“I’ll be safe,Dad. No texting and driving and all that. I know the drill.”
Alex growls, “I am not your dad,” bringing his hands around to my ass.
“Oh, I know that.” I smile as he leans down to kiss me softly while squeezing my bottom with his big hands. His touch makes my nipples come alive. They rub against his chest as he kisses me, and that sensation alone makes me want to climb him like a dang tree. Oh, hell’s bells. What have I become?
“I’ll text you tonight.” He smiles and winks, knowing what he’s doing to me.
“Have a great game today!” I squeak, trying to seem composed.
“If I know you’re watching me, I know I’ll have a great game.”
“I’ll be watching.”
With a quick kiss, Alex turns to go. I stare after him as he jogs to the stairs with his gym bag in hand like I’ve never seen a hot guy before. “I hope he’s not late because of me.”
Chapter Twelve
STELLA
The trip home goes too fast. I’ve been enjoying the solitude for a while. Since moving to campus, there always seems to be someone with me or at least nearby. The good part is that I can think about everything that has happened in the short time I’ve been at Northwestern. The bad thing is I can think about everything that has happened in the short time I’ve been at Northwestern. No matter, I need time to collect my thoughts and to prepare for the confrontation that I’m sure I’m about to face at home.
When I arrive at my parents’ house, I park the rental car, grab my bag, and text the car rental place to arrange a pickup time. According to our agreement, they’ll stop over and get the car tonight. Easy. Then, when I head back tomorrow, it’ll be in my old compact car, the one I’ve had since I was sixteen. Boy, it’ll be great having my own car at school. Sure, parking on campus is a hassle, just like it is parking in a city like Chicago, but it will give me some freedom that I don’t have right now. Besides, I love my little Civic. It’s the perfect car for me because it’s small and economical.
When I walk into the house, I notice that it’s quiet. “Mom? Dad?”
“In here, pumpkin,” Dad yells in response. His voice sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen. My parents’ house is amazing. The kitchen probably belongs in one of those home design magazines. Mom designed it herself, taking things she liked from all of her friends’ kitchens and from magazines and from some of those home improvement shows she loves.
Walking into the kitchen, I see Mom leaning over whispering into my dad’s ear.
“Oh, hi, Stella,” Mom says sweetly––too sweetly.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. All ready for the big barbecue?”
“Getting there,” Dad says.
“What can I do to help?”
Mom pipes up in a chipper voice, “Oh, we’re ready to go. Why don’t you go up and settle into your room and rest? You’re probably tired from your trip.”
“Uh, okay.” What the heck? Aliens must have abducted my mother and replaced her with a kinder, gentler version of Candice Matthews, because it’s bizarre that she doesn't immediately jump down my throat about Bradley nor does she tell me to get to work helping with the barbecue or to change my graphic T-shirt. I swallow the hard lump that’s now in my throat. This is going to be worse that I suspected.
“Be sure to change before dinner, though. You know I hate those T-shirts of yours,” she says.
That’s my girl. I knew my judgmental mom was in there somewhere. “Yeah, sure, Mom.” I turn, grabbing my overnight bag as I go, and walk up the grand staircase up to my old bedroom. Honestly, it’s great to be home, but dread is seeping into my bones. Once I’m in my old room, I decide to turn on the television see if Alex’s football game has started. Kickoff is at three, and it’s now two forty-five. Shoot. I forgot to ask him about his jersey number. No worries, I’ll just google it. I’vemeant to google Alex Emerson all week but never got around to it. I’d thought about it a number of times but, if I’m being honest, I was afraid what I’d find out.
Digging my phone out of my purse, I type his name into the search engine. I watch as page after page with Alex Emerson’s name begin to appear. I gasp at all of them. “It’s worse than I suspected,” I mumble to myself.
Reading through some of the information, I discover he’s number eighty-five. Not only that, he’s an all-American tight end and an All-Big 10 Academic Honoree. Not once or twice, but three times. Something I already knew was the Northwestern Wildcats have won the Big 10 championship three times in the last ten years and have gone to the Sugar Bowl once during that period. I scroll down my phone in amazement. There are so many links to articles about Alex it makes me a little lightheaded. Reading on, I see many experts are projecting Alex will go in the first round of the next NFL Draft, probably as a top fifteen selection overall because there are lots of teams looking for tight ends. That’s good. That’s what Alex wants.They aren’t the only ones; I joke to myself.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I click on a few more links, and holy crap, they estimate his first contract could net him over eight million dollars, and that doesn’t include the signing bonus. That’s amazing! I’m so happy for Alex. He’s so deserving of all of this. A tear comes to my eye when I realize…I can’t get in his way.I just can’t. I hope he really meant what he said, that I was helping him and not a distraction.
Just then I hear the television announcer say, “Number eighty-five, Alex Emerson, starting tight end.”
I look up to see him running onto the field. Holy moly, he looks amazing in his outfit. The crowd goes wild when he runs up to his teammates. I should really get a book about football so I understand some of this lingo or… I could just go pick my dad’s brain. I trek back downstairs to the family room. Sure enough, my dad’s in his usual spot, poised and ready to start yelling at the television.
“Can I watch the game with you, Dad?”
“Sure, pumpkin! I’d love that.” He gives me a broad smile like he actually likes my company.
