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Chapter Four

Scott

I’m obsessed.

Obsessed with something other than football. Moping around my apartment for the first forty-eight hours in Boston had been ineffective and bad for my health so I’d gone for a walk. I hadn’t meant to go in. I don’t like bar food. I don’t even drink. But something caught my eye through the window and when I’d moved in for a better look, I’d been captivated.

Somehow her hair morphs between a honey brown with hints of chocolate to almost looking blonde when the light hits it just right, before darkening again when she shifts away and is shrouded in shadows. I’d watched—creepily, now looking back on it—through the window as she had smiled shyly and ducked her head talking to one of the other staff members.

My feet had a mind of their own, walking me into the bar, sitting me on a stool not too far from her. I’d pulled my cap down further over my face after spying the group of older men wearing tired football jerseys as they drank heavily at three in the afternoon.

She had spoken to me, leant across the bar as she poked and prodded for information. She may have just been being polite, or she may have found me as fascinating as I’d found her. Whichever, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Her polite conversation, spurred on by curiosity or not, had given me the perfect excuse to stare at her, up close.

Ivy .

I’ve committed everything I learned about Ivy that first time to memory.

Why? No idea, but it’s taken up space in my brain.

Her eyes are almost a navy shade of blue, endless pools I’ve been dying to dive into since staring into them that very first time. I want to slide my fingers into her hair, want to twist the strands around my fingers, play with them and watch them change color in the light. Even her rehearsed customer service smile captivates me, haunts me. I’d been listing all fifty states in my head trying to keep my dick from getting hard after getting a glance down the front of her shirt when she leaned forward over the bar.

I’d never wished to be an ass man more than in that moment.

I haven’t stopped thinking about her since.

Ivy told me she didn’t work there all the time. I remember that because I also remember that she said she’s a kindergarten teacher. That did something funny to my lungs. Sucking the air out of them and making it harder for me to breathe. At first, I thought it was because I’d been annoyed to find out she didn’t actually spend forty hours a week in a bar that was less than a hundred meters from my house.

Easy access to her I’d thought, stupidly.

I’d thought my chest had tightened because I’d been disappointed. Later, when I’d been staring up at my bedroom ceiling and thinking about her, the image of her with a bunch of toddlers floating to the front of my mind, caring about them and actually wanting to be around them, caused it to happen again. I’d had no choice but to admit it might have been because it meant she’d have to be really good with kids.

Back when I was younger, before football took over my thoughts and my life, I dreamt of having kids one day. Maybe.

I still do. Some day.

Still, the knowledge that the bar is only a side gig for her hasn’t stopped me from going back every day since.

See? Obsessed .

I’ve been back to the bar, looking for her every time. I’d had no luck. Until the other night. Restless and thoughts wandering, I’d decided to take a walk.

Naturally, I passed the bar. The music had drawn me in, the thumping music and the distinct sounds of a crowd gathered inside caused my pulse to skyrocket, but my feet drew me inside anyway. It’s like I felt her or something.

Ivy is funny, mysterious, and drop dead gorgeous. She’s got curves for days, soft looking hair that is practically begging me to run my fingers through it, and a smile that threatens to crack my chest in two. I didn’t see a downside to pursuing her when I spotted her by the bar Saturday night. I still don’t.

Something about her screams adventurous, and fun, and sexy. Screaming at me that she’s in a complete other world then the jersey chasers I tend to settle with when I get tired of my right hand. The biggest tell of them all, the best if you ask me, is that Ivy seems to have no idea who the fuck I am.

Fuck, but I love that.

I’ve been playing pro ball for almost seven years. Sat on the bench for the first three of them after college, called up every now and then when the win was assured. Then, the starting QB sustained a career ending injury and suddenly I was in. For the last four years, I’ve worked my ass off to make ‘Scott Harvey’ a household name. I’m one of the most well-known athletes in the league. I am building my legacy. I train seven days a week. I take care of my body. I eat well and get eight hours of sleep. I watch old game tapes. I study my mistakes, and I correct them. I live, sleep, breathe the game.

And Ivy has no clue who I am.

On top of that, she’s not a fan of football.

She doesn’t even like the game.

** *

My fingers flex around the metal bar, elbows locking with the weight as the bar reaches full height and I grunt through the resistance coursing through my muscles. With every rep, the bar gets heavier and the weight of Ivy’s admission— i hate football— is the culprit.

