Page 12 of Winning Match
She met me exactly where I am, right? One night only—dinner, drinks, dancing. She’s leaving the city in a couple days at most and has no idea who I am. There are no expectations, no further possibilities.
Besides, Marlowe’s the furthest thing from trouble. She’s nothing like my usual type, and yet, I’m more curious about her than any other woman I’ve met in recent years.
Is it because I’ve been on lockdown for weeks?
Is it because she confided in me with openness and trust?
Is it because I can pick out pieces of myself in her—loyal to her family, passionate about a sport, open to a new experience—despite how opposite our lives seem?
She glances up and her eyes meet mine. They hold and flash with interest but not recognition.
Damn. I fight a grin. I already like her more than I should.
And that promises to be some kind of trouble.
I don’t make my move until hours later.
Instead, I do the small-talk thing with my teammates, nurse the same beer, and watch Marlowe have the time of her life with Bianca.
The two of them toss back shots. They chat with a few guys on the team and the random women my teammates brought along. But no matter how hard they try to fit in, they still stand out.
When Marlowe and Bianca migrate to the dance floor, I push off the wall and relocate to the banister where I can keep an eye on them. They move to the center of the dance floor right as the DJ drops a new set and flashing lights fill the space.
Marlowe closes her eyes, lifting her arms above her head and twirling her wrists as she begins to move her body. Lost to the music, she rolls her hips sensually. And fuck if it’s not sexy as hell.
When some dude steps behind her, I narrow my eyes. A surge of protectiveness fills my veins when he touches her, holding her hip and splaying his hand wide.
Her eyes pop open and even from here, I note the spark of fear that shoots through them before she steps out of the dude’s grasp, stumbling slightly.
But then her eyes catch on something—someone—and she shuffles back a step, right into the guy’s frame. He wraps an arm around her waist, banding her to him as his other hand clamps down on her thigh.
Marlowe’s gaze remains trained on the person she saw. My neck swivels but I have no clue who she’s looking at. She stands shell-shocked for several seconds, the man dancing behind her too drunk, or straight-up uncaring, to realize she’s not into it.
Then, panic fills her eyes and she’s pushing at the dude’s hands, her gaze darting around for Bianca.
I’m already moving down the stairs. I hear one of my security guys yell out, but I don’t turn around. I need to get to Marlowe, and I know he’ll follow anyway.
“Where the hell are you going?” Andrés asks. “You stopped dancing in clubs after the tabloids published you jumping off a bar!”
“Don’t end up on the front page,” Luca warns, chuckling.
But my reasons for staying out of the spotlight dissipate at the idea of some random getting handsy with Marlowe. They cease to matter when I realize that she’s starting to panic and the fucker behind her needs a goddamn lesson in civility.
Anger roars through me, fury pulsing in my temples, as I try to pull my shit together. I can’t end up on the front page of gossip magazines for breaking this dude’s fingers, but I need to make sure Marlowe is safe.
What the hell spooked her?
I close the space between us, relief choking me as I near her.
My security crew keeps the crowd back, blending in but doing their jobs.
I forcibly grasp the man’s hand and fling him away from Marlowe. He stumbles back, too out of it to take note of me.
I pull Marlowe into my arms, and she comes willingly, her hands fisting in the material of my shirt at my hips.
“You okay, Marli?” I hum, my mouth pressed against her ear.
She shudders against me as adrenaline leaves her body. I tighten my hold, one palm settling in the center of her back, the other gathering her hair and twisting it behind her shoulders.
