She gives me a look as though I’m a bit slow on the uptake. “It’s in my DNA to feed a guest. And they’re your colleagues. It’s good to bond with them. In fact, you should put out a call to all of your teammates to come.”
Pen isn’t wrong. I have been remiss in hanging out with my teammates just for fun. In college, it was different. We were in each other’s pockets all the time. By default, we basically had to be. Now it’s a job and more is on the line. But the premise remains the same: A team that bonds is a team that wins. As QB, I am the one who needs to lead that team. We’re doing all right now, but there’s always room for improvement.
I hesitate, if only because it’s Pen’s house and a lot to ask. Jan and the girls are still at Disney Land; Pen could be relaxing, not cooking for a bunch of hungry guys. But she’s looking at me expectantly. “All right. But I’m helping you cook.”
“Obviously.” She grins. “And I’m always more appreciative of those who clean afterward. That would be you I’m referring to.”
“Obviously. If anyone is getting the fruits of your appreciation, it’s going to be me.”
“Uh-huh. Make the offer, Pickle.”
I invite them over. Not everyone takes me up on the offer. But plenty do.
Falling back on college experiences, I assign them items to bring. Cooking at Pen’s place is encouraged. All too soon, the open kitchen is filled with laughing football players trying their hand at different dishes. Though the top of Pen’s head barely reaches most of their shoulders, she holds court like a queen, easily maneuvering between hulking linemen to taste something on the stove or, in one instance, watch Carter explain the nuances of his grandmama’s baked macaroni. Apparently, the secret is evaporated milk. I leave them to it.
We open the doors to outside, and a couple of us man the grill. Because we’re, as Pen tartly pointed out, well-paid athletes, we go for quality as well as quantity. Thick, marbled steaks, free-range chicken, and even a couple slabs of salmon line the grill top. Andbecausewe’re competitive athletes there is much discussion on what method is best. For the moment, we’re deferring to Jelly. Mainly because the bastard got to the grill spatula first.
Pulling together the two outdoor tables, we all manage to squeeze in and eat by the pool. Pen sits at the head of the table. Rhodes had taken her arm in his and seated her there earlier, insisting it was her spot. Happy and relaxed, her skin glows warmly in the candlelight as she laughs at something Jelly says.
It physically pains me at this point not to touch her. If only to give my hands something constructive to do, I pass along a platter of avocado salad. It’s mixed with cucumbers, chilies, and lime. I know Pen made it; she likes adding some sort of “brain” food into her meals. The fact that I recognize both her food and her thought process has an unexpected pulse of tenderness swelling in my chest.
When I meet her smiling gaze from across the table, that tenderness pushes a little deeper. I find myself rubbing the area over my heart to ease the ache. Jelly promptly asks me if I have indigestion.
After dinner, none of them want to go home, but linger around the kitchen, helping to clean up. Pen is so pleased by the way things are going, she pulls out the entire stock of ice cream she has stored. It’s cute that she thinks six pints will suffice for these guys and her eyes go wide when it disappears in about 3.5 seconds.
“I’ll restock it,” I tell her as the guys head for the den to see what’s what on TV.
“It’s okay. I didn’t mind.” Her smile is wry. “It’s just that I keep forgetting how much you all eat. It’s kind of like locusts swarming a field. Fascinating to watch.”
The curve of her jaw feels delicate when I stroke it with the tip of my finger. “Thanks for tonight, Penelope. It was a good idea.”
Velvet brown eyes lift to mine. “You don’t have to thank me.”
I know she’s thinking it’s part of our arrangement. Being trapped in a device of my own making is a humbling experience. The only thing I’ve ever had to work hard for is football. Even that isn’t a proper comparison because that was more like maintenance. If I put in the effort, concentrated on what I needed to do, I knew I’d succeed. The end goal was already there, waiting.
Here, with Pen, nothing is clear. I can misstep and lose her. I can do everything right and still lose her. Football is simple. Personal relationships are anything but.
From the depths of the den, comes Jelly’s drawling voice. “You gonna fool around in that kitchen all night, son?”
Pen startles as if caught doing something naughty. Her gaze darts to the den, then back to me. When I simply grin, she lifts a brow as if to say,Well, answer him already. I hold her gaze.
“I wish,” I call back lightly.
With a wink, I grab my glass of iced tea, take Pen’s hand, and lead her toward the den. “I know it’s going to be difficult, but try to keep your touches at least a little respectable in there, Sweets.”
She snorts eloquently. “It’ll be a struggle, but I’ll restrain myself, Pickle.”
They’ve left a spot on the long sofa facing the TV open for us, which is a surprise. Usually, I have to fight my way in. I’m guessing it’s more in deference to Pen.
She takes the corner, and I plop down next to her.
“What are we watching?” I ask.
“Nothing yet.” Rhodes has the remote and is channel surfing with typical speed.
“John Wick!” Pen perks up. “Stop there!”
Rhodes obeys, and I look at Pen.