It’s playing on my mind. Running through my head. Taking over my thoughts.

How am I supposed to get her wearing my number if she doesn’t want to look at the jersey!

“You good, man?” Flynn’s hands hover under the bar, floating up and down with every press, ready to catch it if I fail.

I only grunt in response, mind still on the shy smile and pretty hair that I desperately want to touch. My muscles release, arms failing, and the bar drops dangerously close to my chest.

Fuck.

Flynn catches the bar and we rack the weights. I heave myself into a sitting position as Flynn walks around and sits on the bench across from me.

“I know Boston isn’t your favorite place in the world but hey …” Flynn gestures around the state-of-the-art weight room. This training gym is easily one of the nicest I’ve ever been to. “We made it. All those dreams we had back in college … going pro, playing on the same team, getting those championship rings together. This is the place to do it. You made the right choice.”

I only nod.

Have I?

Sure, the Broncos were almost unstoppable last year. They got a new head coach, Jeff Brady who switched up their game and got them to the playoffs. They were so close to the Super Bowl. It should have been an easy acceptance. Would have been for anyone else. Not me though. I vowed to never step foot in Boston unless for an away game. Even then, I preferred to pay for my own flight out early if the team was lingering. I’ve been fined for it before but I continue to do it. Boston isn’t the place for me.

“I’ll get over it.”

“You should come out with us; me and the guys. You need to bond with the team.”

I shake my head. I can’t think of anything worse than going ‘out’ in Boston. Not when my past is somewhere in this city.

I know what it looks like, what she looks like.

I know her name. Where she lives. Even where she works.

The odds of running into her are slim but I’d rather not chance it.

I took a chance coming here. I made a promise to myself that coming to Boston won’t drag a past I want nothing to do with, into my future.

Football players, professional football players, draw attention. But I’m only here to play ball. To build something. My contract is for one season and I’m here for Flynn, here to get the ring. Attention isn’t part of the deal.

Unless it’s Ivy’s it seems.

It’s the offseason. The team's players are spread across the country with families on vacation, taking time for themselves before preseason starts. I wanted to put off moving as long as I could and had been planning to wait until just before camp but Flynn returned from his Europe trip early—thanks to the nasty breakup with his girl of the month in Greece—and begged me to come to Boston before I originally intended.

I begrudgingly agreed and here I am.

Pre-season begins in a month. I’ll be back on the road and playing football. That’s going to be my focus, not worrying about bumping into a past that I’m rather keen on avoiding.

Did she even know who I’d grown up to be? I doubt it.

Did I want her to find out? Absolutely fucking not.

Boston has been off limits ever since the adoption records became public. I tracked her down, of course, but I have no desire to meet her. I want to keep it that way. A one-year contract means a one-year contract. I didn’t even bother to sell my house in LA. I packed a few boxes and some suitcases.

I’m here to play football. That’s it.

Although now that I’ve met her, I can’t say no to a little bit of a distraction while I’m here.

A distraction with endless blue eyes, and hair that changes in the light, and a smile set out to physically hurt if I stare at it too long. I could use something to fill in my sparse free time. Something smart, witty, fun. Something— someone —like Ivy.

So no, I can’t be bothered to go anywhere with the other guys on the team but I can be bothered to go and sit myself at Pats across the road from the stadium and pray to whoever is above that Ivy walks in today. Then, if I’m lucky, she’ll smile at me and I can fall asleep thinking about her instead of my past, or the season, or the pressure. Just … her.

I shake my head as I reply, “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Come on.” Flynn throws a friendly fist into my arm. “You signed the deal. You’re here now. Let’s make the most of the rest of the break before the season starts and we’re too tired and too busy to remember our own names.”

I wipe the sweat off my face with a towel.

“One drink?” Flynn asks, sounding hopeful.

“I don’t drink.” I scowl at the floor. Throwing the towel toward my gym bag.

“You hardly drink. I still remember that time in college that you almost pu—”

I look up at Flynn, defeat dropping my shoulders. “Fine.” I stand, slapping a hand across my friend's shoulder. “Fine. One drink, one . I mean it Flynn.”

“Done.” A boyish grin takes over his face.

