 
Blitzed

By

Evelyn Rosado

The Evelyn Rosado Newsletter

Copyright © 2015

by

Evelyn Rosado

Smashwords Edition

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It's 3AM and someone's banging on my door.

The last time someone knocked on my door in the middle of the night it was the wife of a man who I thought was my boyfriend. He was upstairs sleep, naked in my bed when she showed up at my doorstep after she followed us in the shadows earlier that night as we flirted over sushi and cabernet and played pool in a dimly lit lounge. Luckily she spared my life and just wanted to know if her husband was upstairs.

I'm getting the feeling this is a repeat scenario and I may not get to be so lucky. I untangle myself from Myles's arms and walk downstairs wearing nothing but his football jersey, waiting to be greeted by some deranged fan, drunken stripper or crazed secret wife with a pistol. Why does this always happen to me?

The knock is now louder, angrier.

What my eyes see makes my stomach collapse.  
A detective flashes his badge in front of my face while the other detective holds a flashlight into my eyes, blinding me. I hold my hands to my face, barely able to make out their faces.  
"Ma'am," the detective with the badge says. "I'm Detective Wallace with the Detroit Police. We need to speak to Myles McCrae. We have a warrant for his arrest."

Wait. Wait. Wait. Let me back up for a moment and tell you just how I got involved in all of this mess...

***

It's 11:19PM as Gena and I pull up behind a line of BMW's, Mercedes's, Bentley's, and Range Rovers outside a snow coated home in a neighborhood that looked like lawyers, doctors, CEO's, and trust fund babies lived there. The timing couldn't be more perfect.

It's New Year's Eve and my BFF Gena invited me to a party at the last minute saving me from spending the night alone on the couch watching the ball drop on TV with Ryan Seacrest drowning my misery in a vat of chocolate mint coconut ice cream. Ugh. Definitely not the ideal way of ringing in the New Year.

Gena reaches in the backseat and pulls a half empty soda bottle out of her purse, probably mixed with rum. "You really came prepared tonight didn't you?" I ask.

"Don't I always?" he replies.

She twists the cap, takes a hearty sip and passes it to me. "No chaser huh?"

"No chaser. You don't need it. This is the good stuff."

I hold a breath in my nose and sip.

"Why are you acting like you didn't spend four years in college? You went to Northwestern. Like they didn't have parties there."

"I can't drink like I used to."

"What are you forty-seven?"

We walk up the lighted, brick paved sidewalk. We could hear the muffled bass line pump through and Gena bobs her head and snaps her fingers. "This is my song!" she yells.

It's okay to yell at this time of night—we were in Royal Oak. The residents are used to it. Whoever lives here had a nice chunk of change in their bank account, 401k, and stocks & bonds.

This just might beat a night on the couch after all.

***

We're greeted at the door by a six-foot behemoth outfitted in a black suit, holding a clipboard.

Uuhhh, a tad bit intimidating are we? What the hell was happening inside that a black suit and clipboard was needed? Hopefully this wasn't one of those Eyes Wide Shut type of parties.

He looks at Gena up and down and smirks slightly as if to approve. She did have the nicest legs out of all of our friends.

The scowl he gives me obviously shows his disapproval of me not displaying enough skin. Did he know how cold it is out here?

"Name?" he asks looking at Gena. His voice is robotic.

"Gena Patrick," she says. He looks at his clipboard with a tiny flashlight and nods.

"This your plus one?"

"Yes."

"Name?" he asks me, still looking at his clipboard.

"Lacey Nichols," I say.

He opens the door. "Please hand your phones to the gentleman in the hallway. You'll get them back at the end of the night. You ladies enjoy yourselves."

We hand our phones to a much smaller and nice gentleman who also wore a black suit. I don't feel comfortable giving up my phone like that to strangers, but no phone, no entry.

We walk into the darkly lit living room. The humidity of the place collided with perfume, spilled beer and the scent of regret making for an interesting scent.

It smells like...skank.

Music bangs through the speakers as scantily clad women, showing even more skin than Gena, bump and grind against limbs of the opposite sex. The one thing that stands about the men here is that they're all over six foot and they all had muscular, hulking bodies.

"Gena who are these people? Where the hell are we?" I ask. We hand our coats to young woman and she hangs them up.

"A close personal friend," she says. "He's cool. Trust me."

We make our way past the gaggle of contorting bodies, sweaty, flailing limbs and impromptu makeout sessions, groping and prodding. I manage to not fall over after I took an elbow from a girl in the ribs trying my best to squeeze through the bunch.

I thought I escaped this kind of scene after I graduated college.

"Do I know him?" I shout over the music.

"No, we just met not too long ago."

"Are these guys athletes or something?"

"Shawn!" Gena screams as she runs over to his open bowling ball-sized arms, jumping into him. He scoops her into the air like a rag doll.

"Gena! You made it," he says placing her back on the ground. "Take a sip!" She tilts her head back as he pours the clear liquor down her throat. She shrieks in delight as the alcohol fills her bones.

I stand back pondering if I could make it back to my couch in time to see the ball drop.

A guy with no shirt on, his arms covered in tattoos, stumbles by me and licks his lips at me. I smirk nervously.

Not my scene...at all. At least not anymore.

Before Gena can fix her lips to introduce me to her newfound friend, Shawn lifts her up and throws her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and says, "C'mon, lemme show you the upstairs." They run off into the darkness.

Great.

All alone in a strange, dark place, no phone, and I didn't know anyone.

I'm totally out of place in a sea of long legs, hooker heels, tight, animal print dresses, and Neanderthals.

No guys in shirts and ties? No loafers or blazers? No discussing the new gallery that opened up in midtown, just hoodies and football team jerseys and ass grabbing and grunting.

My couch seems extra cozy right about now.

It's a quarter to midnight. I head to the bar; I need a drink to calm my nerves.

I get my vodka tonic and walk around trying to find a quiet spot to give my eardrums a break—which are surely bleeding at this point.

It's going to be a long night. A really long night. I don't think Gena's coming downstairs any time soon.

I sit down on the edge of the fireplace, a dry space between red cups with cigarette buts, and stale beer and empty tequila bottles.

