Page 9 of Tumbling the Cornerback

Something in his expression changed, flickered behind the anger, but it did nothing to soften it. Instead, he gave me a single jerky nod. "You're right. TBI’s not something to joke about.” His cheeks were flagged with red, his eyes glittering, but he didn’t avert his gaze, letting me see his sincerity and embarrassment, not trying to hide it behind bluster or telling me I was overreacting.

It was my turn to nod. Slowly, though, warily. "So, I don't understand. Why don't you explain it to me then? Because upstairs, they're pretty sure they've got our lives figured out for us." And it was true, at least for me. The schedules made by other people dictated my life. I had an enormous calendar on my office wall at home with everything color coded and shit.

No one ever tells you playing pro sports involves so much paperwork. It kind of sucks.

Lucas closed his eyes, sweat dotting his brow and throat, a single droplet doing its level best to distract me by running down to the hollow between his collar bones, bare where his shirt lay open. I was staring so hard at that drop I almost missed his low, resigned words. "Fuck. Let's go get a drink or something. It's too damn hot to do this in an underground concrete box."

I jerked my chin up. "You want to get a drink with me?" Okay, maybe today wasn't sucking.

"I'm dying of heat. There's a place down the road that's not super touristy and doesn't think it's some artisan craft cocktail shit."

I nodded, brain going a little fuzzy. Lucas Ortiz wanted to go get a drink with me? Hell yes. I'd need to cancel plans with my sister and nephew, but I think they'd forgive me.

Lucas sighed again, ruffling his hair to fall in thick waves around his face. He glanced at me, then back into the depths of the parking level. "I have no idea where the hell I parked."

"I can drive," I offered quickly. Lucas raised a brow. "What? I know exactly where my car is."

His sudden, bright laugh settled behind my ribs, warming me down to my bones. "Come on then," he ordered, still smiling just a little. "Lead the way."

CHAPTER 3

LUCAS

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed. I’m just not mad at you.” I paused, turning the words over for a moment in a haze of heat and the babiest of buzzes from my second beer on an empty stomach. “Not as mad.”

Cooper Howard, golden boy and fan favorite—at least among certain groups of fans—smirked over the edge of his glass of sweet tea. “Could’ve fooled me. Since Saturday, I’ve been pretty sure you were gonna show up at my place while I was asleep to smother me with my own pillow.”

“Please,” I scoffed, doing my very best not to imagine Cooper in bed and failing spectacularly. “If I was going to take you out, I wouldn’t be sneaky.”

He hummed thoughtfully, taking another sip of his tea. We’d been at Cherry Bo Berry’s for an hour or so, me nursing a Hand Wing sour ale and him drinking tea like it was going out of style. The roiling anger and frustration simmered under my skin, but I’d been unable to keep the fire burning over Cooper’s involvement. Down in my bones, I knew he hadn’t sought out Byrne, or credit for my accomplishments, but... I glanced up at him. His dark, warm eyes fixed on my fingers, fiddling with the bottle’s label. When he noticed I’d caught him staring, he ducked his chin, clearing his throat before trying to hide his blush behind his tea glass.

“Look, the thing is, I have had horrible luck with football players,” I blurted. “It’s not you, specifically. Just every player—scratch that, every team—I’ve ever been even peripherally involved with in any way has screwed me over, and I’ve been expected to smile and take it because I’m a cheerleader and rah-rah team and all that crap.”

The deep swig of the ale was probably not my smoothest move. I choked on it, forcing myself to swallow around the cough tickling my throat, waving off Cooper’s offer of a swift pat on the back. He scooted closer, moving around the small two-top to awkwardly, almost carefully, rub my back between my shoulder blades.

I dabbed my mouth and chin. “That was fucking classy,” I muttered when I was able to speak again. “I was going for dramatic and tired.”

“Well, dying at my feet in the middle of the day in a crowded bar would be pretty dramatic.”

I looked around. Other than us, there was only the bartender, a bar back not long out of high school, and two old queens at the far end of the bar arguing over a dart game. “It’s not crowded.”

“It will be when I tell the story.” Cooper smiled and ugh. Something inside me melted. Or maybe I just had heartburn or something because I felt hot and shivery all over. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled, how he caught his lower lip with his teeth like he was trying to keep from smiling too big...

“I survived so I guess you’ll just have to disappoint your fans. I’m sure Byrne will be sad he missed out on a way to make my death about you.”

Cooper’s smile fell. For a flicker of a second, I felt like an ass. Then my better sense kicked in, and I reminded myself that we were here to talk. I sighed, pushing my beer to one side and leaning in closer, ostensibly to keep my voice low. I couldn’t fool myself—he smelled really good. I’d noticed a faint hint of it when we were in Caitlin’s office, but when he scooted over, it was a definite waft, and I wanted a better whiff.

Ugh. I sounded like one of those telenovela dickheads Abuelita liked so much. “Look, I’m not thrilled about how this is going down, okay? I would not mind one single bit if you were volunteering to help because you wanted to, or if you had some awesome ideas about how to help Queering Sports. That’s not the issue. I’m pissed because, suddenly, all of the hard work the ladies and I put into the event is being brushed aside for one of the golden boys off the team. I’m angry because I’m being treated like a commodity by people I thought I could trust and I thought respected me.”

“We are commodities, though,” Cooper said, brow wrinkling as he gave me a considering and worried look. “We make money for organizations. We’re products. What we do, what we represent, it’s all money to them. Even doing PR events. I get told where to go, what time to be there, and where to stand so the camera gets my best angle. I’m done, and then it’s Yowie or Matty or hell, one of a million other players. “He shrugged. “The way I figure things right now, for some reason, my involvement in the event on Saturday got more eyes on it, right?”

Reluctantly, I nodded. “Donations have never been so high.”

“Then maybe we should consider things.”

I gave in and took another sip of my beer. The sour blueberry and yeast flavor flooded my mouth, then burned down my throat, leaving an acid-malt aftertaste verging on unpleasant. Just like my mood, “I guess you missed the part of the meeting where this is already a forgone conclusion—us working together. Liesel has been dying to take Queering Sports national and get it the recognition it deserves. I’m not even remotely mad about that. What’s grating my cheese, though, is being relegated to the role of hired help. I busted my ass, put literal blood into this project, and I gotta admit, it’s my pride and fucking joy. Don’t tell my cat I said that.”

Cooper’s eyes widened, and his lips quirked, entirely too sinful for him to do in public. “You’ve got a kitty?”

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