Waggling his brows, he said, “Trust me.”
Putting my hand in his, I stepped out of his ride, and hand in hand, we walked to the side door of the facility. Once inside, we passed several closed doors, which I assumed to be offices as we traversed a long hall. At the end of it, he opened a door to a locker room that smelled like the team might have finished working out for the day only half an hour before we arrived. I wrinkled my nose at the comingled scents of sweaty clothes, menthol, feet, and something nasty I couldn’t quite place. The benches were devoid of anyone’s gear, so the stench must be coming through the vents in the lockers lining two sides of the room and from the overflowing basket of wet towels outside the showers.
When he caught my expression, Finn said, “Damn. I should have brought you through the long way. Sorry.”
We hurried to a door opposite the one we’d entered through and stepped out into a vast space covered in lined AstroTurf. Most of the field was shrouded in darkness except for a small circle of light directly across from us. Once again, Finn’s hand rested on the small of my back as he guided me toward the circle of light. As we neared it, I saw a cooler resting beside a red-and-white gingham blanket. A raised pallet covered with a matching picnic cloth and flanked with two large cushions took up the middle of the blanket. The “table” was set for two, with china plates and actual silverware rather than paper and plastic.
“Have a seat,” he said as he settled himself beside the cooler.
I sat on the cushion he indicated and watched in fascination as he opened the cooler and started pulling containers from it. Dinner began with appetizers: a veggie tray with hummus. While I helped myself to an appetizer, Finn pulled out two bottles of chocolate stout and two frosted glasses and poured each of us a beer.
“What do you think so far?” he asked.
Though his smile said “of course you love this,” his eyes said “I hope I haven’t fucked up.”
“So far it’s a novelty.” I crunched on a carrot slathered with yummy hummus. “I’ve never eaten a picnic indoors in the winter. And I’ve always wondered what the inner sanctum of the Wildcats looked like.” Catching the panic in his eyes, I added, “This beats any picnic I’ve ever experienced. No wind to cover dinner with dust. No bugs trying to steal bites of food or of me.” I settled myself more comfortably on my cushion and smiled. “Real dishes and silverware. Cushions. And no clichés with dainty champagne flutes filled with bubbly—which, by the way, gives me a headache.” I clinked my glass of beer to his and sipped. “I had no idea what to expect, but nothing in my wildest guesses included this.”
Then, because he deserved it, I got real. “I can’t believe how much thought and effort you put into this. You promised a rocking date, and so far you’re delivering.”
“Whew.” A sigh gusted from him before he turned back to the cooler and started pulling out more food. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a little of several things.” In a few minutes, a feast covered the “table” between us. Vegetarian New Orleans sandwiches made with garlic roasted peppers and olive relish, succulent meatball skewers, asparagus and peas salad with feta and mint, homemade crackers with a smoky cheese spread, and some sort of tangy pasta salad made with penne, tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella balls. It all had my mouth watering.
“You didn’t cook all this yourself,” I teased.
“Can you keep a secret from my roommates?” he asked.
With a shrug I said, “Probably.”
His narrowed eyes said he was considering withholding his secret.
With an exasperated tilt of my head, I said, “Of course I can keep a secret.”
“I could have made all this.” He waved his hand over the meal. “It’s all food I like. But even though my mom insisted I learn to cook—and I’m good at it—I hate doing it.” He spread cheese on a cracker and popped the whole thing into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “At the house I pretend not to know how, and on my nights to make dinner, I usually pay for takeout.” He smirked. “I manage to skip a turn each week ’cause my roomies prefer homemade food.”
I laughed. “You’re incorrigible!”
He waggled his brows. “You mean smart.”
Picking up a meatball skewer from the platter of them, he bit down on the bamboo and pulled the skewer from his lips. My eyes strayed to his mouth, and I grew uncomfortably warm thinking about what it would feel like to have his perfect straight teeth gently bite down on my shoulder—or the inside of my thigh.
Averting my eyes to my own meal, I spooned salad and veggies onto my plate and added a sandwich. “How did you manage to set this up? Or can any player use this space after-hours?”
“Early on I learned to make friends with the equipment and facilities managers. They can make a player’s life all kinds of easier.” He downed two sandwiches to my one, and I understood the need for such a huge outlay for only two people. “I, uh, started planning this after you turned me down for sledding on Valentine’s Day. When I ran my idea by the facilities manager, she loved it as long as I didn’t advertise.” At my look of confusion, he clarified. “She doesn’t want the whole team setting up dates in here every weekend.”
“Of course she doesn’t. Wouldn’t want the Wildcats to get a reputation for being sweethearts.” I smirked.
“Exactly.”
Finding out he’d put so much advance planning into this evening gave me a pang. For so long I’d thought Finn to be a stereotypically shallow, egotistical football player. Instead, I was discovering he was a man of many layers, and to my shock, I wanted to peel back each one of them.
Turning sideways, I stretched my legs in front of me and sighed. “That was so good. I’m so full I don’t think I could eat another bite.”
“That’s a bummer.” He polished off one last meatball skewer and wiped his hands on the cloth napkin beside his plate.
“Why?”
“Because there’s dessert.” The happiness in his tone reminded me of a six-year-old at a birthday party anticipating cake.
Tilting my head, I blinked at him. “Seriously?”
