My tongue darts to the side of my cheek as I type out a follow-up. God, I love messing with this woman. If only she knew how serious my sentiments, wrapped up in humor, truly are.
Gage
See what we could have, Cal?
I stare at the screen as the bubbles dance along the bottom, indicating she’s typing a message. They stop. Start again. And then disappear. I wait a few moments until Pablo returns with a cold beer.
“Cheers to you, my man,” my cousin says, placing a beer in my hand and clinking the neck with his bottle.
As I sigh, disappointment rises in my chest that she doesn’t reply. I power down my phone and toss it into my backpack. “Salud,” I reply, taking a long pull.
Then, I close my eyes again.
Beside me, Pablo pulls his wife Martina into his lap and plants a loud kiss on the side of her neck. I hear her laughter, and crack an eyelid to watch as she settles back against his chest. They watch their kids, Jorge and Nico, play in the sand with my brother’s and sisters’ children.
I snap my eye shut. The voices of my family members—a comforting mixture of Spanish and English—wrap around me.
There’s the usual ribbing that occurs when my extended family gets together. Everyone’s got jokes and they’re well-timed, witty, and hilarious. There’s raucous laughter. Even with the squeals of the children, I hear my mom’s genuine giggles at whatever story one of her children is retelling. There’s a not-so-friendly volleyball game taking place between the grown-ups, aka my siblings, and their offspring. My nieces and nephews span an age range from two to eighteen years.
And as I listen to them swear and laugh and talk, I sink into a feeling that is both contentment and disappointment. I’m content because I love them all as if they were my own children and yet, I’m disappointed that I never tried to create a family. Not really.
There was football and the team and the expectations.
And…there was a woman. The woman. Callie James with her long, dark hair, flashing chocolate eyes, and perfect smile. God, she’s brilliant. She negotiated the hell out of my contract with the Coyotes. She’s fierce, shrewd, and ambitious as hell. She’s also compassionate, funny, and too damn thoughtful.
She’s the full package and because I’ve watched her go to battle for me in ways no other woman has, no other woman ever measured up.
My body relaxes as my mind travels back to one of my first interactions with Callie. I was in Miami with a few college teammates, soaking up sunshine and enjoying spring break. She was staying at our hotel, only a few years into her career, and getting a big break to support one of her agency’s tennis clients who was playing at the Miami Open.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I recall that day.
The sunshine swarms around me the second I step outside of the hotel. I gaze around the expansive property, meticulously maintained and buzzing with bodies. Women relax in sun loungers. Men huddle by the bar and tiki huts. Couples canoodle in the swimming pool, away from the squealing children splashing for their parents’ attention.
I’m early. Caleb and Sam are supposed to meet me for a midday beer and lunch before we hit the beach. But we drank heavily the night before and I imagine both of my teammates are still nursing hangovers. Hell, Sam may even still have a woman in his bed.
Stepping up to the bar, I notice a woman walking toward me. She’s dressed in a red bikini. Her curves are luscious, her full breasts nearly spilling out of the triangle cups. Her dark hair hangs down her back and curls over her shoulders, midnight black, and her hips switch when she walks. I can’t take my eyes off her and fuck, I don’t want to.
I smile broadly as she approaches the bar. She stares back, meeting my eyes and giving nothing else away.
“What are you drinking?” I ask, wanting to buy her a drink.
She bites the corner of her mouth, looking me up and down. “Are you old enough to order at the bar?”
I laugh, liking her directness. “Turned twenty-two in February,” I confirm.
Her expression softens at that, and she smiles back. “In that case, a margarita on the rocks. Salted rim.”
“You got it.” I flag down the bartender and place an order for a draft beer and a margarita.
“Are you here on spring break?” I ask.
Her smile grows and she shakes her head. “I’m too old for spring break. I graduated six years ago.”
Damn, I figured she was my age, maybe a year older. Still, her gentle way of shutting me down doesn’t deter me. If anything, my curiosity grows.
“So, just vacation then?” I press.
She studies me for a beat, before coming to a decision. “I’m actually here for work.”
