Page 49 of Kiss Me Tonight

“To whip your ass.”

I let out a bark of laughter. “I specifically remember your mom saying something about no cursing.”

“Whip your butt. How’s that?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.” The kid has spunk, I won’t deny that. Pressing a finger to the awful, yellow-colored door that is in serious need of a repaint, I push it open another few inches. “You wanna come in and hang out while I shower real fast? If not, I’ll come by and let you know when we’re ready to roll out. I wasn’t expecting you so early this morning.”

I haven’t even finished talking before Levi’s son is already ducking under my arm and letting himself into my place. “I’ve been dying to know what this house looks like on the inside.” He turns in a half-circle, eyes critically surveying the eyesore of a living room. “I was expecting cobwebs.”

Ironic. I’d been expecting dildos hanging from the ceiling after the realtor sent the listing over to me last month. Aisha Smarts had promised the house would be a labor of love—the understatement of the year, in my opinion. This place needs less love and more demolition. I’m pretty sure there’s mold growing under the nasty pink carpet.

Nothing wads of cash and my buddy Nick Stamos can’t fix, though.

“This place is going to look great soon enough.” I point to the far wall that’s currently nothing but rotted wood paneling. “Floor-to-ceiling bookcase right there,” I tell the kid. “It’s gonna be a showstopper. And the ceiling is tall enough for a ladder, too, so we’ll go all out.”

“We?”

“Well, me and a buddy of mine, Nick. He does construction down in Boston.” He was also the only guy onPut A Ring On Itthat I felt any compulsion to befriend. The rest of my castmates were nothing but gossip-toting crybabies. Having come from a team environment in football—all dudes, all the time for over ten years—I’d had similar expectations for the men who showed up for filming. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s not every day a guy shows up in a dinosaur onesie looking for true love. “I’m good enough with putting things together or tearing stuff out”—I tap the laminate floor with my bare foot, indicating that it too will be stripped from the house—“but in no way am I a designer or a visionary. Not like him.”

Topher nods like that makes a whole lot of sense. “Oh, right.”

Part of me can’t help but wonder how much of a role Topher’s dad has played in his life. Everyone in the league is fully aware of Rick’s reputation. After all, the guy’s been with the Steelers for nearly twenty years now . . . which has got to put him in his fifties, at least.

And a good deal older than Levi.

Was that part of his allure for her when they first hooked up? An older man paying a small-town girl a bit of attention, enough to sweep her off her feet and promise a world of fairytales? Being married to a man like Clarke . . . it must have been hell. Even my limited interactions with the guy have been less than stellar.

Back when my contract was up with Tampa Bay and I hadn’t resigned yet, Rick Clarke pushed hard to get me in with Pittsburgh. He promised me all sorts of shit if I agreed to the trade: a Lamborghini as soon as I signed on the dotted line, exclusive access to women he promised were virgins, and the chance to come on the team as captain, never mind the fact that Pittsburgh as a team—and as a city—adored their quarterback captain, Jesse Evans.

I turned Rick down as soon as the email popped up in my inbox.

Call me an asshole, spread rumors that I’m lacking in the emotional department—I don’t care. It’s not as if those accusations are entirely unfounded. But don’t ever think, for even a second, that I can be bought . . . or that I’m willing to loosen my morals for the sake of fame and fortune. Fuck that.

With Rick Clarke for a father, it’s clear to me that Levi is to thank for Topher’s good demeanor. His kindness, which is evident every day at practice when he seeks out the kids who haven’t had any luck making friends yet. His dry humor, which has his mama written all over it.

Me and the kid—we’ve got something in common, I guess. Neither of us come from families with an ideal father figure.

Empathy has my mouth opening before I even work out what I’m gonna say next: “Nick will be up here in two weeks to help get the early demolition moving along. The tile and awful shag carpet in the bedrooms have got to go.” I motion toward the floor. “You interested in helping out? We could use the extra set of hands.”

Blue eyes, so much like Levi’s it almost hurts, land on my face. The kid’s mouth hangs open and he goes so far as to physically clamp it shut with the back of his hand. “For real? I mean, are you sure? I . . . I don’t want to bother you or anything.” His gaze turns downcast, his shoulders narrowing as they slump. “Or get in your way.”

My rogue, dead heart gives a traitorous thump. It’s the same sensation I always felt when I helped my mentees back with Junior Buccaneers. You can’t change the world for every child out there, but one at a time . . . Yeah, those are the sort of promises I’ll do everything in my power to keep. When it comes to kids, every single word matters and carries a lifelong impact on their psyche. That I know firsthand, though it’s a life skill I could have done without learning so young.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Topher. If I’m askin’ you to help, then that means I want you here.”

His face visibly brightens with relief.

“Well, shit—” At my cocked brow, he points at me, finger-gun style. “You’re right. Completely right, Coach. No cursing, just like Mom tells me.Crap. Is that better? It’s gotta be since I’m all for expanding my vocabulary and—”

“Is that a yes for lending a hand?”

“Yup, it sure is!” Topher shoots me two thumbs-ups and a crooked grin. “Now, I like to think of myself as a little bit of a businessman. Is there a possibility that helping might lead to . . . money?”

Damn if Levi wasn’t right.

Admiring the kid’s gumption, laughter breaks free from my chest. “You have balls for asking, Toph, I’ll give you that.”

“Is that a yes?” he asks, repeating my words verbatim.

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