Page 118 of Face Off
“I, for one, am all for the cleavage. In fact, I think there should be more of it. Better yet, take the whole thing off. Preferably in my bedroom.”
She smiles at me. There are four hundred people are here, and she’s picking me to give out her smiles to.
I’m the luckiest bastard in this room.
“I appreciate your commitment to the cause.” Emerson takes a bite of a chicken tender and sighs. “It’s exhausting. Being a professional athlete is hard enough, but then there are comments under every one of my posts criticizing me. Why am I wearing makeup? Who let me leave the house in that outfit?How many guys on the team have I fucked? There aren’t any of those comments under your photos.”
I grab the leg of her chair and drag her closer to me. Our thighs press together, and I don’t bother to pull away. I want her right here.
“I’m sorry you have to go through that, and I’m sorry for joking about something that’s not funny. I had no idea that was happening, and it’s bullshit that people even say that kind of stuff in the first place. You’re a role model no matter what you wear. Look at the arenas—not just ours, but the ones on the road too. Hundreds of girls are wearing your jersey. They look up to you because of how good of an athlete you are, but also because you’re a kind person who goes out of her way to show her appreciation for the fans who show up for her. Take tonight. You talked with Rachel for twenty minutes and made her whole year when you could’ve been schmoozing with the rich guys who help pay our paychecks. What you wear on the outside isn’t going to change what’s on the inside, and that’s a beautiful woman.”
“Wow,” she says, and I’m surprised when she reaches over and laces her fingers through mine. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m not just saying that so I can slip my hand under your dress later.”
“You can, by the way.”
“Oh, I’m planning on it. I’m going to lose my mind otherwise. But I’d say the same thing even if I didn’t get to bury my head between your legs. I mean it, Emmy. Every word.”
“I like when you call me that,” she whispers. “I like when you call me Red and Hartwell, but I also really like when you call me Emmy too. It doesn’t sound the same compared to whenever anyone else uses my name.”
“Yeah?” I swallow thickly, the tension between us slowly climbing. It’s taking everything in me not to pull her into my lapand kiss her senseless, but I settle for resting our joined hands on her thigh. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”
It’s fucking reckless to be out in the open and acting like this, to be touching her and drawing circles on her knee, but I want her to know she’s perfect. That she could show up to games in a burlap sack and I’d still think she’s the most incredible person.
I’ve been thinking about it more and more lately, and it’s confusing me.
I know why I’m sexually attracted to her; there’s her sarcasm and that dry wit. Her quick one-liners and how easily she makes me laugh. The softness she shows when she lets her guard down and the way her eyes light up when something makes her happy.
I just don’t understand why I’m not bored of it yet.
I’ve always found it hard to stay interested in one person. I get antsy. My attention wavers after a few hours, and I’m ready to move on. I’ve been with plenty of women who are kind and sweet and funny. They check all the boxes other men are looking for, and I’ve never cared.
I care with Emerson, though.
I care a whole lot, and I don’t know what the fuck that means.
“Are you okay?” She squeezes my hand and looks at me. “You disappeared there.”
“Sorry. I was lost in my thoughts for a minute.”
“Were they good thoughts?”
I look at her with her pretty dress and pretty make up, the twinkle in her eye and the half smile on her lips. “I was thinking about you.” I swallow. “They were the best thoughts.”
She touches my cheek, and her smile grows to a beam. “I’m glad.”
“Do you want to dance?”
“To Justin Bieber? Is that even possible?”
“Anything is possible if you believe.” I stand up and tug her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
“Hang on.” She holds onto my shoulder and kicks off her heels. “Those were killing me. I have a blister on my pinky toe that’s going to hurt when I wear my skates tomorrow.”
I drop her hand as we walk through the crowd, but I can feel the heat of her body behind me.
Just as we make our way onto the dance floor, the song turns slower. Emerson purses her lips and lifts an eyebrow.
