Page 18 of Against the Clock

“I’m sorry, Kelsey, but all I know is gossip. They keep the women away from the players, but I know they have all sorts of expectations and appearances tied up in their contracts.”

“The things they’ve told me…” I shake my head and bite my tongue. “I don’t know why they keep doing it.”

“Oh,” he snorts, “that’s easy. It’s the same reason I keep going out onto that field every day. Because they love it. They love the roar of the crowd. They love to dance. Just like I love the game, even when the game doesn’t love me back. We don’t get a lot of time in this world to do what we love, not when what we love has an expiration date on it. So you put up with all the bullshit to chase that high of being firmly in the moment.”

I settle against the back of the chair. “That was kind of poetic.”

“You sound surprised.”

“That you’re poetic?” Maybe I am.

“You know, I bet we have more in common than you think we do,” he says.

“Oh, now you know what I’m thinking?” I laugh, nibbling on a chip.

He shakes a finger at me. “That’s not what I meant. Man, you’re going to keep me honest, huh?”

I shrug a shoulder, grinning at him over the scattered remains of our sandwiches and crumpled paper.

“I majored in literature in college.” He tilts his head at me, waiting for a response.

“I get the feeling you’ve used that as a pickup line before. Are you about to quote something romantic at me?"

"Do you want me to?” he asks, his eyes sparkling with the challenge.

The look he’s giving me… I don’t need romantic poetry. He doesn’t need that. All he needs is his natural charm, and anyone remotely interested in him would be in a puddle.

“For the record,” he continues, his gorgeous smile flashing brighter than all the twinkle lights draped overhead, “I don’t use pickup lines.”

“I’m not sure I can work that into my piece, but I’ll try.”

He laughs, rubbing his jaw. “I don’t use pickup lines because I’ve already got the woman I want sitting next to me.”

My eyes widen, and he holds my gaze for a fraction of a second, long enough to send heat sliding through my body.

Maybe Cameron’s right.

Maybe I should just… have some fun. Why not?

It’s not like I have to marry Daniel Harrison or do anything besides enjoy this moment... and maybe the moment after this one, too. The thought makes my face burn.

“Why literature?” I ask again, and the desire building in me passes. Kind of. Mostly.

“I like to read. I thought it would be fun. That was before I had to take a class on Dostoevsky."

The sad thing about Daniel’s not-a-pickup-line pickup line is that it’s working. I was already attracted to him, furiously so, embarrassingly so… but the idea that he’s able to pivot and talk about classic literature at the drop of a hat? It’s unexpected. And refreshing.

As long as he doesn’t start verbally jerking it to Catcher in the Rye or something.

“Favorite book?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

He huffs a laugh. “You know, this has me more stressed out than any of the on-the-record questions you asked.”

“It should.”

“I have suddenly completely forgotten the name of every book I’ve ever read.”

We both grin at each other, and then he tilts his head up, looking at the velvet expanse of night overhead. I follow his gaze, expecting constellations, only to see a thick haze of clouds. I sniff, and sure enough, the air has that ozone tinge that threatens rain.

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