5. Tate
Ablack Escalade pulls up to the designated player entrance, and we get inside, exiting into the after game traffic. It’s another fifteen minutes or so before we’re moving along at a good clip. All the while, I’m stealing glances at Liana, who I’ve only seen before from a distance.
She was head-turning at twenty feet. At two feet, she’s an absolute knockout. Granted, my taste in women isn’t exactly cookie cutter. I was never interested in the head cheerleader. I was more into our school librarian with her sweater vest and cat-eye glasses.
Liana has a similar aesthetic. Her brown hair has a healthy shine, as do her honey brown eyes hidden behind square frames. She’s thick in the best way possible. I imagine my face between her thighs and automatically get a hard-on.
With a grimace, I stifle the erection with a press of my knuckle to my crotch.
Liana sits quietly. She stares out at the Texas scenery, which looks odd to me. I know we’re in a metropolitan area. I see tall buildings and other indicators of city life, but they’re interspersed with barren fields and cow pastures.
The stadium itself is in Arlington, several miles from downtown Dallas, where I made the reservation. The driver puts us on one highway, then another, and finally the lights of the Dallas skyline shimmer into view. Skyscrapers reach out into the darkening sky.
“Everything”s bigger in Texas,” Liana says. ”Even the traffic.”
She’s right. There’s a sea of red lights ahead of us. We move at a snail’s pace for a few miles.
Angling it so I can’t see, Liana checks her phone. I take mine out and do the same. There’s a message from Not Mal.
Hope you’re having a good day. I’m working.
I shoot a quick text back.
I’m headed to dinner. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about later.
Liana’s phone pings, and I can’t help but glance down. She shields it on reflex, and I know she doesn’t want me to see whoever it is she’s messaging. It’s probably her boyfriend.
I groan.
“What?” she asks.
“Is your boyfriend okay we’re doing this? I mean dinner was your idea, but then I go and change your plans. He’s probably pissed, huh?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not texting my boyfriend.”
“Right.” My tone matches how much I believe her.
“I’m not,” she scoffs. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Now my eyes are narrowed. “You don’t?”
“No, I don’t, Mr. Jumps To Conclusions.”
My immediate response is an Office Space quote, which sends Liana into a fit of giggles.
“I love that movie.”
“Me too.”
I try not to think about Not Mal, who hasn’t texted back. One of the first things we bonded over was our favorite movies.
A lot of people think professional athletes live an extravagant life filled with parties. The reality is there’s more work than play. Most nights I spend alone resting from a hard day of training and practice. I flip on one of my favorite movies with only Not Mal’s texts as company.
I don’t care how this meeting goes with Liana. I want to tell Not Mal who I really am. I want to know who she really is, too.
I want to meet her.
Liana buries her head back in her phone. She types, then hits send just as we reach our destination. I tip our driver generously, then usher Liana inside, hoping to skirt past a few photographers loitering out front. No dice. They seem to recognize I”m somebody even if they don’t know who. They snap a few photos.
Unsure whether it’s wise to touch Liana, I gesture her forward, hoping to shield her from the paparazzi.
For a second, she’s like a deer in headlights. Their cameras click away.
Frustrated, I grab her hand, and a jolt of pure adrenaline catches hold of me. My heart begins to race. The warmth. The soft skin. It’s like a hit of dopamine to my system.
I escort her up the sidewalk and throw open the door to find the hostess waiting there.
“Good evening.” She smiles, a hint of recognition in her gaze. “You must be Mr. Rushmire and his date.”
When Liana starts to correct her, I squeeze her hand. It’s not worth it. The hostess doesn’t need our life story. And maybe I want her to think Liana’s my date.
Maybe that’s because I want to think it.
I realize too late that I’m still holding her hand, still squeezing it, and I have to let go. I’ve already made it awkward enough, touching her like that.
“Sorry,” I say, not feeling sorry in the slightest.
Still, I need something else for my hand to do. I fumble my phone out of my pocket and find another text from Not Mal.