Page 1 of Touchdown
1
SAXON
The morning light bled slowly across the eastern edge of Manhattan, turning the glass of the Chrysler Building into a slick metallic rose gold blade. It was a stark contrast to the Empire State Building, which was darker, more hulking, and immovable, as though it were the spine of the entire city. The view was one of the reasons I’d purchased the penthouse apartment in this building at 55th and Fifth. However, it didn’t bring the calm I normally found when staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. I couldn’t settle my pulse long enough to sit still.
I paced across the heated planks of engineered walnut flooring, switching my coffee from one hand to the other. When I did take a sip, I barely registered the taste because my whole system was too keyed up to really absorb anything. The temperature in my apartment was just right for a cold, February day. But my body acted like it was trying to burn holes through muscle and bone from the inside out.
An electric current ran along my nerve endings, the same kind that hit me when I stepped onto the field and saw a coverage gap that nobody else had noticed yet. When I couldalready see the touchdown forming forty yards before the ball even left the quarterback’s hand.
Except this had nothing to do with football and everything to do with a woman.
I paused in front of the glass wall again, and my forehead tipped forward to rest against it, letting the chill from the window cool my skin.
For three days, I’d thought about nothing besides Ivy Fisher. I met her at a barbecue hosted by Cole O’Hara, one of my coaches, and had been figuratively knocked on my ass. It was a good thing our season was over because I hadn’t been able to dislodge the image of her from my mind since then. It kept replaying like a highlight loop that refused to end.
Her laughter had burrowed itself under my skin. Warm, feminine, and husky at the edges to the point that it was intoxicating.
There was also the way her long, silky strands had caught sunlight like a black satin ribbon when she had brushed her hair over her shoulder.
She had looked up at me with deep brown eyes that were expressive and open, but also intelligent. And her mouth—fuck. The wide shape and magnetic red color…it looked sinfully soft, like her lips had been made specifically to be kissed until they were swollen and wet.
Every detail flooded my mind like a rush through a wide-open lane. Her curves were stunning and unapologetically feminine. Full breasts that would fit perfectly in my hands, hips with enough to grip onto, and thighs that would wrap firmly around my waist.
I pictured dragging my hands up along her thighs and felt the phantom slide of her skin under my palms. Imagined pulling her hips against mine and driving into her while her nails clawedinto my back. Making her scream my name as she was swept away in bliss.
She’d feel so fucking incredible around me.
These thoughts speared through me over and over, explicit and undeniable, until my jaw flexed as I let out a controlled breath. I needed an ice-fucking-cold shower.
I’d gone so long without feeling this level of attraction that I’d started to believe something in me had calcified. And I’d never felt an obsession like this for anything besides football. I’d channeled everything into discipline, focus, and control. I’d accepted it as the price of the game, the price of greatness.
Then she walked into my line of sight, and everything in my body had lit up like she’d flipped a switch I didn’t even realize had been turned off.
However, it wasn’t just Ivy’s sexy body and beautiful face that had me ensnared in her web. Throughout the night, I’d seen her sassy humor, compassion, and intelligence. She was grounded and thoughtful—the kind of woman whose inner world didn’t get tossed by every gust. I knew she’d be able to handle the whirlwind of the football season and the media circus that came with my fame.
It had taken a couple of days to accept it, but my brain had finally registered what my heart and body already knew.
Ivy was mine.
I pushed off the window and resumed pacing because I couldn’t be still. My body wanted action, needed to keep moving. I scrubbed a hand through my hair and shook out my shoulders to relieve some of the tension coiling in them.
But pacing wouldn’t completely eliminate the restlessness. I had a feeling that until I saw Ivy again, I’d be twisted up into knots.
The problem was how to accomplish the goal without freaking her the fuck out. If I came on too strong, I might scareher away before I had a chance to show her that she was meant to be mine.
She lived in Manhattan like me, but she worked at Lorna’s salon on Long Island. That seemed like the most reasonable place to approach her, and I was out there often because that was where the Nighthawk’s facilities were located. And a lot of my teammates lived on the island, so we often used those resources to work out, even in the offseason.
I was meeting a few of the guys for some light conditioning in the late afternoon, but that didn’t give me a reason to see Ivy. One that made sense. I didn’t want to randomly show up unannounced like some stalker.
My phone vibrated on the kitchen island, drawing me out of my thoughts. I walked over and picked it up, frowning when the number for our PR department flashed across the screen.
They hardly ever called me directly. Normally, they looped through my agent first. Which was a smart play on their part, since it was the most likely way they’d get me to agree to do media shit.
I was too quiet. Too intense. I didn’t charm the camera and barely tolerated it when necessary. According to my teammates' wives, my natural expression was the male equivalent of “resting bitch face.” So it was rare that they called me.
I answered with a quiet, “Yeah,” and let the rep talk while I leaned back against the counter, my feet crossed at the ankles.
They wanted me for some media-day post-season promotional stuff tomorrow—short form clips, photos, and a couple of planned interview snippets. Things normally assigned to my charismatic, media-friendly teammates. The ones who looked as if they enjoyed talking to people. Intrusive, in-your-face, motherfucking strangers.
