Page 2 of Bourbon Bliss
“Deacon,” MacKenzie said, and he tipped his chin to her before walking away.
I gestured for her to sit. She gracefully lowered herself down next to me.
“How’s the knee?”
“It’s great,” I lied.
“Yeah?” Her face brightened. “I’ve been worried about you.”
We’d broken up—again—at the beginning of last season. To her credit, she’d called to see if I needed anything after my surgery. Considering we weren’t together, she hadn’t needed to do that, so I’d appreciated the gesture.
“You know me, I’ll be fine. I always bounce back.”
“Yeah, you do.” She gently nudged me and nibbled on her bottom lip.
I’d have been lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. Her expression—flirtatious and suggestive—told me she was a sure thing tonight. I could slide my hands up those supple thighs. Lean in and brush my lips across the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. Get her hot for me. Take her back to my place.
Nothing wrong with some good sex. Sounded nice right about now.
But then would come the complications. The questions. I wasn’t really a one-night-stand guy, and she knew it. Would she want to get back together? What would she want from me if we did?
I knew the answer to that question and it was enough to stay my hand. Keep me from reaching out to caress the obscene amount of thigh showing beneath her short skirt. She’d want expensive dinners. Gifts, preferably of the designer variety. Vacations. Exclusive locales, first class, five-star hotels. It was why MacKenzie dated athletes. Why she’d dated me.
I’d dated worse before her—women who were brazen and unapologetic in their pursuit of the elusive pro-athlete boyfriend. MacKenzie had at least attempted to give me access to her feelings. To care about more than what I could buy her, or the status dating me afforded her. But it hadn’t been enough. There was still the expectation of more. More money, more gifts, more luxury.
A lot of the guys I played with were fine with that. Happy to shower their girlfriends with diamonds and designer purses. Pay for their luxury apartments and expensive cars. To them, it was a business transaction. They provided a certain lifestyle, while the women provided certain comforts. A hot date to be seen with. Kinky sex behind closed doors—or sometimes in front of them.
That wasn’t enough for me. I wanted more. I wanted feelings. Something real. The guys gave me shit about my supposedly high standards, but to me it wasn’t that the groupies and wannabe starlets weren’t hot enough. The problem was, those women wanted me for all the wrong reasons. They wanted GT Thompson, all-pro receiver. They didn’t wantme.
I’d thought MacKenzie might be different. Thought it twice now, and twice I’d been wrong. I wasn’t going down that path again, regardless of how insane she looked in that curve hugging black dress.
“What’s wrong?” she cooed. She was laying it on thick tonight. Made me wonder what her game was. She reached out to draw her fingernails lightly up my shin, over my pants. “Lonely?”
“Nah, I’m good,” I lied. Second time tonight. “Just keeping it mellow.”
She kept her fingers on my leg, brushing them up and down. Familiar. Too familiar, but I didn’t want to move in case I winced.
“Should we get a bottle of champagne?” she asked. “Have a little celebration?”
“What are we celebrating?”
“Second chances.”
I raised my eyebrows. If she was talking about us, we’d blown through a second chance already. “Second chances for what? And do you mean second… or third?”
The corners of her mouth tilted upward. “I mean next season. A second chance at the playoffs.”
The words came out before I could stop them. “I’m out, Mac. There is no next season.”
A cloud of emotion passed across her features. Shock. Maybe horror. Was she really that upset for me?
“What?” she asked.
“I’m not coming back. I’m done with football.”
“You’re not serious,” she said, the shock melting into a false smile, her bright red lips parting over her sparkling white teeth. “Of course you’re coming back. You always bounce back.”
“Not this time.”
