Page 7 of Love, Maybe (baby?) (The Lucky Girls 2)

“This isn’t punishment,” I laugh. “I love training. Why do you think I come to the session in training clothes and not in the suit I wear in the office?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Mason says. “You like the training part. I mean, why are you doing this to yourself—as in, why do you keep your toes in the water when you know you’re not allowed to swim?”

I get what he’s saying. And I guess he’s right. I wanted to be a pro player so fucking bad, I sacrificed everything for it. The girl, the scholarship in LA, everything. I was the high school football star; I went to college in Miami with my best friend Brett. We had it all planned out—we would both get drafted, make it big, and be set for life.

That was before I fucked up my back in a game and damaged my spine. Before I even fucking graduated. If I ever get tackled again, I could be paralyzed. I can’t afford to take that chance—I’d rather be on the side of the field than in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. It was a mistake but it cost me my career.

My dreams went down the fucking drain just like that.

I should be happy I can still walk. And damn it, I am. I just feel pathetic that I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t hold my own. How many guys get rammed, trampled, and pummeled to a pulp when they play? And they keep going every day. But no, Noah Spencer is the one who gets fucked up like a pussy.

I changed majors after that, studied to be a general manager, and got the first job I applied for. They wanted someone with experience, but someone gave me a chance and I proved myself right from the start.

Now, here I am, training with a team I can never play on, watching games I’ll never be a part of, and I had to make peace with the fact that I didn’t make it.

But it’s not all bad. I was miserable about it once upon a time—I went through pretty dark days. But since then, I’ve fallen in love with my job and I’m still in the loop. I still get to be a part of the football world. I didn’t see it at first, but I’m a lucky son of a bitch.

“What are you talking about?” I ask with a grin. “I’m here for your sunny personality.”

Mason laughs. “Fuck you, man.”

We continue our run around the field until the five rounds are up. The guys banter back and forth, and I love the team spirit. When I stand next to Rooster again, breathing hard, he glances sidelong at me.

“I can make them run another few rounds if you want,” he offers.

“It’s fine; let the poor guys rest,” I say with a grin. “Let’s not give them a reason to shift their hatred from you to me.”

Rooster chuckles and he lets the guys finish up and get showered.

I met Roosevelt Compton when I started working with the New York Stags. He comes from old money, but he doesn’t care about shit like the elite parties and saving face in front of the cameras. He’s never cared about the celebrity life—he loves being a coach, and that’s what he’s set on. Rooster is a stand-up guy. If you don’t know how stinking rich he is, you’d never guess it. He’s solid, reliable, and down-to-earth. If there’s anyone I’d call in a pinch, it would be him. He’s just as great to go out with for a couple of drinks.

“So, what are you up to tonight?” Rooster asks. “Which girl are you planning on wooing?”

“Do people even say that anymore?” I ask.

We walk into the training center and Rooster grabs two energy drinks for us from a fridge. He tosses one to me and cracks his open. I do the same and we drink.

“I’m not seeing anyone right now,” I say.

“That’s unlike you.”

I shrug. I usually have a woman on my arm, it’s true. I don’t like dating long-term—it’s just not for me. I like my freedom; I love doing whatever I want without having to answer to someone. But having someone to keep my bed warm for at least one night is a part of the game. No one wants to be lonely, so I make sure I’m not.

At least, not physically.

Emotionally, it’s a different story.

But since I saw Raven again, it’s like I’ve lost my appetite for other women. I can have my pick—New York has more than enough women who are willing to spend the night with me. And at least half of them get it when I tell them I don’t want to see them again. The other half…well, if I don’t call them back, they get the picture in the end.

I don’t remember the last time I spent Valentine’s evening alone. But this week, everything is different. I just can’t stop thinking about her. It’s different than the first time we were together. That night in college—six years ago, now—we had something for sure. She was different than the rest of them. There was major chemistry.

We were friends in college. Different crowds, but we rubbed shoulders now and then, and she’s always been the type of woman no one forgets after they meet her the first time. She could be full of shit, though. She thought I was a piece of shit. She didn’t say it in so many words, of course, but guys don’t miss when a woman looks down their nose at them.

Still, we got drunk together and ended up in bed. We had an attraction nothing could beat. Staying away from her—even if she thought I wasn’t the kind of person to hang out with long-term—was impossible back then, too.

I should have been better. But I’d been a dumb fuck in college, only chasing ass, seeing where I could bury my dick and how quickly I could cycle through women. After all, not sharing a package like mine would be a sin.

But I wasn’t in a good space back then. I’d graduated, but I hadn’t been able to celebrate because it wasn’t the life I’d wanted. And there was no way I could give a woman like Raven the life she deserved. The life Ithoughtshe deserved. Not with the job I’d decided I was going to do, and not for a woman like her, who deserved the sun, the moon, and the stars. And with someone who wasn’t a meathead like me.

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