“Let’s just go across the road though,” I suggest. Maybe she’s working today. School isn’t back, it’s still summer. I stretch, my muscles groaning at me for a hot shower and my couch. “I’m too dead on my feet after this morning's pick-up game to go too far.”

One smile from Ivy, my little football hater, will make my body hurt less.

Flynn follows me to the showers. “Wherever you want man.”

***

Pats comes into view, neon signs lighting up the window even though the early evening sun still hangs low in the sky, and my heart speeds up. Walking past this bar is my favorite part of my evening routine but nerves still shoot through my body.

I hate the feeling.

But I also kind of love it.

It’s been a long time since I felt a buzz of excitement at the prospect of seeing a woman.

I want to see her. I really, really want to and I don’t even know her last name. I should’ve asked for her number the other night.

Or her last name.

Or both.

Definitely both.

Why didn’t I ask her?

Oh, that’s right.

Football.

It’s the thought of the pre-season, of being on the road again, of being away more often than I’m at home that held me back the other night. I’d pondered our prospects after she’d left me in the alleyway. She doesn’t like football, fine. She’s not interested in the game, no problem. But it’s a huge part of my life—the biggest part—and any sort of relationship is surely going to be impacted by the fact she can’t stand my job.

Am I thinking too far ahead? Maybe.

She probably doesn’t even like me like that .

Doubtful .

Besides, the thought of breaking the routine I’ve subconsciously created—the one where I search for her between the dusty blinds behind the front windows and scan the bar for a glimpse of her honey brown hair every night while walking pointlessly around the neighborhood—makes my lungs constrict.

I’m not an idiot.

Ivy .

I don’t know anything about her, not really. Just that her smile reaches her eyes and she has this endless wonder shining back at me whenever our eyes meet. With a simple look across that tiny table in the back alley, she’d been begging for a glimpse into my soul and I'd be damned if I hadn’t wanted to give her one.

“I love this place. The atmosphere on a Saturday night during the offseason is epic,” Flynn comments as I hold the door open for him, trying to hold off glancing into the bar.

I can practice a bit of constraint.

I think.

“Burgers are alright. Had one the other week,” I reply, still avoiding the bar in the middle of the room.

“I could go for a burger. You want me to order?” Flynn asks looking around the bar and grinning.

I run a hand through my still damp hair, finally glancing around.

I’m about to say yes, wanting to slide into a booth and sulk because Ivy isn’t the one behind the bar, but as my eyes roam to who is behind the bar, and the girls’ eyes flash with recognition whilst they dart between me and Flynn, I change my mind.

“I’ll get it.” I nod for Flynn to sit down, making my way to the bar. Her name is … Ivy’s friend's name is …

Shit.

I replay the memories from the other night, trying to sort through the noise. Naturally, my memory of anything but Ivy’s soft looking hair, deep blue eyes, and distracting curves are blurred and irrelevant. I apparently retained no other information than Ivy .

“Mystery man.” The friend smiles. “You’re out of luck. She isn’t here.”

“I see that.” Shit. Shit. Shit. What’s her name?

“You’d probably know that if you had given her your number,” she replies and I don’t miss the accusation in her tone.

“Uh …”

“You guys sat out there for a good thirty minutes and you didn’t even make a move. She thought something was in her teeth.”

I falter, Ivy’s smile filling my head. It makes my dick twitch in my pants. “I—”

“I assured her you were probably nervous.” She narrows her eyes at me. “She works again on Sunday. You can come back then. You know, to right your wrongs.”

“Ah.” Sunday. Sunday . Four days away. “Or …” I tap my fingers along the rounded edge of the bar. “You could give me her number and I could right that wrong now?”

The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Damn it .

I’m in Boston to play ball. That’s it. I don’t want—don’t need a relationship. I signed on for a year with the Broncos, hoping to take them to the Super Bowl, to get my ring, then to head back west and as far from this city as possible.

I’m not supposed to be actively chasing a girl.

I just had to walk by the bar when she’d been working. Had to forget how to think and find myself inside, to let myself talk to her. Two meetings— two —has me asking for her number like I’m planning to actually text her.

The fucking kicker? I know I will.

Can’t wait to .

Before, I didn’t mind a one-night stand when I needed it. Didn’t mind sinking into someone willing to let me use them for the night but I haven’t actively pursued a woman in ages.

