Page 5 of Tackle

“And the week’s just started.” She placed the amber-filled shot glass down in front of him.

He picked it up and saluted her with it. “Thanks for that.”

She chuckled. “The weekend will be here before you know it. Do you have any plans or are you staying in to relax?” The delivery of her question was breezy, having gotten adept at small talk in her years of customer service.

His smile became broader. “Why? You offering to help fill my time?”

She shouldn’t have been surprised by his question, flirting was pretty standard bar etiquette and it happened from time to time when she was mixing drinks. Usually she could sense a man’s perusal and stave their attentions off at the pass, but tonight her thoughts were filled with a certain football player, causing her to miss any cues the man might have given off.

“She is not.”

Emerson’s eyes flew to the owner of that declaration as a body filled the stool beside the man.

Oz.

Leaning back, the man took in Oz’s… Well, everything. Emerson didn’t blame Mr. Suit for suddenly looking wary. The big lug was oozing testosterone like sweat after a twenty-k marathon, which really shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. Any more thoughts like those and she’d need to turn in her membership card to the sisterhood.

The dude raised a hand, his gold watch flashing as the sleeve of his suit jacket pulled. “Sorry, no offense. Just making conversation. Didn’t know she was taken.”

Emerson hadn’t known she was either. Which she shared with Oz by way of questioning raised brows.

“Well, now you know.” Oz’s words had clearly been for the guy seated beside him, but his eyes had never left Emerson’s when he’d said them.

It was his look that was her undoing. The heat she saw in his eyes made her instantly wet which in turn caused her cheeks to flame. God, she hoped Oz didn’t notice.

The Suit stood. “Got a great place here. I’ll be back.” Then he held out a hand to Oz. “But only for the booze.” He grinned after Oz took it. “Don’t want to get on Oz Olson’s bad side. Good luck with the upcoming season.”

“Thanks.” Oz didn’t seem nearly as taken aback that the guy referred to him by name as Emerson was.

For the first time, Emerson was hit with the fact that Oz was a celebrity. The feeling was rather surreal.

“I guess that happens a lot,” she said after the guy ambled off. When Oz raised a brow, she explained, “People recognizing you.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. You get used to it.”

She studied his expression. His jaw was locked and his shoulders tense. “You don’t like the notoriety?” She took a guess.

Another shrug.

“What does that mean?” Now that he’d made some sort of grand gesture, it would be nice if he opened up a little.

He must have heard something in her tone because his eyes flicked to the person sitting next to him before he shifted down a stool, giving them a little privacy. “The attention makes me uncomfortable,” he admitted, then went on to say the most words she’d ever heard him speak at one time. “Don’t get me wrong. I love football and all that it’s given me. But the fame,” he shook his head, “it’s a lot to handle. In high school, all the glory was centered on the quarterback, which made it easy to fade into the background. Even in college, the defense never got as much praise as the guys who made the touchdowns, so again, I could fly under the radar so long as I stayed away from frat parties. But going pro, that’s a whole other animal. TV, news coverage, endorsements, it’s a lot to handle.” He paused before confessing, “Large crowds make me nervous.” He must have noticed the surprise on her face because he amended, “Out on the field I can tune out all the people in the stands. The game, my next move, that’s all I think about. But I get nervous during interviews,” his lips twisted into a sheepish smirk, “when talking to a woman I’m attracted to. Hell, even approaching one.” He dropped his head to stare at his clasped hands resting on the bar, the long fall of his hair shielding most of his face from view. “I know all that makes me weird. Believe me, I get it."

She reached over, placing her hand on his, and his head popped up, his eyes colliding with hers. She swallowed down the emotion that suddenly choked her. “Not weird,” she whispered.

Emerson couldn’t imagine that kind of fame. She was born and raised in Portland. Her world was small, and she could count on two hands the number of people who’d recognize her if she walked down the street. “I can’t say I know how all that feels, but I do know it would be a lot to get used to. So, I do understand.”

“Try adding that to being the kind of guy who would rather stay home than go out.”

Her head tipped to the side. “And yet, here you are. Why?”

With his pale complexion it was easy to see his cheeks flame before he stated, “You. I’m here because of you.”

Emerson tossed the wet rag she’d used to wipe down the tables in the sink behind the bar and dried her hands on the seat of her pants. It was late, the place was closed, and she’d finished the next day’s prep. She could finally go home.

Oz hadn’t stayed long after his declaration. Emerson wasn’t surprised. A little disappointed, maybe, but not surprised. She’d learned a lot about Oz from the small amount that he’d shared. It was gratifying to know the slow roll of their meeting was a him-being-uncomfortable thing and not a him-not-being-into-her thing. She could be patient. As long as she knew Oz was interested, she had no problem taking things at his pace. After all, her hands were pretty full at the moment. It wouldn’t be easy to go on a date, even if he did get around to asking her out on one. But Emerson had to admit, it felt pretty damn good to have confirmation it wasn’t only the food that lured Oz to The Parting Glass. It had been a long while since she’d felt that particular brand of flutter in her stomach. Emerson thought back and realized it had been well over two years. Talk about going through a dry spell. Her love life was like the Sahara Desert, and she’d been so busy, she hadn’t even noticed how thirsty she was.

Was that sad?

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