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#68:

I plead the fifth. But if this comforter is the same one you had in college … you’ve got some explaining to do. Bieber?

Me:

Remind me to block my mom for putting you in my bedroom.

#68:

She’s amazing, Lo. They both are.

Me:

I would have agreed before she put you in bed with Bieber.

#68:

I’d say it’s just a bed, Lo, but it’s yours. Smells like you. This whole house does.

Me:

I wonder if my pillow stills smells like you.

#68:

Tell me if it does.

I send him a pic of Riley all but drooling on it, and then a message.

Me:

I’m not waking her.

#68:

Get some sleep.

Me:

U 2

* * *

Glasses clink. Forks scrape plates. A pair of regulars are arguing over whether they should try the seasonal Oeno brew or just go with the tried-and-true Touchdown lager. Maggie’s manning the register with her usual sass, Iz’s pacing between barback and social director, fielding questions from everyone hoping to get information on the goings-on at The Stables. Me? I’m pretending I don’t keep thinking about my morning text message and wondering when the next will come.

I wipe down the bar again—despite it being perfectly clean—and get stupid giddy when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. It’s not a message; it’s a weather update. I smile at the lock screen.

Kolby this morning. Shirtless. Muscles ripped even in the relaxed state. That chest, those nipples I want to bite but wonder how he’d react … He’s half under my blanket. Holding my childhood stuffed bunny as if that makes it any less hot, and I’m sure he knew exactly what he was doing sending it.

And hedid. Because now, it’s my background. And I’ve looked at it at least a hundred times. Zoomed in. Zoomed out. Hell, I propped it in my shower while listening to the SportsNow podcast and, yes, I considered getting myself off, but that seemed like a waste of time now that I’ve experienced Kolby freaking Grimes.

I’m reaching for a new stack of menus when the door swings open and consider pinching myself when he walks in.

He’s flanked by half the damn team. Hart’s beside him, all golden-boy grin and casual charm. Skinner’s behind him, tossing a football in the air and catching it. And then there’s the rest of them—the commandos, a few O-line guys, even Coach Cox trailing in like they all made dinner reservations I never approved.

But it’s Kolby I see first. Always has been Kolby.

He’s in jeans that are probably resting too low on his hips for public safety, a long-sleeved tee that clings in all the right places, and his eyes sweep the room like he’s looking for something. When they land on me, I see it … I see that he found exactly what he was looking for.