TJ pulls into the driveway of a modest little cottage. It’s not even a five-minute drive from the stadium. The cool thing about the River Foxes, which I learned in all the research I conducted this past week, is that the stadium was literally built in the middle of a bunch of neighborhoods. Green Bay is small in comparison to other NFL cities. Most of the people living in these homes have owned them for years. They’re diehard fans. They rent out their lawns for people to park in on game days. The house next door to TJ’s has siding that’s River Foxes-navy blue, with trim painted periwinkle, and an orange front door. The awning over the porch has the River Foxes logo painted onto the metal roofing.
I angle my car into the driveway behind TJ. I’m grateful for the darkness. I imagine a couple hours ago these streets were packed with gamegoers leaving the stadium after an exciting win. Now, the neighborhood feels mostly deserted.
TJ emerges from the garage and waves me toward a back entrance. I hurry forward and wait on his stoop while he unlocks the door. I dart a glance around the backyard, startling when I hear soft clucking sounds.
“Easy, ladies, it’s me,” TJcoos.
I flip my gaze to him. He’s silhouetted in the porch light, his eyes focused on the back part of the yard. He must catch my confused expression, because he gives a slight shrug. “My chickens.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come.
TJ pushes the door open and enters the house first, flipping on the lights. I take a careful step over the threshold. Maybe I should be nervous, being in a strange house with a man I don’t know, on what feels like a desolate street, but I’m … not.
Huh.
I felt completely taken care of by TJ last weekend, and that feeling hasn’t gone away.
“I’m going to use the bathroom real quick.” He tosses his keys in a small ceramic dish on the counter. “Make yourself at home.”
TJ disappears, and I stand frozen in place, my gaze trained on that dish. It looks hand-painted, and it’s so unexpected that I don’t know what to do with myself. This entire house is that way.
I will be the first to admit I had formed an opinion of TJ Wilson based on the copious amount of internet stalking—I mean research—I’ve done on him in the past week. I figured he’d live in some fancy condo or mega mansion with high security and modern finishes and an at-home gym. We’ve all seen the man’s muscles.
Instead, he lives here. In a small Cape Cod, in a neighborhood that’s a stone’s throw away from the stadium, with painted ceramic pottery and—I look around—a comfy, worn-in couch and a faded brown recliner. The TV hanging on the wall looks big and new, but otherwise, the room may as well have been plucked from the nineties. I look to my left, through the doorway that leads to the kitchen. The décor is similarly vintage with a wallpaper border on the soffits that’s evergreen and cranberry. The cabinets are honey oak, and there’s a painting on a wooden board behind the stove that readsLive, Laugh, Love.
It’s so kitschy, it’s cute. It’s even cuter to think that TJ comes home to this humble little abode every night.
My eyes roam back over the living room, hungry for all the details. There’s a canvas propped up on one of the shelves on the far side of the TV. It looks like a really bad painting of TJ himself. There’s a basket of controllers for every gaming system imaginable tucked under the TV, and a sad-looking fake Christmas tree wedged on a table in the corner like an afterthought.
I slide my shoes off as TJ emerges from the bathroom and smiles at me. He looks like a giant in this tiny house, his head almost grazing the ceiling.
“I’m going to fire up the grill for the chicken, but can I get you anything to drink before I head back outside?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” I trail him into the kitchen. “You really don’t need to do anything extra for me. You don’t owe me anything.”
He opens a drawer and retrieves a corkscrew before meeting my gaze. “So you’ve said.”
He reaches for a bottle of wine sitting on the back of the counter. He deftly uncorks it and pours two glasses. He slides one over to me before removing the marinating chicken from his fridge, navigating the kitchen with ease.
This was not in my research. This domestic version of TJ … it’s throwing me off.
“You’re staring at me,” TJ says, pausing with the chicken in hand, a small smile curling the corners of his lips. I’ve dreamt about those lips. About how close they got to mine when he leaned in on Friday night. I can honestly say I haven’t thought too much about not being kissed. But that all changed this past week. Everything changed this past week, and TJ Wilson is to blame.
I shake my head once, clearing the vision that’s formed of him cradling my cheeks and drawing my mouth to his.
“Sorry.” My voice is weird and squeaky, so I clear my throat. “This is great. I just … I didn’t know what to expect, and yeah. This is really nice.” I wave my hand around the kitchen. “Can I help with anything?”
“There are a couple bags of salad in the crisper. Nothing fancy, but you can toss those together if you want. I’ll be back in a second.” He passes me on his way back out the door. He smells good. I noticed it at the stadium, too. Whatever he uses for shampoo and body wash is decidedly woodsy.
I make quick work of putting the salad together, finding a mixing bowl in the bottom cabinet and dumping everything inside. I stick it back in the fridge and wander into the living room again, crossing to the shelves to get a closer look at the painted portrait of TJ. He’s got a couple other pictures in frames on the far side of the bookcase too. One is of a couple in their mid-twenties. The guy looks so much like TJ. His parents, I’m guessing. There’s another photo of TJ with an older couple and one of a beautiful young woman. She’s got jet black hair and bright blue eyes. She’s not looking at the camera, but she’s got her hands raised above her head and she’s laughing. The background is blurry, but it looks like she’s dancing somewhere. Maybe a bar? Her halter top shirt and cutoff shorts make me shiver, given the current temps outside, and I tug on the strings of my sweatshirt’s hood, feeling like I’m intruding on TJ’s personal space. I abruptly turn my back on the picture frames when I hear the door rattle.
“It’s freezing out there.” He sets down the now-empty glass container and rubs his hands together. I squint at him, and he catches my gaze. “What?”
“Didn’t you just spend three hours playing football in short sleeves?”
“That’s different. The adrenaline makes it so I don’t feel the cold.” He pauses and stares at me for a beat before his mouth splits into a grin. “You watched me play?”
I shift my weight. “I did.”
