Attending the game was interesting. Watching fans scream his name, the interactions among his team, and the coach’s reliance on Cole were enlightening beyond my expectations.
I sat in the stands with thousands of people whose hope seemed to rest on one man—Cole. I don’t know much about football. Thanks to the loud, drunk guys next to me, I learnedthat his ability to continuously move the ball down the field and score won the game.
When he walked into the waiting room, he looked ragged and tired. Today, I saw Cole Matthews—the confident, self-assured man with the whole world at his fingertips, but who lives in a small, secluded world. I want to know if that’s by choice or circumstance.
I leave my room and find Cole in the kitchen in a white T-shirt and shorts, stirring something in a large skillet. His hair is mussed, and he looks just as tired as he did earlier.
I lean against the island, catching a whiff of something sweet and tangy mixed with his fresh, clean scent. “What are you making us?”
The knots in my stomach that stitched themselves together for comfort have started to loosen over the past few days, and I’m finding it easier to converse with this man.
“Us?” One dark eyebrow arches as he turns a burner off.
“Uh, yeah. It was our deal. Plus, I’ve been busy protecting your ass. All you’ve been doing is prancing around and tossing a ball.”
This hotshot is constantly smiling, as if life is grand, and tries to tease me. It’s time he understands two can play that game, at least the teasing part.
His gaze rises from the pan to meet mine, and it’s filled with what appears to be both amusement and challenge. Those little knots wiggle free a bit more.
He points a large wooden spoon at me. “You’re only getting away with that because I’m exhausted and starving. I couldn’t wait any longer. Next game day, we’re eating out, or you’re cooking.”
I lean around him, inspecting the contents in the skillet. “What is it?”
He scoffs, opening the rice cooker. “Stir-fried chicken and vegetables.”
It actually looks amazing, and I’m surprised. Cole Matthews can cook. “Okay, new rule. You’re making all the meals.”
“Not happening. You’re up next. Get planning. I eat a lot, so you need to make more.”
I roll my eyes, and he smiles, handing me a plate. “You’re kind of a diva. Clean food and large portions.” I scoop up some rice and pile the vegetables and chicken on top. “Maybe you should go back to your gourmet meal plan catered to your exact specifications.”
I’m not the best cook. Cole didn’t complain when I made spaghetti from a jar, especially when it’s clear he knows what he’s doing in the kitchen.
He leans against the counter. “Nah, this is more fun. I enjoyed hearing the colorful language you used, trying not to burn stuff.”
I glare at him out of the corner of my eye, and that damn grin returns.
Fun? He thinks this is fun?
I might not be a chef, but I sure as hell will keep his ass safe and likely saving him thousands of dollars in the process.
“Thanks for this,” I say, grabbing a fork and heading to my room.
“You want to. . . ” Cole starts, and I stop, peeking over my shoulder at him. “I was going to watch a game if you want to. . .hang out.”
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. My nerves about this whole thing might be easing a teensy bit, but I’m not sure I’m to a place where I want to “hang out.”
“Hang out?” The two words coming out of my mouth feel a little. . .high schoolish, and some part of that makes me want to laugh. Cole Matthews, Mr. NFL himself, asked me if I wanted to “hang out.”
His gaze dips to his plate, and if I weren’t excellent at reading people, I’d miss the shyness that lies beneath. “Yeah.”
Maybe Cole and I aren’t so different when it comes to social awkwardness.
I let the internal debate commence. I could watch the game with Cole or go to my room and sit in silence while I research. It’d compromise my work mode, where I don’t have to converse or risk being asked to reveal something personal.
He carries his plate to the couch while I wait for the results ofhanging outwith Cole.
After a moment, my shoulders sag, and I follow him, tucking myself into the opposite end of the couch. He turns on a football game and starts eating as if this is our routine—the two of us having dinner and watching TV. If the girls knew about this, they’d need a picture to believe it, but my phone is already blowing up with their dramatics.
