Page 65 of The Game Plan

“I didn’t take you for an eighties movie buff.”

Dex shrugs. “The guys watch a lot of cable on the road.”

“Well, bonus points for noticing, Big Guy.”

“Mmm... And what do I get as my prize?” He rolls over, taking me with him.

Much, much later, I relax against him with a sigh. “Do you think we ever truly figure out who we are?” My voice is soft.

At my side he moves, lifting his head to rest it in the cradle of his palm. “Well, now,” he drawls, “let me see if I can helpyou out. I’m Ethan, and you are Fiona.”

“Har.” I give his chest a lazy smack. “You know what I mean. Or maybe you don’t.” I stroke the edge of his collarbone. “Idon’t think I’ve met anyone who knows their own mind as well as you do.”

He rolls his eyes, but sets his hand on my hip, caressing and edging me closer. “Babe, I hate every fucking second of gettingtatted. I hate needles with a passion, yet I get a cortisone shot after nearly every practice and game. The ones in the handsskeeve me out so badly I have to look away or risk fainting.”

At this, I take his hand in mine. It isn’t pretty: battered, swollen knuckles; scrapes and calluses; the middle finger crookinginward as if it’s been broken one too many times. A warrior’s hand.

Those long, scarred fingers wrap over my smaller ones with a gentle hold, and I lift his hand to my lips to kiss his reddenedknuckles.

Behind the veil of his lashes, he watches me do it. “I hate those things, and yet look at me. Tatted, pierced and a profootball player. Fact is I run to the pain. Part of me gets off on it. So while I might know my mind, I’ve clearly got my own issues.”

He doesn’t look embarrassed by this. No, his eyes shine in good humor. Which makes all the difference and only proves my point.He knows himself in a way I don’t know myself; I envy that.

The blunt tip of his thumb, the one with a bruised nail, brushes the crest of my cheek. “Why do you ask about knowing yourself,Fi?”

With a sigh, I fall back against the pillows and stare up at my ceiling. “I don’t want to go back to work.”

“So don’t.”

A loud snort blows through my lips. “It isn’t that simple.”

“Course it is. You’re miserable there. So leave.”

A glance his way reveals that he’s absolutely serious.

“This from a football player? I thought you guys were always about never giving up. Mental and physical endurance is key,blah, blah, blah.”

He flashes a quick smile. “Blah, blah, blah? Nice to know we players are so eloquent.” His smile falls. “You also forgot ‘Don’tplay the game unless you’re one hundred percent committed.’ Which really just means, if you don’t love it, get out. It isn’tworth the pain, otherwise.”

“If I leave, she wins.”

Dex looks at me for a moment with that stare of his that I always feel down to my bones. When he speaks, his voice is steady,thoughtful. “Winning is a subjective thing, Fi.”

“Again, I can’t believe a professional football player would say that.”

He chuckles. “If anyone is an expert on the subject of winning and losing, it’s an athlete. Last year we lost out on the NFCchampionship based on one loss. On a fucked-up foul that the refs got wrong, made a bad call. That shit burned, Fi.”

His expression stays calm, but his eyes fill with ire. “Even now, when I think about it, I want to punch something. And you better believe those fuckers on the other team taunted us without shame. Didn’t matter that they won on a technicality. Scoreboard was all they needed.”

Slowly, he reaches out and cups my jaw. “Darlin’, that shit happens all the time. I know from personal, painful experiencethat winning doesn’t necessarily make a person the best. Sometimes, it just makes them lucky.”

“Well,” I say, still full of petulance and resentment, “that bitch will get even luckier if I leave.”

“Nope. Hell, one day she might become the most successful designer in New York—”

“Not helping.”

“But it will be based on nothing but her own insecurity and lies. While you?” He leans in and gives me a soft, lingering kiss.“Have true talent and will be happily serviced by yours truly.”

---