"It's almost time for the countdown everybody," a man yells. I look up at him and then look away. My eyes peel back to him again. Absolutely beautiful. He looks like an African warrior—the kind I read about in college. A white, snugly fit Henley, fits his sculpted bronze-kissed frame like body armor. And he commands the room like he's well aware of his sex appeal. And his eyes...a fiery, walnut brown, fall upon me, sending a chill up my spine. His mouth fixes to a slight smile.

He looks at his watch. "Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven..." he lifts his bottle of champagne in the air. I stand up to not make myself look like a total lame. I lift my cup up in the air and scream Happy New Year along with everyone.

Not one second after the stroke of midnight, everyone's lips lock onto each another's. Except mine.

I fold my arms and nervously sip my drink hoping the uncomfortable moment would pass by soon.

Standing in the middle of the fracas, Mr. Hotness looks around and his brown eyes registered me again. He bites his lip and grabs me by my waist and pulls me to him, our faces inches from each other. The jolt spills my drink.

He pauses before me, the moist heat from our lips mix.

I can't speak—a breath is lodged in my throat. I can't figure out if I'm turned on or insulted.

The roar of the partygoers rages louder.

He presses his lips to mine, sneaking in his slick tongue inside my mouth and bites my lip. I close my eyes shut, lost in the moment. Our lips swirl furiously, smacking above the throbbing music. I wrap my arms around his lower back, feeling his muscles protruding though his shirt. He pulls back suddenly and smiles. "Happy New Year Miss Lady," he says smirking. He walks away and shouts something to the crowd and they all cheer, shouting back in unison.

Okay. Just like that huh?

Well that's interesting. A quick thrill and back to reality.

Over the next half hour, I walk around trying not to be a total wallflower. The guests started to thin out as hookup time is about to commence. Two girls on the dance floor, their bodies stuck together, grope each other, drinks in both of their hands, kissing like they were the only two people in the room. Fodder for the show. On the couch, three guys deliberate over who had first, second, and third dibs.

Okay, time to exit stage left.

Only problem is that Gena's nowhere to be found.

No phone. No car keys.

I walk around the house and grab another drink at the bar to numb my frustration and my disdain for the amount of trashiness and sluttyness I'm around. I venture upstairs.

Typical bachelor house. Pictures of awards decorate the walls. Not my taste at all. What happened to paintings or flowers? Seeing yourself accepting you accepted at some banquet or ceremony and plastering them all around the house for us see is kind of lame. Okay, we get it. You're a very decorated athlete. Just box it up in the basement somewhere. No need to gloat.

Gag me.

Upstairs is expansive with about five bedrooms. All the doors are shut, but loud moans and 'fuckmeharders' belt from the room closest to the stairway. The bed sounds like it's five strokes from collapsing. I don't need to open the door to find out if it's Gena or not—it isn't her. I've heard her moans before – we were roommates senior year in college. I spent many sleepless nights with my pillow jammed into my ears from her screaming.

I go to the room next to it and the door is half cracked. I peek inside and it's empty. I enter and shut the door behind me.

Spare bedroom. Basic bed sheets, a desk and a dresser drawer. There's a bookshelf in the corner. My eyes light up, they do whenever they see books. Novels, poetry, coffee table photography, whatever it is, I'm a total book whore.

I flick on the light switch, but no lights come on. I squint my eyes and scan the shelves, but they were all about sports and biographies of athletes. There's a book with a blue cover, but there's nothing written on the spine or on the front. I crack it open and it's a journal.

October 14, 2008. Tonight I've seen and did the unthinkable. Never in a million years would I...

The door swings open.

I shut the book close and my stomach clenches.

"Hey!" a man yells. I turn around and it's Mr. Hotness and but he had two drunken girls on each of his arms. "Put that down! What the hell are you doing in here?" Though anger colors his face, I could see much clearer how handsome he is. I'm caught up in our kiss from earlier. He's that beautiful. His skin is the color of a cup of coffee with two spoonful's of creamer. Stubble peppers his razor sharp jawline and around his mouth. Though his face is contorted to a frown, all I can envision is his smile.

And he seems to have misplaced his shirt. His well-defined abs rest above his cargo pants. I could melt right here, but I hold my composure.

"Sorry," I say. My voice cracks as I drop the journal on the floor. I clear my throat.

"You still didn't answer my question. You're not supposed to be up here." His jaws clasp together and the muscles in his mouth throb.

"I...uh."

"Spit it out." The two girls giggle. "Shut up," he commands and they follow his orders.

What a douche. That definitely takes him down a few notches on the hottie scale.

"I was looking for my friend. Gena."

"I don't know her. And I don't know you either."

Uh...yeah did he forget about our New Year's kiss? That fast? Not like it was special or anything.

He shuts the door behind him, cutting off the sliver of light illuminating the room. The girls hobble over to the bed and plop down on it.

He moves closer to me. His brown eyes scan me up and down—an immense shade of brown. Like cinnamon or brown sugar. His eyes drink me in.

I swallow hard.

"It doesn't look like she's in here. So you have two options." He rubs his hands together with a stern face.

"Oh, is that right?" I gain my spunk back.

"Yes, indeed."

"And what is that?" I tilt my chin up and plant my hands on my hips.

"You can either join us or you can get out." He's totally dropped off the hottie scale. Ugh!

I look over and the girls were going at each other pretty hard, inspecting each other's mouths. One girl hikes up her skirt and off come her panties. I'm shocked she was wearing any.

Definitely not my scene. I not only need to be out of this room, but out of this party. Fast.

"Ugh. No thank you." I storm towards the door.

"You're not my type anyway."

"Yeah, I'm not a skank."

I slam the door behind me.

I charge down the stairs, towards the bar. "I need a shot," I demand to the bartender.

"What's it gonna be, miss?" he asks.

"Tequila. Ice cold. No lime. Two of them."

He places the shot glasses in front of me and I slam them back with no hesitation.

The tequila didn't calm me down. It only made me antsier.

What an asshole. How could somebody kiss you and then minutes later not even remember you and treat you like a total skankbucket? He didn't seem that drunk. A sober asshole. That's the worst kind. At least if you're drunk, you can use it as an excuse.

