Page 40 of Trapped and Tackled

“I kissed her,” I admit, not even caring that I’m confiding in him. Because I have no one else to confide in.

I don’t have a Marlowe or a Lincoln. I only have my team.

And as much as Callaway is Coach’s golden boy, he knows a thing or two about scandal.

Avery drops his head back and sighs. “You can get in any woman’s pants, why?—”

“I don’t know,” I cut him off.

What I don’t say is that it’s not just about getting in Leni’s pants. It’s more than that. I just don’t understand what the more is.

Why do I care so much? Why am I interested in her day? Or the debutante ball?

Or react to vibes from that dumbass, Toby?

Avery scrubs a hand down his face. “Listen, I’m not a fucking saint. What I put Mila through was messed up and even now…” Avery trails off, but I know what he’s implying.

He’s been with a lot of women and hasn’t thought twice about it.

“But when it affects the team…I learned my lesson. I’ve tried to steer clear of any scandal or anything that could disrupt dynamics. The season hasn’t even officially started, Talon. Coach’s daughter? Come on, man. Think about what you’re doing.”

I sigh and tap my head against the headrest.

“We’re taking off in three,” Crawford says.

Beside me, Avery swears softly and shoves on his headphones.

I do the same and close my eyes, feigning sleep.

But I don’t get a wink of shut-eye the entire flight to Dallas. Instead, I think about Leni. And that fucking kiss.

The soft curve of her cheek. The smooth strands of her hair. The heat of her body pressed against mine. Her sweet, full lips…

By the time we land, I’m in a shitty mood. Callaway gives me space and the rest of the team steers clear.

When I check into the hotel, I fire off a lame, generic message to Leni.

Me: Need me to grab anything for this weekend?

And I’m not surprised that when I wake in the morning, she keeps me on read.

Chapter 11

Leni

Marylee clears her throat beside me, and I flinch.

“Pardon?” I ask, my cheeks flushing. I spaced out and didn’t catch a word Sarah said.

Sarah leans forward. “The main flower in the centerpieces. Roses or peonies?”

“Oh.” I sit up straighter, shaking my head to clear it. “Peonies.” I tilt my head, mentally running through the color palette. “Cream and peach.”

“Great,” Marylee agrees, making a note in her binder.

The conversation resumes—canapés selection and the signature cocktail—and my thoughts wander again.

The way I clung to the material of Talon’s shirt.

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