Page 10 of Bound and Blitzed

“We’re drunk. We have to be drunk. I never drink this much.” I gesture toward the bartender who has already removed my empty glasses. But…how many servings of wine did I consume?

“I’m nowhere near being drunk,” Avery replies, his tone serious.

I look at him, feeling my eyes flare with panic. “I am,” I admit. My head swims, and my heart beats erratically. “I should…I need to go home.”

“Okay.” He flags down the bartender and passes him a credit card. “I’ll walk you home and tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

“We’ll talk,” I repeat.

“I’ll take you out to breakfast.”

I frown. “Don’t you have…football? Aren’t the games on Sundays?”

He smirks. “We have a bye week.”

“Oh.”

“So, breakfast?”

“Yes.” I can do breakfast. I mean, chances are Avery will cancel after he comes to his senses overnight. It’s good I put a pin in this conversation now before it becomes even more unlikely and…embarrassing.

There’s no way an American football player—a nationally recognized and celebrated quarterback—would want to marry me. I glance down at my pale pink sweater and simple jeans. I’m wearing Hoka sneakers to a bar and have my credit cards banded together with a hair tie. I’m not sophisticated, fashionable, put-together material.

I’m not the type of woman an athlete dates.

For a brief flicker of a heartbeat, Dane Thomson, one of Ale’s U-20 teammates, flares to life in my mind. I shake my head and he’s gone.

I release an exhale. If I’m conjuring memories of Dane, I’ve surely veered into wasted territory. I don’t think about him. Ever.

He’s locked away in a box of my mind that is too painful to recall.

“You ready?” Avery asks.

“Yes.” I slide off the barstool and Avery grasps my elbow to keep me steady. But I’m not shaky on my feet. Instead, I’m uncertain. Confused. Overwhelmed.

You’d think the walk from the sports bar to our condo building would be awkward. Strangely, it’s not. Avery and I keep the conversation light, but we continue to talk.

He tells me more about Raia and Cohen’s engagement party. I mention trying to catch one of Raia and Carla’s soccer games in Chicago.

When we step into the elevator, he looks at me expectantly.

“I’m on the fifth floor,” I tell him. He presses number five.

“I’m on the seventh,” he offers.

I smirk. “See, I’m not a stalker.”

Avery snorts. “I’m humiliated about that.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be. I’m…humiliated by all of this.” I toss an arm in between us to explain the entire night. The bar, the word vomit, the marriage proposal.

While a part of me admires that Avery hasn’t already backtracked and laughed off his insane offer to marry me, I also know he will see reason by morning. He has to. Other than the obvious fact that men like him don’t marry women like me, there’s also another important point to consider.

What the hell would he get out of our marriage agreement?

“Don’t be.” His voice is rough, and it pulls me from my thoughts.

When I look at him, I notice the soft green-brown flecks in his gray eyes. The interest that lights up his irises.

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