Page 57 of The Hot Shot
“I can cook the basics, but the team’s nutritionist has a chef on staff who sets us up with a few of our weekly meals. You know, elevenses, lunch, second lunch, and so on.”
The doorbell rings, cutting off whatever Chess wants to say. I hustle to get it and find Charlie, box in one hand, a massive bouquet of flowers in the other. The spray of orange roses is so big, I can barely see his head. “Charles,” I say as I let him in. “You shouldn’t have. I’m more of a plant man.”
Before Charlie can give me shit back, Chess walks in and makes a sound of wonder. “Wow.”
Charlie steps past me like I’m not even there. “These are for you.” He sets the ridiculous bouquet on the hall table because it’s too damn big for her to hold. “They’re from the offensive team.”
My guys went in on flowers and didn’t tell me? Those little ass-kissing shits. I could have told them that Chess isn’t the type to get impressed by flowers—
“Oh!” Her face glows with pleasure. “How lovely.”
Wait. What?
“Well,” I say, trying not to grind my teeth. “That’s how we do.”
Chess sniffs a rose as she reads the card that’s covered in signatures. “Stop trying to get a gold star, Finnegan. I don’t see your name on here.”
Biting back a grin and pointedly not looking my way, Charlie holds out the box in his hand. White and sleek, it doesn’t hide what’s inside. A freaking MacBook Pro? “And this is from the defensive team.”
She looks stunned.
Chess will never take it. No way.
But then she smiles, all wobbly and misty-eyed. Just like she did last night. “That’s so... sweet.” She clutches the box to her chest like it’s precious.
I’m torn between gratitude to my teammates for puttingthat look on her face, and feeling the urge to punch them all in theirs because I didn’t get her a computer first.
I close the door with a little more force than necessary. “Chess. Meet Charlie Beauchamp.”Resident turncoat.“When not helping me and some of the guys out, he’s a junior, studying at Tulane.”
“You play football, Charlie?” Chess asks.
It’s a valid question. At six-five and 280 pounds of bulky muscles, he could easily be a defensive end.
Charlie, used to the question, gives a wry smile. “No, ma’am. Much to my chagrin, I have two left feet and they’re made of lead. Or so says every coach I’ve tried out for.” His Haitian accent thickens a bit. “I’m majoring in sports management.”
“I wanted to thank you,” Chess says, “for buying me those clothes and things. I’m so grateful.”
Charlie’s cheeks turn the color of rosewood. If I weren’t standing here, I wouldn’t have believed he was capable of blushing. He’s an unflappable island of calm aroundme. “It was the least I could do, ma’am. Though I apologize if anything doesn’t...” He clears his throat. “If certain items aren’t your usual style.”
A low laugh escapes Chess’s lips, and even though there’s nothing suggestive in her expression, the sound is pure sex to my ears. “You did just fine.”
I find myself picturing her wearing one of those uninspired panties Charlie picked out and nothing else. Pure white cotton, stretched over that toned, pert ass, hugging every curve and dip.
Jesus. Charlie might be onto something. I shift my weight and try to think of something unsavory, such as the way Dawes never washes his socks during playoffs.
Yep, that’ll do it.
“It was a novel experience,” Charlie is saying. “Buying women’s underwear.”
“I’m sure you’ll get to do it again under better circumstance someday,” Chess assures, barking up the wrong tree.
Charlie gives her a small smile. “I don’t think any of the guys I date would be into that, ma’am.”
“Probably wise of them,” Chess says without missing a beat. “Bras aren’t the most comfortable attire.”
I really don’t want to start thinking about Chess wearing a bra. Or going without. “We’re about to eat,” I say to Charlie. “Want to join us?”
Before he can speak, Chess hooks her arm around his. “You must.”