But then again, these are dumb, Neanderthal jocks were talking about. They seemed to loose quite a few brain cells and drops of IQ points with each blow to the head. They're not astrophysicists for a reason.

Join us or get out? What an ass.

I walk towards the back of the living room and see a door to the basement. Or at least it looks like the basement.

It had a sign that said, 'do not enter'.

Maybe Gena's down there. Wouldn't hurt to try. Any place of solitude would be better than this.

I open the door and walk down two steps that sound very creaky feel wobbly. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. I stand still, praying they don't break underneath me and I fall to my death. I take two breaths and take another step when the next step crashes under me. I shriek and down the rest of the stairs I tumble, rolling into a row of boxes.

I bang my forehead on the cold cement and I lay there for a few moments, my head throbbing from the pain and my body throbbing for the sheer and utter embarrassment. Luckily no one saw it.

"Are you okay?" says a three hundred plus pound man wearing a tank top from the top of the stairs.

"I think," I say. I pick myself up and dust cobwebs off of me.

He gingerly walks down the stairs to not break any more steps and helps dust me off.

Great. Now I'm _that_ girl at the party. Not the slutty girl, not the girl in the corner throwing up because she can't handle her tequila. But _that_ girl—the one who falls at the party. I'd rather be drunk girl—at least that's somewhat common.

"Are you sure you're okay? Your forehead is bleeding a little."

"It doesn't hurt." I try to straighten up and pretend I didn't just fall down a flight of stairs.

"You have to watch head those injuries. You think you're okay, but you should get checked out."

A few more people come to the top of the stairs and look at the mess I caused.

The man scoops me up in his arms and proceeds to walk me upstairs.

"I said I was okay, sir." My face can't hide the embarrassment.

"The name's Vince." He laughs. "Did you not see the sign on the door?" He puts me down on the floor.

"No I didn't." I lie.

"What the hell is going on? Why is that door open? You didn't see the sign?" asks Mr. Asshole. Great, it's him again. Mr. Hotness is long gone.

"It was dark over here. I couldn't see it."

"Are you blind or something? It's clear as day."

"Look, it was an accident. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, Myles," Vince says. "It was an accident. She didn't know. Have some compassion. She hit her head."

Mr. Asshole lowers his voice a little. "She's been snooping all around the house tonight. You remember what happened last time don't you?" Vince nods reluctantly. "Good thing you had insurance on that watch or you would've went on a manhunt. You can't trust these girls."

"Look I'm not a groupie. I only came here with a friend," I say. "I didn't even know who was going to be here." I walk over to the couch and my legs wobble a bit. "This isn't my kind of party."

"Where's your friend?" Vince asks.

"I don't know. She went with a guy." My ears are booming. "He had the number eighty-two on his jersey."

"Albert," the men reply in unison. "Hot tub," they say simultaneously.

I start to feel a little woozy. The light in the room starts to fade as my knees buckle. "Whoa," I murmur.

I fall back into the sofa and black out.

When I wake up I'm going to kill Gena.

***

I'm surprised Mr. Asshole was the one who took me to the urgent care. Maybe I should call him by his real name at least. I thank him for taking me. He said it was only to avoid a potential lawsuit.

He didn't have a compassionate bone in his athletic body. Most people who I know are jerks, let the mask slip a little bit and show vulnerability, sympathy, or some type of relatable emotion – but this guy? He's like the 7-11 of assholes. Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. After midnight—sure! Weekends—how about it! National holidays? No problem.

The bridge of my nose throbs. Not from bumping my head – that didn't even hurt anymore. What gave me a near migraine is hearing him gloat about who he is or isn't dating into his cell phone or what he liked to call, conducting an interview with some trashy magazine. What a slob fest. He probably had it on speaker phone so he could make me listen him talk about how Michelle Baptiste is a great friend of his, but he's not dating her and that the red carpet event was just a friendly invitation. Who is this guy? An athlete? An actor? A model? What does he do for a living because astro-physicist has been ruled out a long time ago?

I pull my sunglasses out of my purse and put them on. Good thing they didn't get broken in my fall.

This is not the way I want to spend ringing in the New Year—with my ears ringing in some dingy waiting room. The doctors ran some tests and I was okay to go after waiting for seemed a year.

Mr. Asshole wants to take me back to Royal Oak. Because, Gena is still at the house where the party was. But I don't want to go back, I just want to sulk in my own bed.

"I tried to wake you're friend up to go to the hospital with us, but she was so drunk, she wouldn't wake up," he says after he ends the call.

"Not the first time," I say.

He shakes his head and laughs.

"Aside from you bumping your head, did you have a good time last night? Our parties are legendary."

Listen to that. The arrogance. Despite me falling down a flight of stairs, nearly killing myself, he asks if I enjoy myself. I can't get to my apartment fast enough.

"What do you think?"

"I mean...you're okay. You didn't suffer any trauma."

"Does it look like I had a good time? I'd rather spend my New Year in Guantanamo Bay."

He laughs. "Most people would kill to be at one of our parties. They're exclusive. We just don't let anyone in."

"Oh and what makes you so special?"

He shoots me a look that could crack stone. "You serious?"

I look clueless, not seeing anything special about him except his intense eyes, his soft lips, bulging biceps...Okay! Stop it Lacey! I play coy. "Uh...yeah."

"I play for the Cobras." My clueless expression stays. In fact, it grows. "The... Detroit...Cobras." His words slow down and stretch out for my comprehension.

"I can speak English okay. But who are the Detroit Cobras?" He stares at me for a few moments in complete disbelief.

His truck dips into the other lane and a car next to us blows its horn.

"Can you watch where you're going and not get us killed?" I shriek. This is too much drama for me at one time.

"Sorry. I just can't believe you've never heard of us. The football team."

"I vaguely recall seeing them here and there."

"I guess I already forgot that you bumped your head. The anesthesia must be still taking a hold of you."

I shake my head.

"Or maybe I just don't watch sports."

"This is Detroit. It's not possible? This is a sports town. Hockeytown ring a bell? People love their sports. They talk about the Cobras year round here."

