Page 40 of The Check Down

“What do you have in mind?” Her tone is pure flirtation. I pivot, finding her watching me, her lips parted and those gorgeous dark eyes so damn hopeful. I’m drawn closer, like we have fucking magnets in our chests, my gaze lingering on her lips a moment too long. All it would take is a single step to close the small distance, and I’d change our whole dynamic.

The flashing lights reflecting in her irises snap me back to the present. She’s as fixated on me as I am on her. But the distance between us now may as well be miles. Because I made a commitment to myself when I signed with the Blues. I can’t get wrapped up in her more than I already am. So I step back. And when her face falls and her posture sags, I mentally cuss myself out.

I clear my throat, desperate to make her smile or laugh again—anything to get that wounded expression off her beautiful face. “Uh, how about this? We’ll pick another game, and whoever wins gets to ask the loser a question. Andyoumust answer truthfully.”

Her face brightens, and she straightens her spine. “Even though you said that likeI’mthe one who’s going to lose, I accept your terms.”

Without missing a beat, we seal the deal with our secret handshake.

After a heated air hockey battle, Brynn emerges victorious. With a brow cocked, she tilts her head and asks, “Tell me the true origin of theRacy Laceynickname.”

I groan and blow out a breath. This isn’t a secret. If she’d done a Google search, she’d already know. But if she’s asking, she hasn’t. Like she wants to hear it from me, and that makes my chest ache.

I brace against the air hockey table, crossing one ankle over the other, and gesture to a metal bench across from me. Brynn obliges and pulls her feet up to sit crisscross like she’s a kid gearing up for story time at the library.

“That nickname is the media’s doing. My teammates didn’t call me that until well after the press started.”

She nods, brows raised, patiently waiting for the rest.

“I can’t say it originates from one incident or trait, really. But I’m fucking fast for a big guy. Was even faster when I started playing. I ran a four-five-five in the forty at the combine before I was drafted, which is almost unheard of for a tight end.” I pause, twist my lips, duck my head. “And there are a couple other factors to blame for the nickname…”

“Other factors?”

With a sigh, I peer up at her. “I tend to be a little foul-mouthed.”

She gasps and covers her heart. “You don’t say.”

I pop a shoulder and smirk. “Been fined a time or two for my colorful vocabulary.”

“What else?”

Now my cheeks heat, because damn, I enjoyed the hell out of my twenties. I’ve never regretted it. Not until this exact moment. Though I have no interest in analyzing the contrition creeping through me right now. The thought that this woman might see me in a less positive light after I confess this makes my gut sour with shame. But I can’t change my past. And it’s all online anyway.

“For the first several years I played, I, uh, frequently enjoyed the company of women.” I expect her to blush or grimace, but her expression doesn’t waver, so I force myself to elaborate. “I was photographed with a different girl almost every time I partied.”

“And now?” She visibly swallows, her slender throat working.

“Do I party now? Sometimes. Do I sleep with multiple women?” My voice is pure gravel. “No.”

No, I don’t have multiple sexual partners, professor, because there’s only one woman I want to fuck, and I can’t have her.

She gathers her hair at her nape and pulls it over one shoulder, her nervous tell, and keeps her focus fixed on me. The intense eye contact makes me sweat. This moment between us isheavy—heavier than the almost-kiss from earlier—and I like it too damn much to disrupt it.

Brynn’s the first to cave. She clears her throat and drops her feet to the floor. “Okay,Racy. Now I challenge you to thatracinggame.” She points at the side-by-side leather seats situated behind a pair of steering wheels.

“You’re challenging me to a driving game? Do you remember how we met?”

Her mouth drops open when my words register, but then her lips twist to one side in an effort not to smile.

“I might need to give you a head start,” I tease.

That remark earns me a swat to my arm, and I clench my hands into fists to keep from tugging her to me.

When I win the race by a landslide, Brynn shifts in her seat, ready for my question.

Going easy on her, I ask the first thing that springs to mind. “What’s your middle name?”

“That’s your question?” Her eyes flash, like there’s a story here. It’s confirmed when the color of her face rivals the red sports car on the screen in front of us.

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