Page 81 of The Game Plan

Ethan grins wider before turning his attention to the little control panel beside my head. “Watch carefully now.” He movesto punch in a number, but I stop him with a little cry.

“This is your house? We were going at it right in front of your house?”

He doesn’t stop smiling. “You sound annoyed.”

“Well...” I’m flustered. “Why didn’t we go in? You know...” My cheeks heat. “Before.”

I don’t even know why I’m being prudish. I certainly didn’t mind.

A laugh rumbles in his chest, and he gives me a look as if he is thinking the same thing. “That was the plan. But then I feltyour sweet body against mine, and it was all over.”

Biting his lower lip as if to keep from smiling any longer, he punches in the code: 11-55-88. The door clicks open. “Did youget it?”

“Yes.” I force myself to stand taller.

“Good.” He nods toward the panel. “Remember it. Any time you want to come here, my house is open to you.Any time, Fi. For as long as you want.”

The back of my throat tickles. I stare up at him, struck dumb and only able to squeeze his big hand with my much smaller one.It feels momentous, what he’s done. Huge. The kind of commitment that speaks of permanence.

It’s terrifying and wonderful all in one breath. I say the only thing I can. “Am I wrong, or wasn’t Gray’s college jerseynumber eighty-eight?”

Ethan blinks, clearly expecting something else, but he nods. “Yep. Drew’s was eleven. Mine was, and still is, fifty-five.”

“Aww. Aren’t you cute?”He’s perfect. And mine.

“It’s easy to remember,” he says gruffly. “Now let’s get inside.”

The door to Ethan’s house opens to a little carriageway, lit by an overhead wrought-iron lantern. We follow the path to aprivate courtyard.

“Wow,” I say as we walk farther into it. “This is beautiful.”

Frosted globe lanterns are hung across the yard. Little lights twinkle in the ivy-covered walls surrounding a garden of crepe myrtle and various palms. In the center, an ornate fountain runs.

“It came like this,” Dex says at my elbow. He glances around as if seeing it from my eyes. A loggia covered in bougainvilleashelters a double-wide lounger. There’s a massive tractor tire to one side of the courtyard. As in, it’s as wide as I am tall.His lips quirk at the sight of it. “Well, except for the tire.”

“You gonna tell me what’s up with the tire?”

He ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck. “I whack it with a sledgehammer. Sometimes I flip it.”

“Oh, sure. Because why not?”

“Does the job. But that’s for off-season training.” So nonchalant. But he can’t really hide his smug grin.

“That’s got to weigh, what?”

He shrugs his massive shoulders. “A thousand pounds.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Get the hell out.”

Dex winks. “Defensive linemen do it, so I do it too. No way am I going to be caught with my dick in the wind facing one ofthose guys coming at me like a tank.”

As unassuming as Dex can be, he’s also fiercely competitive.

I give his arm a squeeze. Not one ounce of give. “My big, strong man.”

“Yes, I am,” he says without hesitation, then surveys the courtyard. “The narrow building along the side is a guesthouse.The building at the back is an old carriage house, now a garage on the ground floor, and my painting studio is above it.

“You can look around tomorrow,” he finishes, his voice soft, his hand warm in mine. He’s pulling me toward the main house. We go up a flight of stairs, straight to the second floor. We walk past a large, open living room—exposed brick walls, wide, worn wooden floorboards—and through a gourmetkitchen. More exposed brick. Huge center island, stainless-steel appliances, white marble counters.