Ivy is different. Feels different.

And without even realizing it, I’ve been pursuing her since I saw her.

I really, really want to text her.

To take her on a date.

To say or do anything to make her smile.

Fucking hell .

“Tell you what, lover boy.” The friend’s eyes flash, darting back to where Flynn is sitting and playing on his phone. “You get me Flynn Reed’s autograph and you have yourself a deal.”

This seems much too easy. I frown. “That’s a low price for your best friend’s number considering Flynn loves a bit of attention.”

“It’s just the right price for me to give her your number though.” She smirks, pulling two chilled pint glasses from the fridge and heading for the beer taps. “Are you having a drink?”

I pull my lips into a tight line. “Whatever’s on tap and mid-strength.”

She nods. “You can write your number on a coaster and I’ll pass it on, if you like. Otherwise, Sunday is your best chance.”

“Right. I’ll—” She flips her hair over her shoulder before switching the glasses under the stream of beer and her name floats through my mind. I roll my shoulders. “I might just do that. Thanks, Katie.”

“You remembered!” She smiles brightly, pushing the pints toward me and holding up a couple of cardboard coasters. “Brownie points, mystery man. You truly looked like you might have popped a blood vessel when you first came up.”

I don’t reply, taking the cards from her before picking up the beers and moving back to the table with Flynn.

Steading my hand around the glass, I glance up at Flynn. “The bartender wants an autograph. ”

Flynn’s head jerks up, eyes shining as he eyes Katie behind the bar. He smiles widely. “Wouldn’t want to deny my fans.”

Before Flynn can make his move, I fish a marker from the bottom of my gym bag and toss him one of the coasters. He signs the coaster and shuffles sideways to get up from the booth but I snatch the small piece of cardboard from him and stand up. “I’ll give it to her.”

He eyes me, his bright smile flattening into a sly smirk. I hold his gaze.

Ivy doesn’t like football players. I am a football player. Katie is Ivy’s best friend.

If Ivy is going to find out I’m the very thing she hates and swore never to date again, it’s going to be from me.

But I’m going to snag a date before she does.

I shrug, trying to look convincing. “You don’t want to break that mystery air, do you? Play a little hard to get, my man.” I nod toward the bar, taking a slow step away from Flynn and towards my ticket to a date with Ivy. “Come on, I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

He barks a laugh as I back away toward the bar.

When I turn, Katie is staring at me with her brows raised. “How do you know him?” she asks. “Ivy said you worked across the road but didn’t say what.”

I scribble my number on another coaster and pass them both over. “Uh, I work with the players,” I tell her tapping a finger along the bar.

Not technically a lie.

“Nice.” Katie takes the coaster smiling. “My boyfriend is going to freak out.”

“Uh-huh.” I eye her as she looks over the coasters. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a red flag raises at the fact I just gave my number out to a total stranger but it’s the beautiful face that makes me forget all the risk.

Katie clears her throat. “You know, Ivy hates football.”

“She told me.” I nod.

“And you work for a football team. ”

“Uh-huh.”

“She won’t watch games, not even on TV. She won’t talk about them, won’t listen to you talk about them either,” she says. Katie waves the coaster with my number like a fan in front of her face like she’s waiting for me to ask for it back.

I frown. “Football isn’t my life.”

Lie. Total lie.

Football is my life. My whole life.

Well … football and my parents.

Katie hums, pocketing the coaster with a quick tap of her pocket. “I’ll pass it on, lover boy.”

“Stop calling me that,” I grumble. Katie just laughs and shakes her head, taking my food order before I slide back into the seat across from Flynn. I pull my cap from my bag, shoving it down over my eyes.

My phone burns in my pocket.

I hate waiting.

***

(Unknown): I did not think I had something in my teeth.

I laugh. A proper, out loud laugh.

My phone had been on the edge of the couch, the volume on the television on low as an old game tape played. I left the bar a few hours ago, Flynn getting his one drink before he matched with some chick in the city on a dating app and promptly leaving me there. I’d been more than happy to let him go. Darkness fell, I drew the curtains across the large floor to ceiling windows in the penthouse and settled on the couch in the living room.

