Page 51 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“From the contractors?” Jacob’s voice is low. Confused. Like he wasn’t expecting my answer at all.
I chuckle—quietly so I don’t wake the baby. “Both of them are in their fifties and married. Definitely not.”
I push off the couch and head to the nursery before I do something I’ll instantly regret, like laugh too loudly and end up with a grumpy Luna in my arms.
“I’m referring to the hot doctor who owns the vet clinic and that house undergoing renovations. More like resuscitation. That poor woman got the money pit.”
There’s another pause. Then Jacob groans. “So, you hijacked your entire offseason brand for a crush?”
I smirk. “Nah. I hijacked my entire offseason brand to win her. It’s just a small challenge before I have to return to playing the game and being me. Win the doctor, then go back to my life.”
Jacob exhales so hard that it sounds as though he’s actively aging. “If that’s your reasoning, stay away from her. We know you’re not exactly skilled in relationships.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, here we go—I don’t?—”
“You want me to remind you what happened last time? You almost lost everything you owned,” he reminds me.
I scoff. “Nothing happened. Because even when I was about to do a reckless thing, you made sure I didn’t lose my shirt.”
“Your parents are still mad at me,” he huffs. “If I knew what you were doing, I would’ve told them.”
I could hit him with the agent-client confidentiality agreement—but instead, I simply smirk and say, “Thank fuck you’re not a snitch.”
Jacob ignores that. “This time, I’m the one saying walk away before you do something you’ll regret.”
I pause in the doorway, hand braced against the frame. “I wouldn’t do anything questionable.”
Jacob snorts. “Luc, you only do reckless things. Should I send you the videos where your pretty face is pumping the local contractors?”
“This is just for funsies.” I keep my voice casual, but it feels . . . forced. Hollow. “I need a friend I can . . . you know. Hang out with, fuck when we’re both horny. My life is fucking lonely, Jacob. According to you and my publicist, I can’t be out here fucking around with any willing body because of some image I have to maintain.”
“Maybe you should start going to therapy.”
I blink. “What do I need that for?”
Jacob sighs, the kind that indicates he’s been waiting for me to ask that question. “Ingrid left you too fucking jaded.”
My jaw tics.
Not this conversation.
“Not every woman you meet is planning to become a football player’s wife, Luc.” His voice is now softer, less exasperated, and more concerned. “Some might genuinely want to get to know you. Might actually want to fall in love with you.”
I let out a slow breath. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Because it could’ve been like that. If I had met someone before . . . Before I became Lucian fucking Crawford. Before, my name was on jerseys. Before, my bank account had enough zeros to make people act differently.
But now?
Now they just see what I can do for them.
They see the house, the money, the fucking status.
They don’t see me.
She didn’t fucking see me, only cared about who I was becoming.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, shaking off the past before it can settle in my chest like a fucking rock.
