Page 6 of Ready to Snap
Marital Status: Never married
Kids: Someday
Pets: Two cats
Elle has two cats. I have no idea what breed, but remember her showing me a picture of two little black cats on my first day. Fitting, seeing as she’s a witch most days. A sexy as fuck witch, but a witch nonetheless.
My date has to be with Elle. I switch to my internet browser and look up Michelle Davis. Photos of Elle fill my screen, and I groan. Tonight’s date is with the most off-limits woman I’ve ever known. I hate that she’s never told me Elle is a nickname, but I can’t help chuckling to myself about howallof the guys in group therapy have all ended up in the same predicament.
Ronan is now married to Elle’s friend, Nora—a reporter who covered his team. Lucas is living with Ronan’s sister. I have my suspicions that he has feelings for her. And Russ is head over heels in love with Scarlett—the sister of his old coach. He even negotiated a trade deal to Québec City to be closer to her.
How the hell did all of us end up in the same fucking situation?
I can’t bring myself to cancel the date, no matter how much I should. Lying to Elle is a terrible idea, but this could be my only chance to spend time with her away from the stadium. I can claim I had no idea—her profile says Michelle, not Elle, and the app doesn’t have pictures. Hell, I used Bill and omitted being an athlete to avoid any possible fans stumbling across my profile. She’ll never be the wiser. For one night, I can pretend I’m not me and she’s not…
No. I don’t want to pretend.
If she wants me as much as I want her, we can sign something with HR so she doesn’t get fired and I don’t get fined. Russ did it—why can’t I?
Elle’s always flustered when I flirt with her; she has to feel whatever this is between us. It’s more than sexual tension. I’m fucking obsessed with her, and every time she walks into a room, my heart skips a beat. I think back to my therapy sessions when Ronan talked about how he had a crush on Nora. There were also my text exchanges with Russ convincing him to go for it with Scarlett, even though he insisted they were “just friends.” Unfortunately, Elle and I aren’t friends. Maybe it’s time I open up and let her in.
I slide out of bed to take a quick shower. The hot water pelts my back, soothing my sore shoulder where I took a hit during our last practice. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my mind off Elle.
Suggesting she wear the dress that had my cock at attention for four hours straight at last year’s holiday party was probably the biggest mistake of my life. The sheer memory has made my morning wood harder than steel. Then there waslast night—her pouty crimson lips practically begged me to claim them.
My hand slides up and down my length, but I stop myself. Since I’m taking her out tonight, fucking myself while thinking about her feels… wrong. She’s no longer a fantasy. I turn the shower knob to cold and suffer through the frigid water until my cock is no longer protesting my decision. The extra frustration may even help in today’s game.
Sunday one o’clock games are fucking brutal when I’ve been out the night before. It doesn’t help that we’re playing Vegas; I have my work cut out for me. After watching footage of their game against Philly last week, the quarterback was sacked four times. Four. Sure, their offense isn’t as strong as ours, but I still need to prepare for it. I’m not getting any younger, and one wrong hit could end my career.
Once I’m dressed, I check my phone and find three missed texts. I click on the little envelope icon to see who the hell would be texting me at six in the morning, and bite my lip as I click on the thread with my favorite ice queen.
Elle
We have you slated for press briefings after the game, plus a few short interviews.
Good morning to you too, gorgeous. Sleep well?
I don’t have time for this.
Will there be an issue with your schedule?
She sends along an image, and I chuckle to myself as I type out my reply.
That should be fine. What time is your date? Will it conflict?
7 and 8:30. Don’t worry, I’ll be there for the last interview at 6.
Seven and eight-thirty? What the hell is going on?
Two dates?
Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.
I’m done playing games and call her. She picks up on the first ring with a damn song in her voice. “Good morning, Mr. Darling.” I hate that she loves riling me up.
Who am I kidding? I fucking love it.
“Since when do you have two dates?” I growl, but quickly recover and clear my throat. “What I meant was—who are the lucky guys?”
