Page 12 of Offside

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “And what do you know about him?”

Ballas looks like he’s about to say something but shakes his head instead. “Nothing, I guess.”

“When was the last time you ever sent an apology bouquet to a woman?”

He merely shrugs a shoulder and mumbles, “Never sent a bouquet to anyone before, period. You’re the first woman I ever had to apol...” His words linger in the air between us, much like the overwhelming fragrance of the floral arrangement. “Forget it.”

His statement floors me and I want badly to follow it up with additional questions about his past dating history and personal life. Instead, I remember what I came down here for, and it wasn’t to be grilled by Ballas or to interrogate him.

“That’s what I thought,” I answer shortly. “For someone who by his own admission doesn’t do relationships or feel the need to send a woman flowers, you sure have a lot to say about the whole process.”

With a smack of his palm, he places his hand above my head, and with a deliberately casual move, whisks the vase from my grip in the other hand. Then he leans forward, his mouth hovering within inches of mine. I swallow hard.

In a controlled voice, he says, “Maybe I’m just curious about your love life, Miss Spurlock.”

He winks and pulls away, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm out into the parking lot toward the dumpsters in the back. I brush past him, empty-handed, as he follows me toward the bins.

“I don’t need your input on my love life, Ballas,” I grouse over my shoulder at him. I want to add,you gave up that privilege months ago,but I bite my tongue and take the high road—something he clearly can’t do.

When I get to the large commercial dumpster, I swing around in front of him and grab for the vase, jockeying for the stupid flowers that are just going to be thrown away in the trash. Ballas has gotten my emotions all stirred up. Why does he fluster me so much? Why can’t I just act normal around him instead of feeling this mix of sexual heat and frustration?

When I clasp my fingers around the vase, they graze over his knuckles, and the heat of his skin radiates through my hand and up my arm. My breath catches and I tamp down that zap of chemical reaction, staring him down with a steely gaze. “All I need from you, Ballas, is for you to help the team win games this season. That’s it.”

Ballas shrugs and then lifts the container lid, motioning with his chin toward it.

“Let ‘er rip, Karis,” he encourages with a wink, “and remind me never to buy you flowers.”

I throw the vase and its entire contents into the bin and fight down a grin when I hear it shatter into pieces with a satisfying crash.

Wiping my hands, I spin on my heels and head toward the building entrance.

“Contrary to popular belief,” I say over my shoulder as he watches me walk away from him, “A woman doesn’t need a man to buy her flowers. She just needs him to treat her right.”

And stick around when we need you.

5

Ballas

“That’s it, man. Ten more. You got this, B.”

Roland, the team’s head trainer, counts out reps for me, encouraging me along as he’s done countless times before and pushing me when I fall behind.

Which seems to be happening more and more these days, especially this morning because my mind isn’t in this weight room with me.

It’s stuck on that conversation with Karis earlier in the parking garage and the way I behaved toward her. I acted like a complete and utter asshole.

I have two theories on why that is, which I happened to ruminate on over the entire summer.

The first is that I can’t come to terms with my age and where I’m at in my career. It seems like just yesterday that I was a twenty-four-year-old elite D-man, being touted as the best in the league, strutting around like a cocky player.

And look at me now? Sweat dripping into my eyes and mouth, heaving for breath with the salty taste sticking on my tongue like a bad omen.

I stop after eight reps, wheezing like a longtime smoker, as I conjure up the image of Karis as she walked away from me earlier.

That was as painful for me as this last set of dead lifts. Truth be told, she consumed my thoughts all goddamn summer, no matter where I was, what I was doing, or who I was doing them with. It pissed me off that I couldn’t get her out of my head. Which is probably why I was such a dick to her this morning.

I’m just racking up the tally for apologies owed, aren’t I?

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