"I have my attention elsewhere."

"On what?"

"None of your business." I curl up my lips to him. "Nothing you're into—trust me. Everything except brutes banging their heads into each other until their brain cells burst and their motor skills deteriorate."

"Wow. That's what you think, huh? You're snooty. I see why you're single." He laughs to himself.

"Excuse me," I say turning to face him. What man has the audacity to say something like that to a woman? "And you know this for a fact?"

"Sure do. It's clear as day."

"You're a dick."

"Not the first time I've heard that." He falls silent for a moment. "Women with boyfriends don't go to our parties. Unless they're looking to cheat. Or live out some fantasy of being with a football player."

I become madder by the minute. I look in the mirror. My face becomes red. I'm angry at him and the other half at myself. I can't stop stealing glances at his eyes. They set me on fire.

I straighten in my seat and focus on looking at the road and not on the thought of how much our kiss still sent chills up my spine.

"Plus, that attitude of yours..." He shakes his head.

"Attitude? Look who's talking. Primadonna."

"I'm good at what I do. I have a right to wear it on my sleeve. But you...what guy is going to put up with your attitude."

"So what if I am single? It's by choice. I meet too many guys like you who think they're God's gift to women and think the world revolves around them when it doesn't. So what you run and catch a ball."

"Actually I throw. I'm the quarterback."

"Who cares? It's a game. There are so many other important things in the world." My voice is rising. I'm about to continue my tirade, but I stop myself. "You know what? My address is plugged into your GPS, there's no more reason for us to talk at this point. I'd rather not talk anymore."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

Good thing the exit isn't too far from my house. He makes a few rights and Michigan lefts and pulls into my apartment complex. We say nothing the entire time.

"Cute apartment buildings," he says. "Reminds me of the one I used to live in college."

"You actually went to college?" The sarcasm in my voice is blatant.

He chuckles. "Sure did. Is it that _hard_ to believe?"

"Don't make me answer that."

We pull up to the front of my building.

"Well here we are," he says

"Thank you for taking me to the hospital...I guess," I say.

"No problem."

"Have a nice life."

"I already do." I pause and look at him over my shoulder, appalled that anyone in their right mind would actually say something like that.

"You're unbelievable." I say slamming the door behind me. I wish I cracked his window. I look back and I see him utter something else, probably something crass and ignorant, but door is already closed behind me. I'm glad I don't hear it.

***

Monday finally arrives. I'm glad it's here so I can get my mind off the nightmare of the last few days.

I'm at my desk stirring cream into my coffee and picking at an onion bagel when my phone rings. Not my cell phone but my work phone. My boss Ben would kill me if he sees my cell phone out at my desk. I already had several warnings. I throw it in my desk drawer. And it claws me at my bone marrow, knowing I can't hold it in my hands.

I answer my extension and it's Ben. He wants to talk to me in his office. He sounds happy. Which is rare.

It's about the promotion, I can feel it. I just know it is.

I walk towards his office, peering my head around the door. I knock twice.

"C'mon in," he says. He's sitting down finishing up his usual fourth cup of coffee. It's a little after one o'clock. He's ready to unwrap his homemade pastrami sandwich which he eats every day. Every single day. Coffee. Pastrami on rye. And a Greek yogurt.

His belly protrudes over the edge of the desk which. He's balding on the top of his head, with his brown hair covering the sides of his head like a cul-de-sac. He has a stain on his shirt. Everyday. It never fails. Monday its mayo. Tuesday it's mustard. Friday it's chili sauce. We have an office pool on the third Wednesday of the month about which stain it's going to be. So far I've won it twice. I bought a cute pair of shoes.

"Have a seat kiddo," he says.

I hate when he calls me that. He said he'd stop when wrote a Pulitzer or New York Times Bestseller.

Pipedream, yeah. But he's just about to tell me I'd have the opportunity to become junior editor, instead of lowly research assistant. I can sense it.

I sit on the edge of my seat awaiting my eardrums to be blessed with the sweet sound of congratulations. Lacey Nichols, junior editor. It has a nice ring to it.

"You're valued around here kiddo." He chomps into sandwich. A strand of pastrami plops on the plastic wrap.

This is it.

"I'm glad to be valued. I love working here," I say.

"Good." He licks the globs of mayo off his fingertips. "I have something that I think you're ready for." He gulps his coffee and clasps his hands together and flexes them out in front of me.

"I'm all ears."

"What do you know about Myles McCrae?" he asks smiling.

The name sounds familiar, but I can't put a finger on it. I take a wild stab at it.

"The orchestra conductor?" My best guess.

"No, the athlete. He plays for the Cobras." Blank stare. C'mon, Ben give me something more to go on.

Then the light bulb flashes inside of my head and I'm not happy about hearing his name again.

He shows me a picture on his phone.

It's Mr. Asshole. Somehow, someway he finds his way back into my life. I ball my hands into a fist. Just seeing his face makes me uneasy.

Are you serious? This has to be some type of sick joke? Am I being pranked? Where are the cameras? Where's the guy with the microphone saying my friends put me up to this?

"Oh, that Myles McCrae. The jerk...I mean, football player," I say catching myself. I can't believe that slipped from my tongue. "He's my favorite thrower."

Thrower? Lacey, Jesus Christ! It's the best I can't do.

"You mean quarterback?"

"Oh, there's an Olympic discus thrower from Liverpool with the same name. My mind got jumbled up." I felt my spine collapse from under me like Jenga blocks. Whatever it is he's setting me up for, I'm blowing it.

"I've kept this under wraps for the longest, but the inks dry on the contract. After many negotiations, back and forths, and dinner meetings with his handlers, he chose us to publish his auto-bio." He pounds his fist on the table in joy. "This is going to take us to the next level."

Great, now I have to see him at my job. Just when I think he's out of my life, he's pulls right back in.

But how do I fit in to this oh so fantastic news?

"That's super." _Supe_ r. I really said that. I really said super.

"It is. The thing is, he doesn't have a manuscript written. He' chosen us to write and publish."

"That's incredible. Who's going to co-write? Janice would be perfect for it. She's a veteran. She's been around so many famous people. They're really comfortable with her. Her style's perfect for it."

