Page 122 of Kiss Me Tonight

“Aspen.”

I whip around, frustration boiling to the surface as though I’m a pot that’s been set to heat for far too long. “What?”

Black eyes flit from me to the team. “Take Topher and go home. I’ll deal with the kids.” He gives me a little shake, staring down at me. “Tell me something you’re grateful for—right now.”

Right now? He wants me to count one of my lucky blessings rightnow?

I slick my tongue over my bottom lip, struggling to come up with something when my ex-husband is upsetting my son and my emotions are fired up and ready to make Rick rue the day he was ever born.

Dominic’s grip tightens around my shoulders. “I’m grateful foryou,” he tells me, his voice low, urgent, “because it wasn’t until you that I knew love wasn’t a figment of imagination. I see it—every time you look at Topher and your players.”

Every time you look atme, his dark gaze implores.

I swallow, hard. “Dom—”

And then the voice of my nightmares interrupts us, and sneers, “You always were about that easy pussy, weren’t you, DaSilva?”

36

Dominic

Richard Clarke has the stereotypical appearance of a used car salesman.

Slick, brown hair that reminds me of Topher’s, but instead of hanging in front of his face, Clarke’s is smoothed back over what I want to imagine is a bald spot.

He’s dressed in a navy-blue suit, no matter the fact that he’s standing on a football field. The fabric is clearly tailored, with silver thread and silver cufflinks and a matching silver handkerchief tucked away for safekeeping in his breast pocket.

Leather loafers that no doubt cost as much as my ramshackle investment property.

He looks exactly the same now as he did when he flew to Tampa and invited me to a business lunch, the particulars of which have never escaped me. Even then, during a time when I took sponsorships from companies whose morals didn’t align with my own, all for the sake of a healthy paycheck, I looked Rick Clarke in the eye and knew I would never take this man up on his offer.

The fact that he just insinuated Levi is an easy lay hasn’t escaped me and my hands ball tightly at my sides. I want to ram my fist into his perfect nose. Watch the blood spurt out from his nostrils and see his eyes go wide when he realizes that I’m about to make his life a living hell.

I step forward menacingly, fully prepared to deck him.

Only, instead of being intimidated by my size, he only smirks. Then plucks at his jacket sleeves, brushing away nonexistent lint. “I wouldn’t do that,” he says pleasantly, “or are you trying to teach your team that violence is an acceptable method of communication?”

The pointed reminder, that we have forty-plus teenage eyes trained on us, is the only reason I don’t lay him out cold where he stands.

Speaking slowly, so he doesn’t miss a word, I demand, “You’re crashing practice, Clarke. Couldn’t find it in yourself to wait out the last thirty minutes in your car?”

Though I outsize him by at least six inches, Clarke doesn’t shirk back in fear. Nor does he once spare a glance toward Levi.

Fucking prick.

Levi bumps me out of the way, fury embedded in her stiff movements as she confronts her douchebag ex-husband. “I’m going to let your comment slide, Rick—but only because I don’t give a damn what you think of me.” Her nostrils flare. “But that doesn’t excuse you shrugging your son off just now. How couldyoudothat? He misses you.”

“He’s fine, Levi.”

Her jaw visibly tightens. “He’s called you every day for the last month and a half.”

“And we’ve spoken,” Clarke says calmly, like they’re discussing the weather and not their fifteen-year-old boy who looks like his dog has just been stomped on by an elephant. “Once a week, every Friday at 3 p.m.”

I’ve never seen Levi more livid. The pulse in her temple jumpstarts, fluttering fast. “You’re lying,” she seethes, breathing heavily. “Topher wouldn’t lie about something like you never calling him.”

“Topher is a teenager, and teenagers lie. Now”—Clarke’s black eyes cut to my face—“I’m in the mood for a beer. DaSilva, care to join me?”

Over my dead fucking body.

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