Page 114 of It's Always Sonny

“PJ? I thought you were an alligator! My life flashed in front of my eyes!” His chest heaves like he ran the forty in two seconds. “What in the name of Jim Brown were you doing hiding beneath the water?”

“Jim Brown? Not Walter Payton?”

He shakes his head at me, still trying to catch his breath. “You think ol’ Sweetness is a better running back than the toughest RB in the league?” He’s still breathless, but a victorious smile plays across his lips. “You named your goat after him, didn’t you?”

“So?”

“So,” he says climbing into the hot tub, “I think it’s interesting that you named a farm animal after the nicest guy and not the toughest. And it’s someone who just so happens to play my position. You basically named your goat Santino. You know that, right?”

“He’s not my goat.” I fold my arms.

“You faced your fear of heights to save him. He’s yours.”

And so am I, his smile tells me.

I bite my lip and let my eyes rove over him.

Those abs.

That chest.

It would be easy to look at him and focus on nothing but hotness. I’ve caught every glimpse of him the media has shown for the last seven years. He’s always been worthy of a sculpture.

But it’s hard to see all of that definition and see him favoring his knee at the same time. These muscles aren’t for vanity. He has never wanted people to ogle him. For every “Hottest Guy in the NFL” post out there, there’s a quieter post about some good that he did. Carrying extra jerseys with him to give to fans. Going to foster homes or a children’s hospital without a cameraman. Giving someone on the street every bill in his wallet without making a single person aware of it. Or even just stopping and talking to fans in a restaurant and making sure he gives everyone his time. He’s the Keanu Reeves of the NFL.

There’s a reason he’s the most popular athlete in football. People watch him because he’s good at his job, but they love him because he’s good.

Period.

Sonny spreads kindness like it’s his passion, not his job. Every muscle on his body represents his commitment to a job that allows him to reach as many people as possible. Every movement and line is a work of art, but it’s not art for art’s sake. It’s art for the sake of function.

He cannot do his job without this art.

The roar of the jets obscures my view once he’s submersed, and I’m almost glad of it. Being attractive is nice (beyond nice), but it isn’t an accomplishment. What Sonny does with his body is an accomplishment.

Sonny and I could have been so good together back in the day, but we could be great together now.

“Are you still thinking about my tummy waffles?” he asks.

“No. Well, kind of,” I snort. I move toward him until I’m sitting on one of his knees. He puts his hand against my cheek, and I lean into it. “But I was thinking more about how I’m done looking for excuses for us not to work. I’m done trying to be perfect.” I stare into his bright eyes and speak from my heart. “I want to be whole.”

Chapter Thirty

Sonny

She said what I think she said, right?

She’s giving me a come hither look, and as much as I want to hither my butt off, I wait.

“Tell me what you mean.”

I don’t remember all of last night, especially before I went unconscious. But I could have sworn I heard her say she loved me, and as much as I’m trying to be more mature, I’ve been ultra-clear about my feelings on this subject, and I want clarity in return.

So I lean back, putting an arm on the hot tub wall and one on her thigh, a little above her knee. Her skin is as smooth as glass.

“You are so full of yourself.”

“You were ogling me like I’m a pair of Louboutin heels. It’s hard not to feel good about myself after that.”

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