"I agree. She was the first choice, but if you're not blind, you can see that she's pregnant." He pats his belly. "She's about to go on maternity leave in two weeks. Unfortunately we can't afford to wait for her return. We can't sit on this project. This is going to put us on the map. Janice is a vet, indeed. But this project needs someone who's going to match Myles's brash, trendy style. And that person...is you."

I swallow hard. It feels like a million needles are stabbing me in the neck at the same time.

How can you get the best and the worst news of your life at the same time? This is a dream project, with a nightmare subject.

I swallow hard again. My throat feels like sandpaper.

He glares at me. It's my turn to say I accept or to say how excited I am about the gig. "Say something, kiddo!"

"I'm sorry. I'm just a little overwhelmed by it all." He extends his hand to me. "This is a great opportunity. I won't let you down. You know that." My voice is devoid of any delight or even emotion at the slightest.

My breaths become ragged. Don't have a panic attack Lacey. Don't have a panic attack Lacey.

I can't do this. I just can't. We'll kill each other before the first meet. This has to be a sick joke.

"You don't sound so excited, kiddo."

I shift in my seat. "I am, I'm just taken aback by this. This is...it's great."

"This is a huge project. Huge. And I think you're ready for it. You're a newbie around here, but you're a fast learner. Faster than I've seen anyone here and so young."

It's bittersweet. On one hand, all my hard luck paid off. Finally all those Monday's I brought in bagels and donuts when I my bank account was damn near in the negative, all the Christmas parties I schmoozed at, all the days I braved it through eight inches of snow, slush, and ice; edges from death on the freeway, unable to see through the windshield just to make it work on time, only to find myself in an office that's half empty because no one in their right mind would risk their life for this job, have finally paid off. Did I get a pat on the head? No. Did I get a thank you card? No.

Finally worth it.

I unfold my legs, puff my chest out, and lift my chin higher.

"Thank you. That means so much coming from you." I swallow the pit in my stomach that's slowly rising to the back of my throat.

I crack a smile. It isn't the promotion, but this will do. I'm not totally thrilled about it, because on one hand, this is my big break, I can finally show my chops to the world as a writer, but merely thinking about who the subject is makes me want to stick ink pens in my eyeballs.

It's impossible to turn this down though. I don't know how I'm going to stomach being with him, asking him questions and him sharing intimate details about his life, but I'll push through it.

A lot of alcohol. Lots. Preferably vodka.

"We have an icebreaker slash introductory meeting tomorrow, to go over a few things with the team, like the direction and theme he wants to the book to go in. We'll volley some ideas around. Plus he wants to meet the person who's going to be telling his life story."

"Great." My attempts at sounding excited about this life altering matter are failing. Here I am, chosen to have my name involved in a book that could reach millions of people and I cringe at every mention of the subject's name.

This isn't going to go well. Damnit Lacey, focus. This is a major opportunity and I'm not the _least_ bit happy? The hell is wrong with me?

"I know you hate sports. But you're a great writer and it doesn't really matter. You have good instincts. You'll navigate through it. But it would make sense to brush up on the terminology and get a good grasp of the game."

"That's not going to be a problem. You know I take pride in my research. Football doesn't seem too difficult to learn about. You throw a ball and catch it."

He shoots me a look.

"How would you feel if someone said to you, 'you know writing...you just think of some words and write them down'?"

I brush the curls out of my face. "You're right."

He comes around and sits on the edge of the desk and looks down at me like a father lecturing his daughter about the dangers of teenage boys. "Now, Lacey, I convinced my boss that you're the one for the job. I have a lot riding on you. Don't mess this up."

I need a drink.

***

I sit in the conference room with sweaty palms, counting the minutes down until this ass kissing meeting will be over. Myles is a few minutes late. The entire office is abuzz that a superstar's coming instead of our normal clientele: artists, photographers, etc.

When he strides into the conference room, I feel electricity in the air. I have to admit it—the man does have style. He wears a black mid length pea coat that fit his body to perfection. He walks into the conference room with a magnetism that forces you to like him, even if you detest him like I do.

"So," he says as he sits down at the table among the dozen of us, "let's make me an even bigger star." His smile stretches from ear to ear.

I do a double-take as he puts his feet up on the table. He actually did that. I close my eyes and then reopen them to make sure I saw it. And then he puts his hands behind his head.

Ben nearly chokes on his coffee. But what can he say? This book is bound to be a bestseller. It's going to be the biggest book in the history of this company. It would put our name on the map.

We have to kiss his ass and throw roses on his feet. And we have to like it. And he knows it.

I'd have more fun dry heaving than being at this meeting.

Beautiful people always get away with the most egregious behavior. I look at my watch. Just power through this, Lacey.

His eyes scan the room, landing on everyone's face and then finally stopping at my mine. My body hitches slightly. He fixes his mouth to speak, but halts. His lips grow to a smile and he winks at me.

He continues to stare at me and the discomfort increases through my bones, giving me a slight chill and raising the hair on the back of my neck.

I straighten my shoulders and return a gaze with equal intensity. Little did he know, I could win this battle.

Everyone introduces themselves to Myles and say a little spiel about their job title and what they were bringing to the project, including myself, I said a few things, barely able to speak without dry heaving. I can't believe I have to work with Mr. Asshole himself.

Ben decides to go on with more butt-kissing. "Mr. McCrae our visual team put together a package just to give you an introduction to what we have in store for you." He motions to Carol to dim the lights and the screen descends from the ceiling.

I shake my head. So, this is the direction our company is going? Gone is the indie, boot-strapped, art house, literary angle, and in comes in the butter. I hate butter. But this is a huge opportunity for me. I hate eviction notices more.

I sip my water and suppress the sour taste in the back of my throat.

After we view the highlight video of Myles and more ass kissing and congratulations, welcome to the teams and pats on the back, idle chatter about taking the team all the way this year, taking his brand to the next level, blah, blah blah, they bring champagne flutes out for a toast.

