Page 11 of Play the Last Card

Chapter Four

Scott

I’m obsessed.

Obsessed with something other than football. Moping around my apartment for the first forty-eight hours in Boston had been ineffective and bad for my health so I’d gone for a walk. I hadn’t meant to go in. I don’t like bar food. I don’t even drink. But something caught my eye through the window and when I’d moved in for a better look, I’d been captivated.

Somehow her hair morphs between a honey brown with hints of chocolate to almost looking blonde when the light hits it just right, before darkening again when she shifts away and is shrouded in shadows. I’d watched—creepily, now looking back on it—through the window as she had smiled shyly and ducked her head talking to one of the other staff members.

My feet had a mind of their own, walking me into the bar, sitting me on a stool not too far from her. I’d pulled my cap down further over my face after spying the group of older men wearing tired football jerseys as they drank heavily at three in the afternoon.

She had spoken to me, leant across the bar as she poked and prodded for information. She may have just been being polite, or she may have found me as fascinating as I’d found her. Whichever, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Her polite conversation, spurred on by curiosity or not, had given me the perfect excuse to stare at her, up close.

Ivy.

I’ve committed everything I learned about Ivy that first time to memory.

Why? No idea, but it’s taken up space in my brain.

Her eyes are almost a navy shade of blue, endless pools I’ve been dying to dive into since staring into them that very first time. I want to slide my fingers into her hair, want to twist the strands around my fingers, play with them and watch them change color in the light. Even her rehearsed customer service smile captivates me, haunts me. I’d been listing all fifty states in my head trying to keep my dick from getting hard after getting a glance down the front of her shirt when she leaned forward over the bar.

I’d never wished to be an ass man more than in that moment.

I haven’t stopped thinking about her since.

Ivy told me she didn’t work there all the time. I remember that because I also remember that she said she’s a kindergarten teacher. That did something funny to my lungs. Sucking the air out of them and making it harder for me to breathe. At first, I thought it was because I’d been annoyed to find out she didn’t actually spend forty hours a week in a bar that was less than a hundred meters from my house.

Easy access to her I’d thought, stupidly.

I’d thought my chest had tightened because I’d been disappointed. Later, when I’d been staring up at my bedroom ceiling and thinking about her, the image of her with a bunch of toddlers floating to the front of my mind, caring about them and actually wanting to be around them, caused it to happen again. I’d had no choice but to admit it might have been because it meant she’d have to be really good with kids.

Back when I was younger, before football took over my thoughts and my life, I dreamt of having kids one day. Maybe.

I still do. Some day.

Still, the knowledge that the bar is only a side gig for her hasn’t stopped me from going back every day since.

See? Obsessed.

I’ve been back to the bar, looking for her every time. I’d had no luck. Until the other night. Restless and thoughts wandering, I’d decided to take a walk.

Naturally, I passed the bar. The music had drawn me in, the thumping music and the distinct sounds of a crowd gathered inside caused my pulse to skyrocket, but my feet drew me inside anyway. It’s like I felt her or something.

Ivy is funny, mysterious, and drop dead gorgeous. She’s got curves for days, soft looking hair that is practically begging me to run my fingers through it, and a smile that threatens to crack my chest in two. I didn’t see a downside to pursuing her when I spotted her by the bar Saturday night. I still don’t.

Something about her screams adventurous, and fun, and sexy. Screaming at me that she’s in a complete other world then the jersey chasers I tend to settle with when I get tired of my right hand. The biggest tell of them all, the best if you ask me, is that Ivy seems to have no idea who the fuck I am.

Fuck, but I love that.

I’ve been playing pro ball for almost seven years. Sat on the bench for the first three of them after college, called up every now and then when the win was assured. Then, the starting QB sustained a career ending injury and suddenly I was in. For the last four years, I’ve worked my ass off to make ‘Scott Harvey’ a household name. I’m one of the most well-known athletes in the league. I am building my legacy. I train seven days a week. I take care of my body. I eat well and get eight hours of sleep. I watch old game tapes. I study my mistakes, and I correct them. I live, sleep, breathe the game.

And Ivy has no clue who I am.

On top of that, she’s not a fan of football.

She doesn’t even like the game.

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