“Ask him about the third-quarter adjustment,” I say, my mouth twitching into a smile. “And, Sam? Ask him about his endurance. He looked a little slow off the line in the first half.”
Sam laughs and shoots me a wink, sliding in her earpiece as she strides out to the middle of the turf, flagging down Aston as he walks toward the tunnel.
I stay back, positioned directly behind the camera operator, my arms crossed over my chest. Aston sees Sam approaching, his helmet gripped in his hand, his dirty-blond hair looking darker from sweat and sticking to his forehead. He smiles politely, but his eyes look over her shoulder, landing squarely on me standing behind the camera.
His expression shifts, a subtle, knowing smirk playing on his lips as Sam steps up to him and the red light on the camera goes live.
“I’m here with defensive end Aston Griffith, who practically lived in the Bulls’ backfield tonight,” Sam says, her voice projecting perfectly. “Aston, a spectacular finish, but in the first half, you looked a little slow off the line. Were you struggling with endurance, or were you just saving all your best stuff for the second half?”
The question is a beautifully veiled dig, and I see the exact moment Aston registers it.
He lets out a low, rough laugh, his eyes never leaving mine, even as he addresses Sam. “Sam, great to see you. To answer your question, sometimes, you start a little slower than you want to, but it’s all about how you finish,” Aston says, his voice smooth, laced with double meaning that makes my cheeks burn. “I can assure you, my endurance is just fine. I’ve got plenty of gas left in the tank for whatever comes next.”
“Spoken like a true MVP,” Sam shoots back without missing a beat.
She continues with the interview before wrapping it up with her signature sign-off, and then the director cuts back to the main desk.
The second we’re off the air, Sam turns to me, giving me a subtle wink. Then the stadium’s PR representative pulls her away to track down Liam so she can ask him a few questions before leading him over to the broadcasting table, where the team of veteran players take over.
The camera operator begins wrapping the cables, leaving a clearing in the middle of the field. I turn around to pack up my gear, expecting Aston to head into the tunnel with the rest of his team.
“A little slow off the line, huh?”
I pause, sliding my pen into my pocket before turning around. Aston stands there, his massive frame, especially in his pads, towering over me, smelling of sweat and copper, which means he’s probably bleeding from somewhere.
Not that I care.
He has a white towel slung around his neck now, and up close, his eyes are a piercing, exhausted-looking shade of blue.
“Just keeping you honest, Griffith,” I say, my voice cool, steady, and entirely professional. “The tape doesn’t lie. You leaned too heavily on Saint in the first half.”
“Bullshit.” He laughs. “You know firsthand that my endurance isn’t an issue.”
I gape at him, but then quickly close my mouth and shake my head.
He steps closer, the easy, cocky demeanor suddenly shifting into something more hesitant. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, looking down at his cleats before meeting my eyes.
“Look … about the wedding. About the morning after. I need to apologize.”
My chest tightens. The memory of our night together flashes vividly in my mind. Then the humiliation of waking up without him, but I’ll never let him see that.
“Apologize for what?” I ask, letting out an airy laugh that deserves an Academy Award. I cross my arms, tilting my head back to look him in the eye with complete, unbothered amusement.
“I’m not the kind of man who goes to bed with a woman and disappears the next day. But you and me? It’s complicated.”
Complicated is an understatement. I dated the wrong guy for a year because he looked like one I wanted and couldn’t have. Then I had him—the one I wanted—for a night, and I haven’t been able to think of anything else.
Of course, I’d never tellhimthat.
“Aston, please. It was a great wedding. We had a few too many drinks and a fun night. You don’t need to make it out to be more than it was. We’re both adults. It’s no big deal.”
Lie. Lie. Lie.
Aston freezes. His jaw tightens as he processes my words. For a split second, genuine hurt crosses his face, his brow furrowing, as if he can’t believe I’m dismissing the most explosive night of my life as simply a fun night.
“No big deal?” he repeats, his voice dropping into a whisper.
“Nope,” I say lightly. “Honestly, you sneaking out without saying goodbye probably saved us both from an awkward conversation the next morning. Still looking for my favorite black thong though.”
