Chapter 5
Chapter Five
BIANCA
He sits in the chair, still naked under the towel that provides peekaboo coverage at best as he sports a stiff one to go with his grin. We stare, and I struggle to keep my eyes lasered on his.
I finally turn away—well after I get a good enough eyeful of him and the magnificent tower of his boner to send my head haywire. Something has definitely short-circuited because I feel hot all over and a certain part of me pulsing to life, draining me of my ability to move or think.
Pull your head out of your ass, girl, solve the problem.
I hurry to the closet and pull the inevitable hotel bathrobe from it and toss it at him, covering up his tented peek-a-boo towel—and not to mention his gleaming abs—in the process.
“Put this on.”
“You don’t like the view?”
I scowl. It’s not my best professional look, but it’s the only defense I have under the circumstances.
He aims his lopsided grin at me and dons the robe, wrapping it tight and tying it.
I can’t help glancing in the direction of the last known whereabouts of his tantalizing tower—only to check for further inappropriate lapses in coverage.
I’m not sure if I’m disappointed when I find no inappropriate gaps disturbing the drape of the heavy robe.
He clears his throat and aims two fingers at his face. “Eyes up here.”
Heat blazes to my cheeks like I’ve been dope slapped, and he has the nerve to arch his brow at me.
Of course he does. Because I’m the biggest hypocrite on the planet. Staring at his covered crotch? Really?
“Sorry,” I mumble. “It’s that damn towel.”
He chuckles. “I’m just teasing. After all, you’ve already seen—”
“Never mind that.” I settle my pulse and get past the superficial issue of his missing clothes. “Are you okay to play the game?”
“Perfectly.”
He’s lying. He rubs his forehead, and I know he has a headache, though he refuses to admit it for whatever macho reason.
Hefting my bag from the table, I rummage through it until I pull out a full-sized bottle of Tylenol—extra strength—and toss it to him.
The smile that lights his face as he catches the bottle isn’t the teasing one, not even the friendly one he uses for the fans; it’s the one that says you’re an angel and I’m so grateful I could hug you.
Before I can get him a bottle of water, he snaps the lid, pours out a few tablets, and swallows them dry.
I hand him a bottle anyway since he drained the last one, which means he must be dehydrated.
I’m about to lecture him on the importance of being well-hydrated on the morning of a game—as if he doesn’t already know as a professional athlete—but I control my need to control, and he drinks down the bottle in one gulp.
There’s a knock on the door, and he gets up like he’s going to answer it, but I shove past him.
“You stay out of sight.”
“If you say so, Ma’am, but I don’t get the need for cloak and dagger.”
“Don’t call me Ma’am,” I say over my shoulder as I reach the door, trying to give him the kind of look that will make him behave, channeling my best school teacher expression. Which is probably why he’s calling me Ma’am. So much for quelling my need to control the situation.
But in my defense, taking control helps keep my underlying feelings of panic down.