After the well wishing is over, I go over to the corner and look out the window overlooking the streets of downtown Detroit. The streets look like veins intersecting one another. Cars and buses scurry up and down to their destination. Everything seems so slow from up above. It's the opposite of my life right now. One moment I'm working my way up pushing mail carts and bringing bagels in for the office and the next thing I know I'm penning an autobiography for Detroit's own rising talent. I try to slow my heartbeat, but I can't.

I devour my champagne in one gulp. Am I ready? This is the moment I've waited for; I just didn't know it would come this soon.

I turn around to see Myles cutting away from the fray and venturing towards me in the corner. Could he see the utter fright on my face? I know my skin's paler than eggshells right now.

"Well, well, well," he says raising his champagne flute up to me, "it's funny how things work out, huh?"

I touch my glass against his even though mine is empty.

"Indeed they do," I say. My voice is flat.

"One moment I'm saving your life, the next we're working together."

"Saving my life? I don't recall it being that way." He folds his arms and amusement sparks in his eyes. "I remember you avoiding a lawsuit."

"You say tomato, I say _to-ma-to_ ," he says, accenting his A out on the second syllable. "Either way it goes, you're here, I'm here. You're stuck with me. Just don't try and fall in love with me." He gently slaps me on the arm.

"Besides," I say, "I'm not you're type remember."

"Oh that's right." He snaps his fingers. "So what's your type, Miss Lacey?"

"The intellectual type. You know, those who use their brains rather than a ball to provide a satisfying life."

"That's what you think about me?"

"I've seen more than enough. Trust me. And the name is Miss Nichols."

My fake smile relaxes, trying to put an end to his playful demeanor. He is not going to derail the biggest opportunity of my career.

"Look, I don't have time for the lollygagging or lackadaisical attitude." I slow my voice down so he could understand me loud and clear. I buck my chest out at him to be assertive. Knowing him, he'd probably look at my breasts. "I'm here to work and I'm committed to doing good work. I'm not your friend, your honey, or your baby. I'm strictly about keeping things professional and if you can't do that, then maybe they can find someone else to work on your little vanity project."

I must have rendered him speechless because he scratches his chin several times and volleys his balance on each leg.

"Wait," he says. He comes closer and pauses. Our eyes catch and he grabs the collar of my blouse, his fingertips grazing my neck ever so gently, and tucks it in tighter. I bite my lip. "There. Your bra strap was showing."

Before I can respond by verbally ripping his head off, John from Marketing came over and pats him on the back. "Mr. Touchdown," he says lifting his glass for a toast.

"That's what they call me," Myles says nervously.

I dart away to the ladies room, quickly feeling an awkward mix of horniness, humiliation, and disgust. I sit on in the bathroom stall and sulk, hoping no one can hear me.

***

I spend the evening, vegging out on the couch, reading Anna Karenina for the seventeenth-odd time.

Around six, I find myself nodding off, but the door swings open with a gust of wind and a dusting of snowflakes right behind it. It's Rachel. She has a disheveled look on her face. Opposite of her normally perky demeanor. Something isn't right.

And her hair is a mess, her blond locks mangled over her head.

"Todd broke off the engagement," she says, her voice quavering. I gasp loudly putting my hand over my mouth in shock. My book falls out of my hand.

Her luggage makes a loud thud as she drops them on the carpet.

Her eyes are red.

"We'd been planning this ski trip for months," she says, giving me the details of her weekend as we sit on the couch with two glasses of cab and a box of tissues resting between us. "We drove five hours up north to the lodge and as soon as we put our bags down, he said he was breaking it off." She huffs and puffs with tears streaming down her face on to the couch. Her voice is jagged. "Five hours." She blots her eyes with a balled up, moist tissue. "Five fucking hours, Lacey." She threw the wet ball on the floor. "Like who does that?"

"But why? Why did he break the engagement? You've been engaged for almost six months. Things seemed perfect."

She sniffles and her voice seems to be more clear and controlled now. "They haven't been perfect. We've been arguing a lot. He wants to move out of state."

"And you don't?"

"My family is here. This is where I'm from. I don't know anything else."

I gave her a look as to say fess up and give me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God. She lets out a deep sigh and groans. "I can't keep anything from you." She plops her hands on her khakis. "Jake is leaving me for some bitch he works with."

"Oh no." I say massaging her knee.

"They've been together for about four months. Can you believe that? That bitch. I just met her at his Christmas party. I knew something was going on. I feel so stupid for not realizing it. They were flirting the entire night. He had the nerve to introduce me to that bitch. I feel so stupid."

"He's the stupid one. Let's get drunk tonight. We have a lot of crying to do."

"I should have known better. We rushed it. We were only together for a year. I'm not even twenty-five. We barely knew each other. I feel so dumb."

"It's not your fault." I fill her glass with more wine.

"It is. He was always a flirt. I just overlooked it. Everybody has flaws; I wasn't going to crucify him for it. As long as he didn't act on it, I could deal with it." More tears flows. "I thought I could."

"He did you favor. Trust me. It doesn't feel like it right now, but you'll be fine."

"I've never been dumped. You've been dumped plenty of times, how do you deal with this?"

I'm in mid sip when she says that. I choke as the wine burns my throat. Her words really sting.

"Wow. Really?" I bite my lip, the shame of the truth spills over me. "Since you're going through this, I'm going to act like you didn't say that." Sometimes the truth can hurt. Most people didn't want to hear it.

"You're tough, you can handle it."

"Well thanks. I guess. If he told you on New Year's Eve, why didn't you come back home. You both drove separately right?"

She nods. "He already paid for the room. I didn't want to let it go to waste. After he left. I stayed in the room and ordered everything on the menu. I stole robes, the coffee table books and a few towels. We needed some new ones anyway."

"That's my girl." We burst into laughter.

"And I'm soooo keeping the ring. I'll get it melted down into something. I'll give it to a homeless lady or pawn it. I need a new Ipad, too."

I don't bother filling her in with the drama. She's already got enough of it. I'll fill her in another time.

***

To help with my research, not seem totally out of the loop, and to actually call myself a journalist slash author, I need to become abreast of the game of football. I don't need to become a master, I just need to be able to watch it and understand what's going on and able to not have Myles look at me like a complete buffoon, embarking on a huge project and not able to get a grasp on the subject at hand.

