Page 51 of Blitzing Emily

Immediately her insides clenched. “I don’t think so.”

“Hear me out. It’s been a lot of years. It still hurts. Maybe you need to hear his side of what happened. Maybe he has something he wants to tell you.”

“How could he justify it?”

“Maybe he wouldn’t. He might like to say he’s sorry.”

He propped his feet up on the coffee table, crossing his legs at the ankle. Emily laid her head against his shoulder. They were lost in their own thoughts for a few minutes.

“Didn’t you mention dessert earlier? If you’ll drive, I’ll buy,” Emily said. “How about some ice cream?”

Brandon got to his feet and reached out for her hand. “I’m in. Let’s go, sugar.”

Chapter Ten

BEING ENGAGED REALLYbrought the women out of the woodwork. Brandon glanced over at a line of several hundred people snaking around the side of Sharks Stadium, waiting for Sharks players’ autographs. One-third of them were females who appeared to be between twenty-two and forty. In other words, he was going to spend the next couple of hours giving the words “No, thank you” a workout.

He sat at a long table with four of his teammates inside the Sharks’ pro store. Signing autographs was part of his job description. The team wanted the best PR they could produce. Brandon wanted to remind the team’s front office he was someone the Sharks would regret cutting or trading due to community backlash if his contract extension wasn’t offered.

Brandon wasn’t opposed to female attention. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed the attention he received from a certain diva named Emily who wore his engagement ring the most, however. Unfortunately, Emily was out of town performing. He missed everything about her, up to and including when she got bossy with him. His little diva could be compared to a pampered, purebred Persian. She had no problem tilting her nose in the air, swishing her tail, and walking away when he was pissing her off. She’d throw a sweet smile over her shoulder, though, and he was helpless again.

The perfume she wore drove him crazy, too. He remembered her scent when she was nowhere around: It smelled like peaches and freshly mown grass.

Speaking of helpless, the first woman of marriageable age skipped over his teammates Zach and Tom like they had failed to shower recently. She had long, dark hair. The third finger of her left hand was bare. Her makeup applicator was set on “thick.” She wore stilettos, a micro-mini, and a low-cut top showcasing her after-market breasts to their best advantage. She extended a team cap to Brandon, flashing him a huge, whitened smile. “Would you sign this, please?”

“Of course I will.” He reached out for the cap. She didn’t let go. He gave it an experimental tug.

“You know what I’d like even better than your autograph? How about having a drink with my friends and me later? You’ll be thirsty from all this signing.” She leaned over the table a bit to give him the maximum amount of cleavage on display.

His buddy Damian sat next to him. Damian let out a snort. Brandon managed to pry the cap out of her hand and scribbled his name and jersey number with a Sharpie on the back of it.

“Thank you for the invitation, but I’m going to have to say ‘no’. My fiancée doesn’t like it when I date.”

“She doesn’t have to know,” the woman coaxed.

“Thank you, but no, thank you.” He handed the cap back to her.

The guy next to her in line gave her a glare. “Do you actually know anything about football, or are you here because you think he’s handsome?”

The woman flounced away. She didn’t ask Damian for his signature, either. “I think I’m insulted,” Damian said in a low voice, but his broad grin belied his words.

Brandon shook his head. The signing continued. Brandon received many more amorous invitations over the next hour and a half. He did his best to be polite, but he couldn’t believe these women thought he would do something as stupid as accepting an invitation to cheat on his fiancée with them. He wasn’t interested, and he couldn’t imagine where they got the idea he would be. His single teammates were eagerly scooping up a few of the disappointed females, however.

Brandon signed five hundred autographs that evening. He and his four teammates were whisked out of the pro shop and into a waiting SUV for the trip back to their cars by security. Instead of going back to the team facilities, Damian talked the driver into dropping them off at the Sharks’ favorite bar.

One of the more frustrating things about being a professional athlete was the fact it was sometimes tough to go out in public. The recognition factor increased along with the number of Sharks involved. Tonight’s five meant the group would be besieged anyplace else but the hole-in-the-wall Brandon and Matt Stephens had found during Brandon’s rookie season.

The place was older. The décor was early seventies—orange Naugahyde-covered benches, dark wooden tables scarred from years of use, industrial carpet of an indeterminate shade of blue. The place was littered with neon signs advertising various alcohols. At least ten flat-screen televisions were suspended from the ceiling in various places throughout the seating area. The food was plentiful, delicious, and nothing on the menu could be classified asnouvelle cuisine. Best of all, it was a fairly open secret among the mid-twenties to fifties clientele that the pro athletes they might see bellying up to the bar (or indulging in an order of chili fries during the off-season,) kept showing up as long as people left them alone.

The BrewPub was comfortable for everyone from Boeing blue-collar workers to thirsty Microsoft billionaires. The athletes fit right in.

After tenPMon a weeknight, there weren’t many cars in the parking lot. Brandon’s teammates followed him through the front door to the large table against the back wall. A few people glanced up from their beverages or food, noted the arrivals, and went back to discussing the Mariners’ latest victory or the upcoming schedule of the University of Washington’s football team.

Damian seized a menu as the group arranged themselves around the table. He was deep in consultation while three of his teammates compared notes on how many phone numbers they got slipped during the signing.

“Hey, McKenna, they were all talking about you, too.” Tom, the Sharks’ quarterback, attempted to imitate one of the women he talked with earlier. “‘I can’t believe he’s getting married. What does he see in that opera chick, anyway? I’m cuter than she is.’”

“If he went out with me, he’d forget all about her,” the newest Shark, Chris, chimed in.

---