Page 64 of Mad Rivals
I note that Margot is most definitely a female name. So either she’s the best choice, which is logically a possibility, or he doesn’t want me working with another man.
Sort of like I didn’t want to hand the project off to Sara.
Is Margot pretty? I want to ask. I don’t. I’m not ready to show my insecurities to him, and it’s a petty thought to have anyway. It doesn’t matter. He’s not makingherbreakfast this morning.
“My trip to San Diego this weekend is to pick out a place to live while I’m playing there,” he says.
“Are you renting?” I ask.
He nods, and his brows dip together. “Would you want to come with me and help me decide where to live?”
I physically reel back a little in my seat at his surprising question.
“No, forget it. Sorry. It’s too soon to be asking questions like that.” He shakes his head and turns back toward the food, and we’re both quiet for a few beats as he cracks some eggs into a bowl. “You hated me until last night. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I didn’t hate you,” I say softly. Silence moves between us, and it turns nearly awkward when I finally break it. “What if I was about to say I’d love to?”
His head whips up, and his eyes meet mine. “Were you? I mean…canyou?”
I shrug. “Why not? I can check out the LA office while I’m there.” And we can have loads of that addictive sex, though I refrain from actually mentioning that.
He stares at me as we both consider it, and eventually the sausage starts to scream and sizzle in the pan, so he turns his attention back to it. And then, to my total shock, as he stares at the sausage, he says, “I’d love that.”
And I melt just a little more as I find myself attaching to someone I’m not supposed to, scrambling me just a little more.
His phone starts to ring, and he answers it. He listens for a second, and then he says, “Yeah, you can send it up.”
I don’t ask because it isn’t my business, but a few minutes later, there’s a knock at his door, and he comes back carrying a fairly large box.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“A welcome package from the Storm.”
“That was nice of them.”
“It’s pretty standard.” He sets it on his counter, and he gets back to cooking.
“Don’t you want to open it?”
He shrugs. “Not really.”
“You didn’t want this trade,” I muse.
“I didn’t. Not really. But it’s my reality. I like the guys in San Diego, and eventually it’ll be home.” He clears his throat. “You can open it while I finish up breakfast if you want.” He pulls a box cutter out of a drawer and sets it on the counter for me, and I grab it and slice the box open.
I open it and find a note on top. I pull it out and hand that to Madden since it might be personal, and then I pull out a Storm baseball cap, joggers, a sweatshirt, a bunch of T-shirts, some other gear, and finally, at the very bottom of the box, a jersey.
I pull it out and hold it up. “Bradley eighty,” I read off the back. He glances over at me, and he lets out a small breath. “Try it on,” I say quietly.
He sighs, but then he turns off the burners and relents. He pulls his shirt over his head, and I allow my eyes to fall on those sweet abs of his. I hand him the jersey, and he pulls it over his shoulders.
It falls into place, and I stare.
I gawk.
I swoon.
I get even more scrambled.
