Page 87 of Fumbling for Perfection

Not that Cannon is a bad receiver. He’s as impressive as Walker, but I have faith my man can carry the ball to the end zone.

I freeze and blink rapidly at the TV. I didn’t say that out loud, did I? Walker and the offense leave formation and head to the sideline. The clock winds down to the two-minute warning.

I shimmy in my seat and move to the edge of the couch.

“You okay, cupcake? Look a little stressed,” Jackson says.

“Um, you’re one to talk. Hopefully your brother can take the ball to the end zone.”

The team lines up again, and I tune out the announcer’s babble as they predict the next few plays. With sixty yards still to go, a fairly green team, and a strong Miami defense, the announcers predict a turnover.

Way to be unbiased, assholes.

Anderson shuffles the ball off to Walker, who breaks free of a tackle but only comes up with three yards. Time runs off the clock, and the offense hurries back to formation. On the next snap, Miami comes out strong and sacks Anderson.

Their crowd goes crazy. Third and now thirteen to go with the clock running. They’re going to throw it. The tight ends and wide receivers are matched up, and on the snap, Anderson fake throws to Miles Buckingham and even tricks the cameraman.

Another camera picks up Walker running down the middle, steam rolling over two defenders, picking up twenty yards. The clocks only stop for a second for the chains to move, then Anderson throws the ball too far into the end zone, stopping the clock.

“Fifteen seconds and thirty-eight yards to go. With the kicking game off tonight, I’m betting we’re going to overtime,” the announcer predicts.

Fuck him. I focus on Walker, giving him all my good mojo, praying they hand him the ball. The ball is snapped and Anderson tosses it to Walker. I jump to my feet, Jackson curses, Taylor yells to run faster, and Walker leaps over a defender and lands in the end zone.

“Yes!” I jump up and down and hug Jackson. “He did it!”

“That’s my brother!” Jackson yells at the television.

My eyes water and my face hurts from smiling so much. I can’t tear my eyes off the screen as Walker’s teammates pile on top of him. You’d think it was a playoff game by the way the guys are celebrating. His happiness brings me happiness. What does that say about how hard I’ve fallen for him?

Even after the extra point, there’s still constant celebration on the sideline. The camera zooms in on Walker as he takes his helmet off. He’s smiling and accepting the congratulations from his coaches and teammates, but it’s subdued. If you’d never been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of his megawatt smile, you’d never know the smile he wears on the field isn’t his one hundred percent.

I’ve worked with enough athletes, granted, most are high school or college athletes, to know how much sports drives their lives. That their happiness is dependent upon a winning season, on their individual performance, on their health.

Yet the most joy I’ve seen from Walker was during our first few dates. Either there’s something going on with him that he’s hiding from others, or he doesn’t live, breathe, and dream football as much as his teammates.

It’s another complicated layer of Walker Bankes that I’d like to peel away. It’s ironic that it’s the complicated layers that have me falling harder for him. He was a perfect gentleman to me after our group dinner at Cayenne, and when he walked me to my apartment door, I expected him to try to kiss me.

I’d been having a ping-pong match in my head trying to decide how I’d react. Push him away and tell him I only want to be friends? Accept the kiss but then push him away? Or dive right in and pull him into my apartment, strip him bare and ride him hard?

He’s made it clear he’s still interested in me, but I’m still protective of my heart. Walker wants right now. I want the future.

Rowan and Kendall rattled me the other night at dinner. Rowan suggested I come right out and tell Walker what I want. Marriage, kids, the house. Maybe not right this second, but soon. If that’s not the direction he sees us going, then he should back off.

Kendall suggested we go back to friends with benefits until Mr. Perfect falls into my lap.

The only issue with that suggestion, is that Mr. Perfect already did. Well, if I add analmostin there, he did.

The longer I play these games—however unintentional they may be—the longer I’m dragging out the inevitable. After I get through the 5K I’ll talk with him. That gives me two more weeks to decide if I want friends with benefits or just friends.

Iopen the doors to Boston Strong a little before eight and hang out at the reception desk until Julie arrives at eight-thirty. My staff is overworked yet they still ask me daily what they can do to help with the 5K. Thankfully, I have a handful of high school kids who are volunteering on their day off. All I have to do is make sure I have everything ready for them so they execute their jobs perfectly.

I’m only on my third email when a tall shadow fills my open doorway. I lift my gaze and can’t help the small smile that creeps onto my lips. “Walker.”

“Hey. Am I interrupting?” He steps into my office and shoves his hands in the front pockets of his charcoal-gray joggers. “Dumb question. You’ve got the 5K coming up. I’m sure you’re buried deep in work.”

My eyes fixate on his thick quads and the impressive bulge he’s packing. Damn, does he wear those joggers well.

His navy-blue Revolutions T-shirt hangs a little loose at his narrow hips but gets tighter around his chest and shoulders. The short sleeves are like tourniquets around his biceps.

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