Page 1 of Presley's Christmas Catch
CHAPTER 1
PRESLEY
June: The Wedding
I’m rethinking my decision to wear head-to-toe black to a wedding.
I don’t think I look like I was dressing for a funeral—the wide-leg trousers are lightweight and flowy, and the sleeveless lace top is flirty. The heels I’m wearing don’t look funeral appropriate either.
Listen, what I was going for was professional. Presley Tatum, physical therapist for the LA Rays football team. I’m honored that the star running back for the Rays, Lincoln Knight, invited me to his wedding. And I enjoy the camaraderie I feel with the players on the team, but as a member of the Rays training staff, there’s a certain distance I feel like I should keep with them. When players get too close to team staff like me, it’s asking for trouble. I thought not wearing a party dress while I was, well, partying with them might help me remember that in case the boundaries got a little blurry.
I didn’t think about how Lincoln obviously knows guys from other teams who are really good-looking, and I don’t need to keep a boundary with them. Like the New York Empire backup quarterback who used to play for the Rays, or another receiverLincoln played with in college who’s with the Cobras right now. Now I wish I was wearing a fun party dress with glitter or sparkles or… Something that made me feel more like a girl these guys might ask out, like the handful of actresses Layla invited. Every single one of them looks like they could have walked a red carpet to get here. The football players here are never going to notice me. They’re much more likely to want to dance with a woman at this wedding who looks like she’s here to have fun, not the one who dressed “professional.”
My gaze flits to Brock Hunter, an old teammate of Lincoln’s from college. He’s a left-tackle for the Denver Devils, not the type of guy to get a lot of notice, the way Lincoln and the Rays quarterback, Eli Dash, do. Except Brock’s temper on the field has made him famous. I snicker to myself as I think about the latest meme I came across of him, throwing his helmet to the ground and it bouncing back up at him. He bats it away and then kicks it. The caption was something about trying to avoid responsibility.
“I see you eyeing Brock,” a voice says, surprising me. Lincoln’s new wife, Layla, is at my side.
“Me? No. I’m not really into guys with tempers like his.” I smile to soften the statement. Lincoln and Brock are good friends, and Lincoln mentioned last week, when the guys were in the facility for some off-season therapy, that Brock was coming to town early to help with the wedding. Their friendship has never made sense to me, considering what a big cinnamon roll Lincoln is, but football brings a lot of guys from different walks of life together.
“Ask your dad about him,” Layla says. “He knows that Brock isn’t anything like what the media portrays.” My eyebrows arch up, which makes her smile widen. “Yeah, he’s passionate. You, of all people, know the intensity these guys have to live at to go pro in a sport like football.”
I study Brock again. He’s dancing alongside Eli Dash’s wife and grinning like he’s having the time of his life, which, yeah,feels a little off considering his reputation. “Maybe,” I say. “But still.”
She puts a hand on my elbow. “Listen, Presley, there are plenty of good-looking players for you to flirt with.” She winks at me, and I chuckle. Ihavebeen scoping out my options. “Don’t dismiss Brock because of what the media and the commentators say. The Devils are creating a narrative, and making Brock out to be the football bad-guy distracts people from the real problems there.”
That’s true. The Devils had the worst record in the league last season, and it doesn’t look like things are going to get better this year. My dad, a former Rays football player, has commented on the poor coaching.
She squeezes my elbow. “I’m saying he’s a good guy.” We look up to see Lincoln waving her over. She gives my elbow one more squeeze and dances towards him. I can’t help glancing at Brock again, still dancing with Court Dash. Even she wouldn’t be out of place on the red carpet. Was there a red carpet walk to the wedding that I missed? Maybe only for the high-profile guests.
Brock’s smile is not a thing football fans see a lot, which backs up what Layla said. Sports channels and social media do focus on his brooding side, the guy who has a reputation for speaking his mind, even if his opinion gets him in trouble. In the sports world, Brock Hunter gets clicks when he glares or throws something on the sideline.
They clearly haven’t discovered this smile. Because he’s straight-up gorgeous when he smiles. That, combined with Layla’s words, make me curious about him and what else I don’t know that wouldn’t jive with his reputation.
His eyes meet mine, surprising me. Also embarrassing me, because I’ve been caught ogling him, but I try to own it by smiling at him. His gaze drops to the necklace my aunt gave me a couple years ago, and he squints then scowls.
Um, okay.
So there’s the Brock Hunter we all know. He might be a great guy like Layla says, but I’m going to need more proof. I quickly turn away and feel twice as self-conscious about my dancing as before. Maybe I can seek out an actor friend of Layla’s instead. I like football players fine, especially since I work around a lot of them. But I don’t have a type or anything.
I scout the people around me dancing. The easiest way to strike up a conversation with someone would be slowly dancing my way over like it’s an accident. Weddings are the perfect time to find dates, and I don’t want to be left out. All I’m asking for is the number of a nice, good-looking guy. Besides, Aunt Shannon would be proud of me for putting myself out there. I’ve never been shy, but I’ve definitely tried harder the last year to take more chances.
“Hi!” a voice says loudly over the music, making me spin around. Brock Hunter stands behind me, hands in his pockets, and his expression… well, he’s not glaring, but he’s not laughing like he was with Court, either. Not even a smirk. Like I said, he’s not known for his cheery attitude, so I try to ignore the discomfort his unreadable face conveys and remember what Layla said about him.
“Uh, hi,” I call back, nodding at him and smiling. I can’t help it. I’m a nervous smiler, and he makes me very nervous. The white lights strung along the ceiling of the tent twinkle in his dark brown eyes, but the firm set of his lips make sure I don’t fall for the trick of light and mistake him for happy.
Brock is also huge. I’m used to big football players, I am. I work on them all the time. But somehow his height—well over Lincoln’s six foot four—seems overwhelming. And for a left tackle, one of the guys directly responsible for protecting the quarterback, Brock is surprisingly slim. I mean, he’s not actually slim. He probably weighs something like 275, but linemen are usually hefty-looking. Brock looks like he could run a five forty.
But also like he could stop a car coming at him by lowering his shoulders.
He has his hands in the pockets of his dress pants. His suit is black, his white dress shirt pristine, and as one of Lincoln’s groomsmen, his yellow tie matches the wedding colors.
He nods toward my necklace and says something.
“I’m sorry, what?” I shout back.
He steps closer but also raises his voice. “I like your necklace. Where did you get it?”
My fingers automatically find the silly black stone etched with the crest of a fake kingdom from a book series I loved when I was a kid.
