Page 25 of Just a Football Star

By the time the server brings us our dishes, Oakley’s fidgeting.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

She cuts into her steak. “Yeah. I’m just stressed.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do? Because if you’d rather get a job with another team, I can promise you I’ll do anything you need me to do to help. I can call up anyone you might need.” I shake my head. “I know I’m out of the loop with the NFL right now, but I definitely want to try. If you want to try.”

If she says no, she might work here at the resort.

She puts down her silverware, crosses one arm over her middle and the other hand she brings up to her face to massage her forehead. “I don’t know if I’m ready to get back into the industry yet. I don’t know what the Bordy’s might do. Maybe I’ll take your brothers up on their offer, just while I figure out all the legal stuff.”

“I’m…well, I’m really glad to hear that.” My hearts starts thrumming hard in my chest. “Are you sure?”

She gives a weak smile. “I don’t know if I have any other choice. My financial situation being what it is, I need income soon. It’s not like the Wolves offered me a severance package.” Her snort comes with a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I think Tate International will be lucky to have you, Oakley. I’m excited you’re staying.”

“Well, I have to fly back tomorrow and move out of my apartment. Put up my lease and hope someone takes it.” She shakes her head. “It’s a lot. But it will be nice for me to be away from the Wolves’ culture for a while, you know? I loved my work with the players, but there’s a lot that goes on behind the scenes.”

She’s staying. Or rather, coming back after she figures everything out back home. “You really want to do this?”

She rests her head in her hands. “You seem unsure about it.”

“No. I just want you to be sure. That’s all.”

She straightens from the table. “I am. It might be nice to clear my head here. And your brothers were saying they’d like this place to be a nice getaway to help injured athletes. They’d love to market towards that demographic.” She chews on her lip, her gaze on the tablecloth.

I feel like this plan of my brothers has something to do with me. Like I’m the elephant in the room that everyone is trying to tiptoe around.

“Tell it to me straight.” She looks back up at me, her green eyes searching mine. “Did you know anything about this job offer?”

“No. Sebastian asked me about your job back home and I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much. He’d told me they wanted to expand the amenities and make me some sort of director over activities. He’s trying to figure out ways to attract people to the resort. But I had no idea they’d ask you.” I don’t tell her that Oliver teased me about how all it took was a beautiful woman for me to start taking care of my knee again. I pause, trying to control my thoughts around this sudden focus on injured athletes.

“They just told me that they hadn’t wanted to say anything to you yet, but that they knew you’d be happy.” A smile plays about her lips, and she reaches out and walks her fingertips along my wrist. “Are you?”

Her touch is better than any steak Lionel could grill up. “Happy that you’ll be around longer? Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Oakley lifts her fingers from my hand when the waiter returns and refills our water glasses. I’m distracted by the look on her face as she takes a bite of the meat, and I can’t decide which sensation I’m more drawn to: her fingertips on my skin or watching her eat something she loves.

“Mmmm, so tender and buttery,” she says with a moan, her eyes fluttering closed.

“All my favorite foods are tender and buttery,” I say. This garners a laugh, and she opens her green eyes. They sear into mine.

I think I’m going to like having her around.

Chapter 13

Oakley

I need a shower, as the hair piled on my head in a messy bun can attest. And it’s not one of those cute messy buns—where its disarray is charming. It’s only messy because of the mixture ofI’ll wash my hair again somedayandstep off, I don’t give a careI’ve got going on here.

A quick survey of the boxes stacked near the door of my apartment and the carpet marks from where my living room furniture sat for months tells me I’m well on my way to being all moved out.

Is this even real?

My week at home feels like I’ve been dropped inside someone else’s life. Like I’m on a Japanese home decluttering reality show and I don’t speak the language or know what I’m doing, but for some reason, I have to go in someone else’s apartment, pack up all their stuff, sign a bunch of papers, and walk out the door.

It still doesn’t compute that I’m suddenly several thousand dollars poorer, thanks to my boyfriend who stole money from my savings account so he could ride the wave of sports gambling.

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