Page 12 of Change Your Play

How could he even have the balls to ask that?

“Miles, I'm part of the scouting team,” I reminded him.

“I don't care about Marrs.”

The craziest thing was that he actually meant it. Marrs University was one of the few schools where student-athletes made royalties off their names, and we were one of the top football programs in the country. People begged in my inbox daily for a consideration. And Miles couldn’t care less.

“You're seriously not gunning for Marrs?”

An amused smirk played on his lips. “Nope.”

“You're happy with KYU?”

“I don't give a damn about KYU either.”

Did he play every conversation like he wanted to shock me? If that was the aim, he succeeded. I stood there, unable to piece the little bits of information he popped up with. And a hundred percent unsure of how to proceed.

“So, about tomorrow night…” Miles pressed.

“We have the coaches’ dinner,” I answered automatically.

“Day after?”

“You’re kidding, right? Are you kidding?”

“Thursday night. We don’t have practice Friday morning.”

“Yes, because the selected few are talking with Marrs’s team captain.” With a sigh, I stopped myself. And, slowly, I looked over at the gorgeous man, waiting for my answer.

I hesitated. “Thursday night?”

“What would you say to a campus tour?”

Miles's eyes never left mine, and the calm confidence of his questions hooked me again and again. I had to have everything in order at all times. All of my square cubes had to go in the square openings. Anything else didn’t work with my system. But he was just so…Miles didn’t go with the flow - he switched it up to work withhim.

Taking a moment, I thought hard about two absolute facts.

Miles didn’t give a shit about Marrs. Check.

I wanted to become head intern, and Miles, the same man who didn’t care about Marrs, couldn’t jeopardize that because hedidn’twant to go to Marrs. Check.

So…where was the inappropriateness?

And I worked hard for my university—damn hard. Didn’t I deserve a little break, including a delicious man buying me wine, chocolate-covered strawberries, and overpriced lube?

We’d have our fun and part ways. Easy-peasy.

Right?

He cocked his head to the side. “Seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.”

The amusement was back, but there was something else too. A dare. We both knew if I agreed to an evening campus tour, it wasn't because I was squealing with joy at getting to see political science halls in the rich moonlight. We were meeting as adults.

And adults do fun things with plum-purple bottles of lube.

“Seven sounds fine,” I replied, trying not to let the pleased note touch my voice.

“You're right. Seven sounds perfect.”

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