Page 67 of Enemies Off Camera
“Yeah, but… come on. Sticky fingers?”
The heat rises in my neck. “Don’t call her that.”
“She’s hot. I get it. I would, you know… myself. But brother, she’s Hollywood, playing a fucking part. She fell asleep during your first touchdown,” Jake adds with a smirk, like he’s trying to bait me.
I look at him, then at Rob, both of them waiting for me to slip up.
“Not only that,” Rob chimes in. “She’s too much of a distraction.”
I snort. “I scored three times tonight.”
“Yeah, but not last Sunday,” Rob fires back. “You had buttery fingers, man.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter. “Zara is my girlfriend, and she’s not going the fuck anywhere. So get over your jealousy already. And you know what?” — I button my coat — “I’m leaving.”
I storm out. They call after me, voices softening, pretending they were just messing around.
But fuck that.
Let them drink and laugh and talk shit. I’ve got better places to be. I’ve got Zara. And I need to finish what we started earlier.
FORTY-EIGHT
It’s quiet between us as Jaxon drives us back to his place. He’s pensive, just like me. I find the silence advantageous—I need it to think about what Lindsay said. Her delivery sucked, no doubt about it. But she’s right. I should be careful.
That doesn’t mean keeping what I learned tonight to myself.
My body hasn’t changed its mind. Every cell still wants to experience an old-fashioned Jaxon Wilde ravishing. Yet, my heart and head want me to pump the brakes—at least until I gain some clarity.
I shuffle through my memory, trying to locate a party where I ran into Jaxon during his rookie year. Nothing surfaces.
I shift uncomfortably against the leather seat. The material is so soft and supple, it doesn’t even scrunch.
“Everything okay?” Jaxon asks.
I perk up a bit—he’s given me a gateway into the conversation I need to have.
“Did we ever run into each other at a party during your rookie year?” I ask, keeping my eyes pinned on him, determined not to miss the smallest reaction.
Jaxon stares out at the road ahead. His Adam’s apple bobs, and somehow, he suddenly looks years younger—maybe reliving some rejection I can’t recall.
“Who told you that?” he asks.
“A woman named Lindsay. One of your teammates’ wives. I can’t remember his name.”
“Jake,” he says, rubbing one side of his face.
“Then… is it true? Because I honestly don’t remember it.”
He snorts, almost bitterly. “I guess I wasn’t memorable enough.”
Whoa. He sounds hurt.
“No,” I say quickly, firmly. “That’s not why I wouldn’t remember you, Jaxon.”
He stiffens at the correction.
“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “That was eight, nine years ago.”
