Page 21 of Fumbling for Perfection

I hold her phone to her face to unlock it, then turn it to me and send myself a text. “Putting my number in your phone.” I save myself as a contact and slip the phone back in her pocket.

Do I let my hand linger on the outside of her thigh? Hell yeah, I do. When she shivers and I see the obvious effect my touch has on her, I step back.

“Until tomorrow night.” I lean down and brush a kiss on her cheek and walk out of her office before my dick takes over and I bend her over her desk and fuck her to oblivion.

She agreed to dinner. By the way her cheeks turned pink and her nipples tightened, poking arrows through her shirt, I’m confident dinner will turn into a snack.

And by snack, I mean Riley’s pussy.

CHAPTER SIX

WALKER

Seeing Riley yesterday morning has only made me want her even more. Somehow, I survived six hours of meetings with my agent, coaches, and lawyers. They’ve given me a lot to think about, but not so much that it blocks out the way Riley’s ass filled out those painted-on leggings.

After another round of meetings today, I was tempted to go back to Boston Strong and sign up for a membership, but figured working out in the hotel gym was a better idea. I’m still not a hundred percent confident Riley’s on the same page as me.

To say she was surprised to see me yesterday is an understatement. Sure, we were supposed to be a one-night stand. Which turned into a sleepover. And instead of an awkward morning after, it turned into another round of steamy sex. I mean, who wouldn’t want to do that again? I’m game.

I add another plate to each end of the barbells and situate myself underneath. Without a spotter, I’m not going for a personal best. Still, three-fifty is a good chest workout.

I pump out ten reps, rack the barbell, and reach for the sixty-five-pound dumbbells on the floor next to the bench. Sitting up, I curl the weights until my biceps strain, then drop them to the mat.

After I run through my chest and bicep blocks two more times, I finish my workout on the treadmill. My playlist runs the gamut between Eminem, hairband metal, and Fall Out Boy. While Patrick Stump belts outSugar, We’re Going Down, my phone signals a new text. I slow down to a brisk jog and pick up my phone.

My face contorts into a goofy ass grin when I see the text from Riley. Thank fuck no one is in the gym to razz me.

PERFECTION: I’m not exactly sure who I’m texting right now. Is this you, God?

I bark out a laugh. Or rather a snort. Once again, grateful for being alone.

ME: Who do you want it to be?

PERFECTION: Well, according to my contacts, I’m talking to God. Correction, Oh God.

ME: I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me by Walker or God since you called out both names just as equally during our evening together.

PERFECTION: Do I dare ask what I’m saved as in your phone?

ME: Exactly what you are.

I watch as three dots appear then disappear. A minute later they appear and disappear again. Not wanting to scare her off, I take over.

ME: I’m hoping you’re texting to tell me you’re looking forward to dinner tonight.

Nothing.

She’s ghosted me. I curse myself for pushing her. Just because I want a replay of our night together doesn’t mean she does. I’ve never been insecure around a woman before, mostly because I’m never on the prowl. When women approach me, I either politely brush them off or I accept whatever they’re willing to give for the night.

Correction. Not night. Hours. A few hours of my time. It’s not because I’m an asshole, it’s because spending time with a woman requires conversation, and conversation leads to getting to know each other. Opening myself up to someone, anyone, opens doors I’d rather keep shut.

I don’t let people in, which is what has gotten me this far. I’m close with my teammates, but we don’t have the tight bond they have with each other. I go out with them on occasion when it’s in a large group, but I don’t have a close confidant. A best friend.

Some call me standoffish, but those who make the effort to get to know me accept me for who I am: A football player who’s more than one hundred percent focused on the game. It’s my life. Not friends. Not family. Not that I don’t want them, I just don’t know how to have them.

I’m a therapist’s wet dream, if I were to ever see one. No need when I can keep it together. I’m focused and respected by my coaches and teammates. That’s all that matters.

But for whatever reason, Riley captured my attention. I like that she doesn’t know who I am. That she doesn’t see me as a meal ticket or someone who can put her in the spotlight. That she’s funny, genuine, and fucking hot as hell is an added bonus.

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