Page 15 of Time Out

I gave up on finding the ice pack and grabbed a bag of peas, closing the freezer door. “Not expecting anyone, Roger.”

“That’s what I told her, sir, but she’s insistent you’d want to see her.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Davis.”

“Can’t do that, Mr. Hall.”

Mr. Hall was my father, a great man. I could only hope to someday live up to half of his awesomeness. I was only twenty-three years old. I wasn’t Mr. Anything except maybe Mister-Great at running forty yards in four point two four seconds.

Thank God I chose a secure building, especially if she wasn’t a gift from a player but a fan. “What’s her name?”

“Maggie, sir.”

Maggie. It couldn’t be. And after I’d just been thinking about her? After she vanished? No way.

More memories flashed. Her plump ass in my hands while she sat on my face. Her breasts bouncing, visible in the mirror above my dresser while I took her from behind. Her mouth on my —

“You sure?”

“That’s what she says, sir.”

“She look like someone who has an ass you want bent over your kitchen table?”

We hadn’t done that, but I’d wanted it.

A cough sputtered through the line. Might have given dear old Roger a heart attack. Oops. My bad.

“Sir—“

“Davis.”

“Um. Davis. I’m not sure…”

“Just tell me, Roger. Yes or no.” Because if it was her, we had a lot to talk about.

“Uh. Well, yes, sir. If I was thirty years young and hadn’t had that hip surgery…”

Perfect. “I knew you were a dirty old man. Send her on up.”

Well, hot damn.

Merry Christmas to me, after all.

Bag of peas forgotten, I hurried to the bathroom. I’d had to dress in a suit before heading to the field this morning from the hotel the team stayed in before game nights. Lucky for me, the hotel we used for the season was only two blocks away, so it wasn’t really an inconvenience. I’d walked over to the hotel in athletic wear yesterday, my suit in a hanging bag draped over my shoulder. After I got home from the game today, I’d tossed my suit and overnight bag in my laundry room and changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and black Steel T-shirt. Our logo, a red outline of a football with flames wrapped around it, was stamped across my chest, and a quick look at my hair showed I wasn’t looking too shabby at all.

A normal guy who had a house of his own.

Sure, if normal guy meant I was the first-round draft pick, and I lived in a penthouse with my own private rooftop deck with a pool and hot tub on the thirty-eighth floor of a downtown Nashville apartment building overlooking Broadway and our stadium. But what really was normal, anyway?

When a quiet knock came from my front door, I was pacing back and forth in front of the entryway, waiting, worrying.

I’d wanted her to stay, thought about going to Franco’s, the bar she said she’d been fired from to see if they’d give me her last name and look her up on Instagram or something but hadn’t.

She’d left. We’d only agreed to one night. So why was she here…

My hand shook as I opened the door. A number one high school recruit and a first-round draft pick, and I got nervous around beautiful girls. If only the media could see that side of me—on second thought…

Nope.

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