolfish gleam is back in her eyes. “I’ve also kissed you. That’s why I’m offering to help. You just need a little confidence boost, and I am willing to help you do that.”
“You’re gonna set my standards awful high to start.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I want to growl and shake her. “Even if we do this,”—I hold my hands up—“which I have not agreed to, I’ll never be the guy who walks up to someone with your celebrity status to ask them out.”
“Right, but you don’t need to. Obviously you can if you want, but the point is getting you comfortable to approach the girl at the coffee shop or bookstore, introduce yourself, and see where it goes.”
“You make it sound like it’s no big deal.”
“When I’m done with you it won’t be. Besides, you already talk to me.”
“Yeah, I haven’t figured that out yet,” I admit, stabbing a piece of General Tso’s chicken and shoving it into my mouth.
“Are you a virgin?” she asks, completely unprompted and making me nearly choke. Reaching over, she slaps me on the back.
“Easy there, Roy, it’s just a question. No need to be ashamed if you are.”
Grabbing my drink from the table, I take a large gulp before turning my head to her. “Warn a guy, would ya?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Yes, I’ve been with a woman. Lost my virginity awkwardly in high school like everybody else.”
“And then…” she prompts. And I sigh.
“One time in college.”
“Anyone since then?”
“No,” I manage through gritted teeth, still unsure why I’m even entertaining this. “What’s in this for you?”
The lightness in her eyes dims, and I hate that I’m the one that’s done it. God help me, but I don’t want to see her sad. Rolling her lips inward, she takes a shallow breath and then looks up at me.
“You’re good with computers, right?” It’s a question, but it’s not a question. She obviously knows. It’s generally what I do. She has no idea what I actually do. Probably better that way. Not many people know the depth of the security business that I’m into.
“I am,” I answer slowly.
She nods. “I have been having a problem with an ex,” she says simply. “I just can’t prove who it is, but I know.”
I narrow my gaze. “What kind of problem?”
“The kind that sends pictures from unknown numbers and untraceable emails,” she says simply, like it’s something that she’s dealt with for a long time, and maybe she has. Being a celebrity and in the public eye always opens you up to more than just the run-of-the-mill weirdos in the world.
“Have you talked to the police?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. She shakes her head.
“Your agent?”
“No.”
“How come?” I ask, because this is an important one.
“Because I can’t prove that it’s him, and even if it is him, I still can’t prove that it’s him.
Even if I go to the police, which I’ve done in the past—for something else, not for him,” she clarifies as if it needs clarification—“he hasn’t done enough to warrant the police stepping in.
Despite the fact that I’m a professional athlete, it doesn’t give me any special privileges.
If I tell my agent, they’ll just say that they’ll monitor it, and we’ll be well on our way.
It’s the same song and dance, Roy, and I just need more.
I need the reassurance as much as I need an insurance policy in case something happens. ”
“How can you be so sure it’s him?” I ask, exasperated.
“I mean, could it be the weird guy who stares at me at the coffee shop every time I go in but never speaks to me? Sure. It could also be the girls I confronted by the mailboxes when we met or the guy a couple of floors up who likes to tell me that women have no business playing professional soccer.”
“You’re not helping your case.”
“That’s the point, Roy. It could be anyone, but sometimes the easiest answer is the right one.”
I stare at her, still hating the implication that something has to happen to her physically in order for anyone to give a damn about the woman in front of me. I know it’s the reality, and while I’ve never been violent, it makes me want to break shit with my hands.
“Say it is your ex, what would you like to do with that information if we can prove it?”
She sighs. “I don’t know. I want him to back off. I want to not feel my stomach drop every time I get a new message.”
“You could hire a private investigator,” I offer.
“I could, Roy. I really could. But then they only want to work as hard as the money that I have to give them. And I thought if I’m helping you, you might be inclined to help me.”
“And what’s our end game?”
She shrugs. “I get answers as to who I need to be watching out for, and maybe I am able to get some closure, some sense of security, and you get the confidence to ask out the woman of your dreams.”
She says it simply. And there’s that look of vulnerability again. Her gaze is soft, her expression open. She looks so beautiful I can’t help but stare.
And aside from the fact that it wouldn’t hurt for me to brush up on my social interaction, I have this inexplicable need to help her—to ease those worry lines between her eyebrows, to make her shoulders fall, and give her the comfort and security that’s so obviously been robbed from her.
“And what exactly are we talking when you say dating coach?” I say, resigned to doing this with her. I expect more of a reaction, but she just shrugs again.
“It can be whatever you want but we’ll start slow—brush up on your rom-coms and movie etiquette.”
“I didn’t know that was a thing.”
She glares. “Do some basic dates, hand holding. Intimacy if you want. I can show you what women want. The basic mistakes that men make in and out of the bedroom.” My eyes flare wide at the implication that I could be having sex with her.
Just the thought of it has me going half hard, and I try to adjust myself as discreetly as possible.
She smirks.
Busted.
“Don’t say a word,” I huff and she chuckles.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Liar.”
“Full disclosure. If Nessa calls—no matter what’s happening—I will answer.”
“Gimme a sec. I’m trying not to embarrass myself,” I mumble before clearing my throat and focusing on her. “What?”
“Nessa.”
“Right.”
“I will always pick her.”
“I’ll get kicked to the curb when she calls. Got it.”
“We can part ways when preseason starts the end of next month. And we’ll need an NDA to spell everything out.”
“Why preseason?”
“Because I can’t have you distracting me,” she says with a wink, “and it’s a lot of hours I’m away between practice and scrimmages and media appearances.”
“All right, so this is done when your preseason starts.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll draft it tonight,” I say automatically, looking at the clock. “I should go. I have a couple of hours of work left as it is.”
“Of course,” she says, her eyes dropping to the table as she gathers up the containers.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Her surprise is evident as she looks up at me.
“Look sad. I can’t take it.”
This earns me a quiet laugh as we bring everything into the kitchen and put the leftovers in the fridge.
“It’s hard being on all the time, and believe it or not, I like spending time with you.” She lifts one shoulder but doesn’t meet my gaze. “It felt good to be myself.”
“Thank you for letting me see you.”