He leans over and gives me a soft kiss. When he pulls back, his fingers stroke my cheek, and he brushes a piece of hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear.
We settle into a comfortable silence, both of us sleepy.
As I watch him, I can’t help but think about our college days. I wanted him so badly before Ace and I started dating, but I pushed it out of my mind when I was with Ace. And the truth of it is that I was happy with Ace when we were together, but I knew it was never going to be something long-term. It was easy and fun.
But being with Aston here now feels almost like a dream. With him … I can see something developing that feels like more than a fling. And maybe I should feel guilty about that since I was with his brother, but I don’t.
Aston pulls me from my thoughts when he rolls onto his back and leans over the bed as he reaches blindly for his phone somewhere on the floor. I realize it’s buzzing with a text when he pulls it up. The blue glow of the screen lights up the angles of his face as he scans the screen.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice stiff.
I lift my body and turn to face him, not bothering to cover my nakedness. “What is it?”
“Practice was moved up,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face before getting out of bed.
I look over at the clock on my wall and see it’s midnight. When I look back at him, I watch him gather his clothes and admire the muscular planes of his back highlighted in the lights from outside.
“Film starts at five-thirty. If I’m not in my chair before it starts, Coach’ll ride the whole defensive line until Tuesday.”
A sharp pang of disappointment twists in my stomach, but I clamp it down. This is our life. He’s a star player, and I’m aproducer fighting for my place in my father’s dynasty. Neither of us has the luxury of sleeping in during the season.
I sit up and grab the sheet from the bed, wrapping it around my body as I watch him dress. He really is a work of art.
He walks back to the edge of the mattress and bends down to plant one hand on either side of my hips, trapping me in his shadow. He leans in, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to my lips that feels like a promise.
“I gotta go,” he murmurs against my mouth, his eyes locking onto mine with a fierce intensity. “I hate to leave you, looking like sin in this bed, but I need to get some sleep. And the field is closer to my place. I can’t risk getting stuck in that fucking tunnel tomorrow.” He kisses me again. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Lock the door behind me.”
“Go,” I say, smiling and placing a hand on his chest, gently pushing him away. “I’ll see you in Cali.”
He gives my hip a possessive squeeze before standing and turning toward the door. With one last look over his shoulder, he winks and taps the doorframe. “Have a good flight tomorrow night. I’ll see you on the sidelines.”
I lift a hand in a wave, and a minute later, I hear my heavy door shut, the echo loud in my loft. I lie back against the pillows, and I can still smell him in the room. The bed feels too large now, the silence of my loft deafening.
I look out the window at the silver light of the moon peeking through the high-rises, and even though my body was toast just a short while ago, my mind is spinning now. I look toward the living room of my loft, where my monitors still glow with spreadsheets waiting for me. So, I take a deep breath and throw off the covers. There’s work to do before I leave tomorrow.
’Cause Lord knows now that Aston Griffith is in my life, I’ll have a hard time putting work before pleasure.
CHAPTER NINE
ASTON
The airin Los Angeles doesn’t smell like football. It smells like exhaust and sunscreen, and the air is the dry heat of a November afternoon in Southern California.
I stand on the turf, my hands resting on my taped knees. The stadium jumbotron reads 03:14 in the third quarter. We’re down by four, and the Rams offense is working a slow drive that has kept our defense on the field for eleven straight snaps.
As a linebacker, my entire purpose is predicated on precise positioning. I have to read the guard’s hip, anticipate the tight end’s release, and put my two hundred thirty pounds of Texas muscle through the chest of whoever is carrying the ball. It’s a brutal, mechanical rhythm that usually takes over my entire brain from the first whistle to the last.
But today, my brain is misfiring.
Because every time the whistle blows and I walk back toward the huddle, my eyes bypass the white hash marks. They bypass the coaches screaming at me from the bench. Instead, they track down the blue perimeter line until they find the black-and-gold network banner.
Eva stands near the thirty-yard line, her profile sharp against the California sun. Her hair is pulled back today in a ponytail. She’s wearing a white linen shirt and dark jeans, her headset clamped over her ears as she speaks to her cameraman. She’s completely in her element—and out of my reach.
A Rams fullback hits the B-gap on a hard inside handoff. I see the movement a fraction of a second late, my instincts dulled by my distraction. I throw my body into the hole, meeting his pads with a cracking collision that sends a jolt of fire straight up my neck, and he drags me two yards forward before the whistle blows.
“Griffith! Watch the cutback!” Saint barks when we’re back in the huddle, his face dripping with sweat as he slaps the side of my helmet. “You were leaning on the outside shoulder. Lock it in!”
“I got it,” I grumble.
