Page 64 of Broken Play
When she shifts, her gaze lands on my sketchbook, peeking out from under aGQ Sportsmagazine. Her fingers crawl along the edges, and my stomach flips with an instinctive urge to keep my hobby private. I snatch it out ofher curious hand. "Sorry, for my eyes only," I say, sounding way too nervous, tucking it under my arm.
Questions linger in her eyes as she finally grabs her phone. "Porn?"
I can't help but grin. I love her sense of humor and that she doesn't push me to show her, at least not yet. If she saw how many times I've drawn her face and body, she'd know just how she's crept into every corner of my mind, and I'm not sure either of us is ready to admit our relationship is growing.
"Yeah, I'm really into it," I say with a laugh as I stand and stuff my sketchbook into a drawer on the other side of the room.
She's typing on her phone. "There, I've emailed Marlon."
"Are you feeling better?"
She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking away from me. She's cute when she's bashful. "Yes, much better, unless you count incurable awkwardness as a medical condition."
"You're not awkward. A little shy, maybe. But I love that about you. That you're strong and efficient at work and on the tennis court, but you give me a side that few others see. The vulnerable side."
"Is that so?"
"Yes." I pick her up and carry her up the stairs. "Do you want to sleep with me or in one of the guest rooms? I don't want to wake you when I go to practice in a few hours."
"I want to sleep in your bed... with you."
"Okay, but no funny business. You're always trying to get in my pants," I joke as I lay her down on my bed.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. We've had sex three times, and twice you'vebeen on top, taking what you want. Which is extremely sexy, by the way. But you can't have me tonight—you need to rest."
She wiggles out of her clothes, and I throw her a T-shirt. "I can't wear a Denver shirt. That's sacrilegious."
"That's my Super Bowl shirt. It's only ever been on my body. Let's manifest a Super Bowl win in your first year." I take off my clothes. "Forgot the water. I'll be right back."
When I return, she's under the covers, lying on her back. I set the water bottles on each nightstand and scoot in beside her. "Come here." She rolls into my arm, laying her head on my chest and resting her fingers there. "Where did you get the bracelet? I've been meaning to ask," I ask while playing with the tennis racquet charm.
"Mom bought it for me after I won my first professional tennis tournament. Probably with my own money." She pauses, and I feel her pain. "I've never had someone take care of me other than Anna. My parents were never there when I needed them, and you never know when you're going to need someone."
"When's the last time you spoke to your dad?"
"Last week. He loves what I've done with the team and the trades. He said if I end up being as good a general manager as I was a tennis player, then he is one hundred percent convinced we'll win the big game within a few years."
"I bet that made you feel good."
"It did. Dad keeps apologizing for letting coaches raise me, but I keep telling him it's what I wanted. I just wish he wasn't leaving for Singapore."
While stroking her arm, I say, "Well, he must have one hundred percent faith in you. How long will he be gone?"
"A couple of months if all goes well. I've gotten used toseeing him and never really knew what I was missing living away."
I chew on my bottom lip for a minute before I press a kiss to her head. "Most people don't realize how much you have to sacrifice to be successful in sports or business. You give up your time, which means less of it for family and friends. And it's hard to trust people's motives—you never really know if someone likes you for who you are or if they're after your money or something else. After a while, it just makes you cynical."
She releases a tired sigh. "Yeah, but if we changed one thing about our pasts, would we be here right now?"
"Maybe or maybe not. But one thing I'm sure of is that we are where destiny wants us... together."
She doesn't respond; instead, she runs her fingers over the smattering of chest hair and then purrs. I lift my chin to check on her, and she's asleep. I hope she was just dehydrated and overworked herself.
I fall asleep after turning her on her side and pulling her back against my chest. When I wake three hours later, I think of every possible excuse to stay in bed with her. I've never done that before. Football has always been first in my life.
For the first time, I want a woman to be first, and not just any woman—only Sutton Anders will do. Now I just need to convince her that we should go public and quit hiding.
