Page 37 of Not a Perfect Save

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’ve been cleared to play.”

“I don’t know.” I swallow. Confusion swells inside me, making it difficult to think straight.

His lips compress for a millisecond before returning into a neutral line. “Okay. Just thought I’d ask,” he mumbles. Connor’s voice is casual but he’s staring down at his phone. The one whose screen is off.

One beat passes between us. Then another. “But maybe I want to see the fruits of my labors after that hellish press conference,” I say softly.

His gaze jumps to mine, his eyebrow raised. I give him a small smile. “It is why I went along with all this, remember?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

ELLA

The day isclear but cold. I’m glad to be sitting in one of the boxes overlooking the stadium instead of out in the stands. It’s filled with WAGs, and even though I am neither a wife nor a girlfriend, there are curious murmurs all around. At least one type of clique here is familiar—dripping in diamonds and just like the women I went to high school with. These ladies have managed to hang on to the jocks who made it all the way to the pros. Thankfully, I don’t have to mingle with them much, I’ve been entrusted into the care and keeping of Logan’s girlfriend, Rebecca, and she’s been given strict orders to look after me.

“So do you come to watch the Titans games often?” I ask.

Rebecca snorts into her drink, and I have to slap her on her back a couple of times when she starts coughing.

“Oh, no. Not a fan. Well, a fan of Logan’s, of course, but I’m just here for the free food,” she wheezes out once she’s caught her breath.

“Amen.” I like her already.

I eye the jersey with her quarterback boyfriend’s number on it. “Have you been together long?”

“No…” She blushes. Before I can pry, thunderous cheering sounds from the stands. We turn to the glass just in time to watch the players rush from the tunnel into the field. I search for Connor, but don’t see him. My heart thuds against my ribs, and a chill sweeps through me. Is his ankle all right?

But then he runs in and my chest expands on a breath. He’s okay.

My eyes bug out as I get a better view. He is better than okay. Connor Hall. In uniform.

“Holy fucci,” I say.

Rebecca gives me a smirk. “First time you’re seeing your man out there?”

“He’s not my man.” It’s my automatic refrain. But my, is he fine in those tight pants. I have a wicked thought. Maybe instead of using camouflage in my dreams, I’ll have him dress up in nothing but those pants. Pair it with a little tutu. I snicker at the thought. God, I can’t wait to tell him that. I wonder what kind of look he’ll give me—my favorite pastime in the world right now is translating his expressions.

A whistle blows and the players get into formation as the game starts up. And I wish it hadn’t. Connor is on the defensive line. Within minutes an offensive lineman slams into him. My hands fly to cover my eyes. Through my fingers, I see him hold steady, fending the other guy off. Connor is tall and lean, built for the game even though he’s not stocky like the other players. But those hits are brutal.

Seconds later, he sprints forward just as two members of the opposite line come for him. He braces for impact, no hint of hesitation. I wince when they collide. Since when do I care if he’s hurt? He trains for this. His body is conditioned. And why am I so invested in the health and wellness of said body anyway?

Maybe since he sexed you with it?

At halftime, the volume in the box rises to a fever pitch, but Rebecca and I are still focused on the field where the players are huddled.

“So do you know much about football?” Rebecca asks as we watch them disperse and walk through the tunnel to regroup.

“What’s there to know? They throw the ball. Someone catches it. They knock him down. They stop the clock. They throw the ball. Someone catches it. They knock him down. They stop the clock. Rinse, repeat.” I shrug, striving for nonchalance. “It’s not brain surgery. Though many of them may need it when all’s said and done.” Another slice of worry cuts through me and I scowl.Why am I getting so worked up?

“Glad you think so much of the sport, Miss Dixon.”

I spin around and stop. The man who has addressed me can only be classified as yuh-mmy—the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome.

“Ladies.” He tips his head at Rebecca and then his attention returns to me.

“I hear we owe you a debt of gratitude, Miss Dixon.”

“Umm…”

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