Page 1 of Tight End

ONE

June

“Can you sign my tits?”

I tighten my grip on Oliver’s hand and turn us in a different direction before the woman asking for the autograph—never mind.

Her breasts are already out of her shirt. I can see one nipple. One very hard nipple.

Did I mention there’s a cool breeze?

The football player in front of her tugs at his collar as his face turns a bright shade of red. He’s polite, trying to look anywhere but directly at the aforementioned nipple, which I imagine is quite the task. He even turns her away from the crowd, taking the Sharpie from her hand and bending down over her chest, doing his best to shield her.

It’s a bummer for the handful of men who are now scowling in his direction, but a win for the rest of us.

Don’t get me wrong here, I’m no prude, but I’m not sure this is something my three-year-old should witness ... or really any of the many kids here.

Good for her, though.

She wanted something and she went for it. And she got his phone number, so I’d say it worked in her favor. I envy girls like that, I really do. Assertive. Dominant. Not afraid to go after what they want.

Not that I would want a random football player anywhere near my breasts.

Honestly, at this point in my life I’m not sure I have a type—except maybe all wrong for me—but I don’t see the appeal. Sure they’re hulking giants with muscles in all the right places, jawlines that could cut glass, and stamina that would put most men to shame. Wait ... what was I saying?

Oh, right.

They’re not for me. I usually go for the boring, dependable guy who cheats on me with his best friend. And if that kind of guy is going to turn out to be a dirty lying cheater, then I’d hate to see the damage a man like this could do.

You know, if I were in the market and wanted to date.

Which I don’t.

These guys wouldn’t be interested in a woman like me anyway. I’m a hot-mess single mom with no free time and a sex drive that dried up right around the time I found out I was pregnant. I work two jobs—one I love and one I hate.

Plus, I don’t know a lick about football.

These people sure do, though, and by the looks of things, they take this sport pretty seriously. We’re surrounded by grown men in jerseys and Nashville Aces apparel. I’m not sure if it’s my charcoal pantsuit that’s offensive and drawing glares or the fact that I’m weaving through small groups of people, trying to get to the security guard at the end of the crowd. My money is on the pantsuit. It offends me too.

I’m barely halfway there when Oliver tugs on my hand and I stop, blocking the now-stalled line. Sendingan apologetic look to a dad and his teenage son, I shove the stack of papers under one arm, hike my purse high on my shoulder, and quickly pick up my son so we can get out of the way.

From his new vantage point Oliver looks around, eyes wide as I shift him on my hip, careful not to crumple the divorce papers—don’t worry, not mine.

“Go home?” He glances at me quickly before his gaze goes back to the football players.

“Not yet.” I press a quick kiss to the top of his head. “I’ve got to deliver these papers and then we can go. You must be hungry.”

He doesn’t turn to face me or reply, and for a second I’m not sure he heard me over the noise of the crowd, but then he nods. His entire focus is on the football players standing behind a makeshift partition and a few long tables.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be home soon and get you some dinner. I have a new book picked out for us to read tonight.”

It seems like it takes forever, but I finally reach the security guard. Only he doesn’t seem too friendly, looking me up and down with his lips curled in a snarl, his eyes narrowing as soon as he takes in my pantsuit.

Dang it.

“You can’t come back here.” He crosses his arms, pulling his black T-shirt tight across his chest. “Players only and you don’t look like a linebacker to me.”

“I’m looking for Silas Brooks. Is he out here?” His frown deepens and I ignore it, pointing toward the guys. “Do you know which one he is?”

---