Page 95 of Blitzing Emily

She slid her arm around his waist. “No. You were being truthful. Every guy in America wants to go out with a Victoria’s Secret model.”

“Not this one,” he said firmly. “I like opera singers.”

“You are such a liar.”

“Listen. I have a fiancée that can bitch me out in five languages. Plus, I’d be nuts to go out with someone who’s elevated getting rid of the dinner I just bought her to an art form.”

“So bulimia doesn’t make you hot.”

“I love watching you eat,” he assured Emily. “You enjoy it. You enjoy everything, though.”

“Are you looking forward to this season?”

“I’m always looking forward to the season. I want to play forever, but I can’t.” He looked out over the bay. “I might have another couple of years. Maybe.”

“What’s it like to be out there?”

“Playing in a game?”

Emily nodded. He thought for a moment. “You perform for an audience, too. What’s it like for you when you’re standing onstage? You’ve just sung. The crowd’s applauding. What happens?”

“I love the feeling. There’s nothing like it. There’s energy, and adrenaline, and the fact people love what I just did. I can’t wait to do it again.”

“Okay. That’s usually a couple thousand people.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, I’m listening to fifty thousand people screaming my name. There’s nothing else I could ever describe that matches it. I’m doing something I love, and I want to keep doing it forever. When I get home after a game, I can’t sleep because I’m still so wound up from the energy in the stadium.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing it.”

“You will. When guys retire, they don’t know what to do with themselves. There isn’t a stadium full of people cheering for them when they mow the lawn and drive the carpool. They’re guys that used to be somebody, and now they’re not.”

Emily bit her lip. “They’re always somebody. They still mean a lot to their families and friends.”

“Of course they do,” he said gently, “but it’s not the same. It’s never going to be the same. That’s what I’ll be facing. I’ll have to find something to do with the rest of my life that won’t be anywhere near as exciting as what I’ve been doing since the first day I ran out on a football field and played in a game. I love the sport. I always will.”

He folded his lips. A shadow passed over his features, and Emily felt her stomach clench in empathy. She didn’t know what to say. Mostly, she knew that whatever she did say would probably be wrong. She would have to try till she got it right, though, because she wondered how she would feel if she woke up one morning and could never sing again.

“Maybe there’s a new adventure for you,” Emily said.

“I’d like to think so. I’ll still be there if I’m doing the announcing thing.”

She squeezed his hand. “I’ll be there, too. We’ll get through this.” Emily watched Brandon’s eyes widen in surprise.

They sat quietly for a few more minutes, and then he murmured to her, “You aren’t getting rid of me. You know that, don’t you?” He buried his face in her hair.

Emily reached out to kiss him. She tasted the malt vinegar they splashed on the fish and chips, a little salt, and what she would always know as Brandon—the taste she still couldn’t identify, but craved more than anything else she ever wanted.

Of course, one kiss turned into many. Brandon finally pulled away. “We’d better stop this, or our PG rated date’s going straight to triple X.”

Chapter Eighteen

EMILY’S WALK-IN CLOSETremained the coolest place in her townhouse during August’s heat in Seattle. She stripped to her bra and underwear while pawing frantically through a selection of clothes that would make a buyer for Nordstrom green with envy. No matter how many clothes she might own, however, she had nothing that was right for this evening’s event: Brandon’s first preseason game.

Only a builder would think an exterior window in a walk-in closet was a good idea. The late-afternoon sun shining through it, though, gilded the small mountain of clothing she tried and discarded onto the closet floor. Nobody wore a little black dress and spike heels to a football game, as far as she knew. Jeans and a t-shirt were soordinary, not to mention unbearably warm in the heat. She grabbed a scoop-necked, cap-sleeved cotton sundress off a hanger. Too garden party-ish.

Emily’s rapid perusal—and incipient panic—gave way to full-on terror when she heard a key in the front door lock.

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