Between snaps, in the huddle, even in those long seconds when I’m crouched on the line waiting for the ball, I keep wondering if Jesse’s watching. He said he would.
It’s stupid and distracting, but I can’t shake the thought of him somewhere with a TV tuned into the game, green eyes fixed on the screen.On me.
After the post-game handshakes and locker room chaos, we shuffle through the after-game obligations. I don’t usually talk to the press, but I hang back longer than I normally do, standing in the background of Monty’s sideline interview. I get a once-over by the trainers due to a hard tackle in the third quarter, but I’m fine. The coaches pull us in for a quick post-game congratulatory talk, and then we head for showers. Several of my teammates have more press obligations before we head outfor dinner, where half the team orders enough food to feed an entire army. By the time we get back to the hotel, it’s after nine and my body feels like I’ve been hit by a truck.
My phone buzzes while I’m peeling off my suit jacket.
Ghost: Congrats on the win. You were a beast out there.
A grin tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. I thumb back a quickthanks, hit send–and nearly drop the phone when it immediately lights up with his name.Jesse’s calling me?
“Hey,” I answer, my voice rough.
“Hey yourself,” he says. His tone is warm, teasing. “It sounds quiet where you are, I’d assumed you’d be out celebrating.”
“I’m just getting in after the team dinner.”
“Where are you headed to next?”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “My bed,” I grumble. “I’m in for the night.”
There’s a pause. “Isn’t it only eight o’clock where you are?”
“It’s after nine,” I correct him, amused. I lean against the desk and pull my feet out of my shoes.
“It’s still early. Are you sick?” He sounds legitimately worried.
“No, why?”
“I just expected you’d be out celebrating with the guys from your team. Or is that not a thing for football players?”
“It depends on what else we have going on, but a few usually go out. It’s not really my thing.”
“So the great Luc Martín is a homebody? Or are you just not a people person?”
“Little column A, little column B.”
He laughs. “So what is it you do like?”
“I like to read. And I like old camp films.”
He chuckles. “I kind of love that. It’s not what I was expecting, but also somehow isn’t surprising after only having met you twice.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Naz reads a lot too. Maybe the two of you can trade book recommendations.”
“Are you not much of a reader yourself?” I ask. It occurs to me how very normal this conversation is, and that in of itself feels strange, but this was what I wanted. We’re getting to get to know each other.
“I try,” he says. “But I’ve got the attention span of a gnat. I pick it up, get very into it, then have to put it down for whatever reason, sometimes just because I saw something shiny. Once I put it down, I forget everything and then have to start it over to remember the plot. Rinse and repeat.”
“So what do you do with your free time then? What does a famous rockstar do other than the whole sex, drugs, and rock and roll thing?” The words are out before I can stop myself. I don’t know why I said it. I guess to remind myself who I’m talking to.
“Well, true free time isn’t something I come across often, which honestly might be for the best,” he laughs. “I work on music almost constantly, no matter what I’m doing. I’m always jotting down notes of my thoughts or lyrics or even just vibes. And lately I’ve been swimming.”
“Swimming?” That body makes sense now.
“Yeah. Most hotels have pools and can be persuaded to let me use them overnight. It keeps me from climbing the walls if I can’t sleep.”
“Do you have trouble sleeping?”
“Sometimes,” he answers, but the way he says it gives me the impression he has issues more often than not.