I needed to see the game live, but unfortunately professional games weren't played during the week and the college football season had just finished wrapping up. Watching a taped game on television or on my laptop wouldn't be enough. I want to see it live, in its natural habitat. In the element. I want to hear the roar of the crowd when the home team scored. I want to see the mannerisms of the players and coaches on the sidelines. I wanted to smell the stale beer on the concrete and feel the chipped paint on the wooden benches. Honestly, I'm kind of excited.

Just my luck, there's a semi pro team playing over on Wayne State's campus tonight. I don't want to go by myself because I need someone to help answer the questions I'll have about the game. I didn't want to ask strangers who were there to enjoy the game and not want to be bothered by my badgering about why that happened or why is that out of bounds.

Rachel isn't available due to working late and besides, she isn't in the best of moods anyways. One day she's up, the next she's down. The breakup with Jake is hitting her harder than I thought it would. The last thing I want to bring her to is some damn football game. I don't think she had put on makeup for the last week or so. Totally unlike her. And Gena. I thought about cutting her out of my life for good after leaving me stranded the way she did on New Years.

I have one option and one option only.

Call Brad.

He'd do anything I'd ask him to do. I have a flat tire – call Brad.

I'm stuck on a crossword puzzle. 90's sitcom. First letter, R. 7 letter word. Starts with R - call Brad. Payroll is having issues with my check and it'll be two weeks late past the scheduled deposit date—call Brad. He'll spot me one month's rent or pay the note on my Commander. No questions asked. And I don't have to pay him back. He'll make me feel so bad for even considering repaying him for his money or his time. He says it's his duty as a man to help out such a beautiful woman in need.

He's a sweet guy. Just. Nice. No one I would ever date seriously, but still, so nice.

I don't care if you think that I'm taking advantage of him. What would you do? Times are hard for a girl these days. It only _sounds_ like I'm manipulating or using him. I can't help that he picks up the phone or answers my text and voluntarily provides his assistance.

We went out on one date and it was okay. Just okay. He's actually really cute—in a he meets your parents for the first time and he'll bake a pumpkin pie form them kind of way. His blue eyes are to die for and he has exquisite taste in craft beer. But there was just nothing between us when went out for drinks a few months ago. There weren't any sparks or real chemistry that would make me go to the bathroom in the middle of us having drinks and call Rachel and tell her that he's the one. He's a good guy to have dinner with or go to the mall with when nobody else would and I'm too bored to do it alone. Kind of like a gay friend—just not gay.

And no, I haven't told him that I have no intentions of not dating him. Call me passive aggressive. I hate disappointing people. I'm never good with rejection—dishing it out or receiving it. No, I wouldn't dare call it stringing him along either.

And no I haven't had sex with him. We've cuddled and made out a few times, but once things got hot and heavy, like him reaching to unbutton my shirt or unsnap my bra, I stopped him.

Do I feel bad for him? I'm not sure. But I do know one thing – he keeps coming back.

Don't you dare say I'm using him. Don't you dare. We're just friends, even if he doesn't know that...yet.

Thank the sweet lord that it's an unseasonably not-cold day today. I say not-cold because forty-five degrees in January is hardly warm, but it's not cold at all. There's no way I'd sit in twelve degree weather to learn about some game I have absolutely no interest in for some airheaded, egotistical jackass who I wouldn't be in the same room with unless there's a hefty paycheck involved. All for the sake of research. The things we do for our careers.

"See those big men lined up in front of the two smaller guys?" Brad asks pointing towards the center of the field where men in jerseys shuffle around and others hold firm in a bent over stance. Rapid breaths of fog bellow through their helmets.

"But they're _all_ big," I say.

"True, but they're the biggest men out of all of them." I nod. "They're the offensive linemen. Their purpose is to block the defensive linemen, the men lined up opposite them, protect the quarterback, and provide a path for the running back to run up field.

"I see."

The quarterback, who's pretty much the only man on the field whose position I know by name, hands the ball off to another guy and he plows his way through the opposition, spinning and hurdling and then is brought down from behind.

"But why did that get a yellow tissue?" I ask. "It was a perfect tackle."

He laughs through a mouthful of bratwurst. "That's not a tissue sweetie. That's a called a flag."

"Why did referee throw it? Because of a foul?"

"They're not called fouls in football. They're penalties. And the ref threw it because you can't tackle a player from behind by the neck or shoulder area. It's called a horse collar tackle."

He slides a hand on my knee, but I pull away. Sorry Brad. That's a public display of affection and we're not at that level. I break the awkward silence, diverting the disappointment on his face by asking another question.

"Why is that illegal?"

"It's dangerous. You could seriously injure the other player."

Smells like an obvious contradiction.

"Okay. Time out. But can't you seriously injure someone by running at them full speed and tackling them with all your might? That's hypocritical. Why is one thing legal and the other's not?"

A burly man with long silver hair turns around and me gives me a clueless look.

Brad looks down between his legs and laughs. The man says, "Because one is an overt display of intent to injure and the other is intended to not hurt the player, only to impede his progress." He turns around and mutters something under his breath. Probably something akin to women should be at home barefoot, pregnant, and cooking pot roast in the kitchen instead of at football games asking stupid questions. What a sexist pig. At least that's what I thought he was saying.

"Thank you, my good man," Brad says.

"That still doesn't make any sense to me," I say blowing a warm burst of air into my hands.

"Hey, I don't make the rules."

The referee blows his whistle.

"Okay, now what happened? Another time out?"

"No, it's the two minute warning."

"Warning for what?"

"Wow. You really don't know anything about this game do you? You better get it together. Myles is notoriously private. He doesn't let a lot of people in."

"I have a lot of work to do."

"Don't worry. I'm here to help." He looks over to me and smirks. "I'm glad you invited me. Maybe since you need help with understanding the game...I don't know, maybe we could see each other more."

I push a curl behind my ear. "Maybe." I hated lying.

"I know we don't hang out much, but I like you. Aside from being breathtakingly beautiful..."

"You know you're going to make me blush, right?"

I slap him on his knee. "Look at those dimples. So cute. But I'm serious. I think you're funny, intelligent...all the things a man could want in a girl. I'm glad that you're in my life."