I’d kept tapping the message icon on my phone, double checking I haven’t missed a message even though the volume was fully up. The battery on the phone was completely depleted and when a notification popped up on the screen telling me that I’d only had twenty percent left, I’d realized I’ve been staring at the screen mindlessly for over ten minutes. So I’d banished it to the end of the couch.

It chimed and I dove for it.

At least Katie gave Ivy my number. I keep reminding myself that we’ve only met twice. We’ve had one proper conversation so if she hadn’t texted then that was fair enough. The thought of Katie withholding the coaster anyway also crossed my mind. She seems to have the overprotective best friend role down pat and would probably find it funny to watch me sweat.

Scott: I’m beginning to think Katie isn’t the best source of information.

Ivy: I think she was testing you. I’m not working on Sunday.

Scott: She like this with everyone?

Ivy: She’s protective.

Scott: I picked up on that, funnily enough.

Does she think you need protection from me?

Ivy: From anyone, really.

I lurch forward, feet dragging along the polished wood floors and elbows coming to rest on my knees. I can feel my heart thumping against my chest. Staring down at the text message, I wonder what she might need protection from. Maybe Katie is just a loyal friend. Maybe, most likely, there’s a story there.

I want to find out .

I want to be the one doing the protecting.

I’ve been in Boston for three weeks. Three weeks, and already some woman has made her way into my head, sat herself down and is refusing to leave. The scariest part is I can’t bring myself to care. I want her there. Invited her in myself.

Scott: She gave you the coaster. That’s something.

Ivy: She said you earned brownie points and then flaunted Flynn Reed’s autograph. Did you take a player to the bar?

Scott: Flynn’s a friend from college.

Ivy: He’s a big deal around these parts … you got a lot of friends in high places?

All my life, I’ve done what I could to avoid this kind of thing.

The flirting over texts. The dating. The relationships. Sure, I had a girlfriend in high school. She’d been a cheerleader and I’d been a football player. It’d felt more like we’d had to date, less like we’d actually wanted to. We didn’t last. In college, my one and only focus had been football. The hook-ups I’d had were mainly when riding the high of a win. Jersey chasers, sorority girls, study group partners. Not one had caught my attention for more than a night or two. We’d have fun before I’d get up the next day and go to practice and that would be it. When I’d gone pro, I couldn’t tell who was there for me and who was there for the spotlight and free seats, so it had just been easier to not bother. So, I haven’t.

I’m not celibate. I’m just not dating.

Ivy caught my eye through the window. That was three weeks ago and I’m still thinking about her. I itch to know more, to know everything. This isn’t high school and it definitely isn’t college. Whatever this is, I haven’t felt it before and fuck if that doesn’t scare me just a little.

Ivy: Kidding … it was nice of him to sign the coaster for her, she’s very happy.

My fingers hover, motionless.

Football starts soon. Ivy doesn’t like football. I’ll have to tell her and she probably won’t want anything to do with me after that.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s caught my attention so keenly because she isn’t throwing herself at me immediately. It’s probably because she has no idea who I am and that hasn’t happened to me in a long time.

So better to get her out of my system right?

That’s if I can even get a girl like her out of my system.

Yes. I’ll get her out of my system. A date—maybe dinner and a drink, maybe two drinks … what do people do for dates these days?—and then out of my system. Once I know more, once I know enough to satisfy the low burn that seems to simmer beneath my skin at just the thought of her, I’ll be able to focus.

Right?

Scott: Ivy ?

Ivy: Scott?

Scott: Do you want to have dinner with me on Sunday?

I watch as the conversation bubble appears at the bottom on the screen. It disappears, and appears once more. I feel like throwing something. What if she was just being friendly?

I remember the easy smile that slid across her soft lips when she asked where I’d come from, the practiced curiosity in her voice that comes from being in a job where she has to talk to people for a living.

I remember the way her wrist would twist when she poured a beer .

The small crease that appeared in her forehead when she’d been talking to one of the chefs about a meal that had been returned to the kitchen.

The way her shirt had lifted up her back, just slightly, when she’d reached up on her toes to replace a bottle on the top shelf.

With all of it, I remember the curves of her hips in the jeans she’d been wearing and the way her shirt had hung low as she’d leaned toward me across the bar. I’ll be damned if I ever forget the pale pink lace of her bra. I feel like a bit of a creep, remembering it all, but she’s hard to forget.

Ivy: I’d love to.