Page 67 of Fashionista's Playbook

“Your worry is misplaced. Moriah hasn’t done anything but help me since she got here.”

“And helped herself right into your bed, too.”

He wasn’t ever going to get it. “You don’t know shit.”

Vin’s voice caught me as I reached the stairs. “I know I’m the one that took the hit for you Travis.”

“Yeah, and you keep reminding me.” I turned back to him and lifted my shoulders in defeat. “How many times do I have to pay you back for it?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Travis

The game hadn’t been an easy win, especially when I could barely keep my head in it. I’d recovered from the charity event before I’d laced up my cleats. But not from the shit with Vin.

Playing made it worse. The team mindset was accountability. Be on your spot, your brother could be on his. Great plays happened when everyone was where they needed to be exactly when they needed to be there.

It was like I’d been there for Vincent, every time he’d needed me. And other than the night he was arrested, he’d never done the same for me. The Packers had my number the entire game, and whenever I couldn’t hit my spot—Clutch was there to make the play.

Life should be that way. Vin and I should be there to pick up the slack for each other. That’s what bothered me about Vin.

He was quick to bring up Dad’s lessons on loyalty, but not to put them in practice.

Vin forgot Dad’s other big thing: be your own man.

Another similarity between my relationship with my brother and this game. I had to earn every damn yard.

On the plane back to Texas, my entire body recalled every play with individual aches and spasms. My left shoulder was still tense from my outburst and fight with Vin a few weeks ago, but had mostly healed, until tonight. The ache throbbed so uncomfortably I couldn’t sleep.

I popped an ibuprofen and tried not to think about it. Instead, I thought about Moriah, focused on the flash of eager happiness that shot through me at the mere mention of her. I was thankful for her, not just for how much easier she made my life. But with Moriah around, the Vin shit just wasn’t as stressful.

He’d figure it out or he wouldn’t, but I was done letting it be my problem. Life was much easier when the gossip about me involved the smoking hot woman I was rumored to be dating—not my brother and his shenanigans.

Every muscle in my body protested when I climbed from the large SUV in my garage. The team’s private jet was designed for the longer legs and larger frames of its players, but that didn’t mean hours in a tiny box wasn’t painful. Not after the brutal hits on the field.

The ice bath had only done so much.

Time for a long, hot soak and a couple more anti-inflammatory tablets.

The house was dark, and the only sound to greet me was the chirping alarm system. I silenced it, reset it, and started off across the house toward my room, suitcase rolling beside me.

How many times had I come home to an empty house since my parents died?

The pang of loneliness jabbed me in the chest, forcing me to hold my breath until it passed.

I flicked my gaze down the hall where Moriah was, and the ache slowly slid away. The handle of the suitcase slid down with an echoing click. My feet were moving before I ever realized.

At her open door I stopped and leaned against the frame. She leaned over a table under a bright light, her golden hair piled atop her head in a messy bun. Every few minutes, a slight humming would sound and the fabric beneath her fingers moved. She was so engrossed she hadn’t noticed me.

There hadn’t been a moment since I met her that she wasn’t on guard—except when we made love. Watching her now was a gift, because she was purely in her element and completely herself.

Damn.

How was it possible for a woman to be so amazing, so sexy, and have zero idea? Hell, all those jersey chasers put tons of effort into appealing to one of us. Moriah didn’t have to try. She wore one of those thin, pink tank tops that drove me crazy. Made worse now because she was braless, and her dark pink areolas strained against the material.

Before Moriah had moved in, I’d taken the occasional lover. Nothing serious. They’d all been those uptight wannabe trophy wives. None of them were anything like the vivacious beauty before me, working with her pink lips slightly parted, tongue occasionally darting out to wet them.

Sure, I liked my women put together, the sort who dressed cute, and Moriah could do that with the best of them. But the rest of her? That’s what left my cock battling against my boxer briefs for supremacy.

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