“Exactly like poker tells,” I say, surprised and impressed.
She takes another bite of ice cream, then points her spoon at me. “So, what’s your tell?”
The question catches me off guard. “My what?”
“Your tell.” Her eyes meet mine, warm and curious. “If that guy has one, then every quarterback must have one. So what’s yours?”
I lean back against the couch, considering her question. No one’s ever asked me that before. Not directly anyway. “I used to drop my left shoulder slightly before deep throws. Worked on it for months to fix it.”
“And now?”
“Now I make damn sure defenders can’t read me.”
“So, what you’re saying is football is not only a game of tag, but also psychological warfare.”
“Yeah, actually,” I say, amused by her insight. “It’s as much mental as physical.”
She shifts on the couch, closing the gap between us without seeming to realize it. Her knee brushes against mine, and I force myself to stay perfectly still, like she’s a wild animal that might spook if I move too suddenly.
“What about you?” she asks, turning her gaze on me. “Are you good at the mind games?”
I laugh softly. “On the field, I’d liketo think so. Though every defensive coordinator in the league would probably tell you otherwise. It’s all about keeping them guessing,” I reply, watching her eyes narrow as she considers this. “The best quarterbacks make defenders think they know what’s coming, then do something completely different.”
Sutton takes another slow bite of ice cream, her spoon lingering between her lips longer than necessary. My mouth goes dry watching her.
“So, you’re saying you’re good at…misdirection?” she asks, her voice dropping slightly.
“When I need to be.”
She shifts again, her knee touching my thigh. The warmth of her leg against mine sends a current straight through my body.
“Show me,” she challenges, her eyes locked on mine.
I raise an eyebrow. “Show you what?”
“A quarterback fake. Something to make me think you’re going one way when you’re actually going another.”
I set my bowl on the coffee table, turning to face her properly. “You want me to demonstrate a play fake? Right here on my couch?”
“Unless you’re not as good as you think you are,” she teases, the corner of her mouth lifting in that way that drives me crazy.
“I’d hate to disappoint,” I say with a smile, setting my spoon in the bowl and shifting my weight slightly. I study her face—those deep brown eyes challenging me, that little half-smile that makes my pulse quicken.
“I’m waiting,” she says, her voice low and teasing. She’s still holding her ice cream, but her attention is completely on me now.
I lean forward slowly, my gaze dropping deliberately to her lips just long enough for her to catch it. Her breath hitches, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound that sends electricity down myspine. I see her lips part slightly in anticipation, the bottom one fuller than the top, glistening where her tongue has just moistened it. The faint scent of mint chocolate clings to her breath.
Fuck, I could kiss her.
I want to kiss her.
Her lips are right there, looking all soft and sweet, the corners still turned up in that half-smile that drives me crazy, a smudge of pink lipgloss worn away in the center. But she asked for this fake out so in one smooth motion, I pivot and reach past her to grab the remote from the armrest. The movement brings us chest to chest for a heartbeat, my face inches from hers, close enough to feel the warmth of her exhale against my jaw and count each dark eyelash framing those wide brown eyes.
“Misdirection,” I whisper, so close I can smell the vanilla in her hair.
Her eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating as she catches her breath. “That’s…effective.”
Neither of us moves. The remote hangs forgotten in my hand as we hover in this moment, suspended between friendship and something much more dangerous. Thunder rumbles outside, and the sound seems to vibrate through my chest.