"Me too."

The look on his face deserves a more thoughtful response from me. "Brad, you know my job is crazy right now. I'm so busy with work. Especially with this new project...the project I dreamt of getting and I didn't have to kill anyone or sell my soul for, I just don't have the time to date anyone. I like you but it wouldn't be fair to try to see where this goes with you. It's soooo hard to say that looking at those baby blue eyes though."

He puts his head down and smiles thought the dejection. I extend my hand to him. "Friends?"

"Friends." A deep sigh full of fog billows from his lungs.

I don't know how many times I've said that same spiel to a guy, verbatim, but they all bit, hook, line and sinker.

***

7pm. Dinner with Myles. I'm not looking forward to it whatsoever. I don't know any possible way I'm going to actually finish this project without this ending up a double homicide because he hates me just as much as I hate him.

At least it's at my favorite sushi restaurant—Ronin. I'm surprised he recommended it.

I sit upstairs in a private room. I just know he's going to be late. I bounce between staying sober and wanting to drown myself in sake to near alcohol-poisoning levels. It's really the only way I think I'll be able to tolerate Rosemary's Baby.

He has two minutes.

The ambiance of the place is dim, seductive and very respectful to the Japanese culture.

I wear black slacks and a white blouse with a black blazer. A nice black pearl necklace drapes my neck. I have my tape recorder ready, resting next to the bottle of sake he requested.

He walks into the room yapping into this cell phone about 'okays and nah that cools'. The jerkface meter steps up more than a notch – the scale is bound to crack at this point. He wears a black t-shirt, jeans and construction boots the color of wheat.

I wonder if he can see the disgust flooding my face, but he hasn't even looked at me.

My lips curl up as far as they can possibly go.

I clear my throat. Loudly.

He looks at me and pauses. "I'll talk to you later," he says. He slides the phone on the table and clasps his hands together and smiles. His smile is quickly erased.

"Really?" he asks folding his arms.

"Really what?" I ask looking around the room. I look at the table, dumbfounded. He's messing with me already. This human makes my blood curdle.

"You're really gonna do that huh?"

"What are you talking about?" Clearly he hears the frustration in my voice.

He nods at the black tape recorder between us.

"Yes. And?"

He shakes his head. "We haven't even exchanged the formalities yet. Right to down to business, huh? You're a newbie aren't you?"

"This is professional."

"But it's informal. It's intimidating."

"I didn't know you knew big words."

He pours a shot of sake sighing. "Look I'm saying you should wait until we have a conversation before things get recorded."

"I'm not interested in chemistry between us."

"Then you don't know the first thing about journalism."

I bury my face in my hand and massage my temples with my fingers. It's one thing to be a jerk, but to insult my professionalism and my credibility as a writer is downright unforgivable. "You're an asshole, you know that." He smiles and nods slowly. "No really. Like an asshole to the highest power."

"Yeah, but you kissed _this_ asshole." His smile is soooo irresistible. Focus Lacey focus. Even asshole's have perfect smiles. How is that possible?

"That was New Year's. It's tradition. It's what you're _supposed_ to do."

"And you liked it."

I bite my lip. I'd like to throw a glass of water in his face, but I know I'd lose my job and be evicted by March.

"Listen. Don't tell me how to do my job, okay? How would you like it if someone told you how to play your game?"

"No tape recorders."

"Do you think I have a photographic memory? You're impossible."

"I'm impossible to tackle. But _I'm_ not impossible."

I shake my head, looking smack in to his eyes. I can't believe anyone could be this unlikeable.

"Do your fans know you're this rude?"

"I just told you this is our first meet. This isn't the time for an interview." He knocks back his sake and sits back in his chair. "I don't even want to do this book. My team is making me do it."

"You don't look like the type to read books anyway. I've seen your bookshelf."

"Bookshelf? That wasn't mine. I don't stay in that house. I used to." He pauses. "I don't want to be here any more than you do. I'm just trying to make this as painless as possible."

The server comes in and asks for our order.

Myles motions for me to order first. I give him a fake smile. Hmmm, so, hell spawns actually do have manners? What do ya know? You learn something everyday I guess.

I order a glass of malbec, a seaweed salad, and an avocado roll.

Myles laughs to himself. "So, you're one of the those girls who doesn't like to eat in front of men who she just met? Figures."

He looks up at the server and orders his meal in Japanese. I nearly knock over my glass and choke to death on my water from the blatant shock to my ears. I don't know a lick of Japanese, but he sounds flawless.

"Where did you learn that?" I ask hoping my jaws don't fall onto the table. " _How_ did you learn that?" My eyebrows squish together. I need answers.

He smiles and pours another shot of sake.

"You're more full of yourself than you think. You're too wrapped up in your preconceived notions that you think you're better and the world revolves around you. Guess what sweets? It doesn't."  
"Right. Big shot athlete who thinks he has the world on a string because he can order sushi in Japanese and can throw a ball a hundred yards."

He cuts me off. Just like a jerk.

"Impossible. No one can throw a hundred yards."

"Ugh!" I want to wring his neck so he can't form any words that would make him sound like an ass.

"You're a douche."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"What are we in the third grade now? Seriously? Who says that?"

"Seriously. It's obvious you don't want to be here. But you can't quit. Who is your boss going to get to do this project? You weren't even the first choice. The other writer is about to have a baby. You and I both know you're not going to tell your boss you're not the person for the job."

"Oh yeah? Watch me. I don't deserve this." I nod sharply. "I know what this is about. You're not used to someone not kissing your feet and not being a yes-person to you." He cocks his head and looks down. "Your tiny little ego cant' take it. You've been spoon-fed how great you are since a kid so much you don't even know your own flaws. You can't take it when someone doesn't agree with you. Even just a little guff and you don't like it."  
It must have really touched a soft spot because his jaw starts pulsing. He might pop a blood vessel if he gets any madder.

"How about I have you replaced?" His nostrils flare.

"You already said I'm quitting."

"No, I mean your company. I can break the contract. Have my attorneys sort it out and publish it somewhere else. Or I could self publish it and keep all the profit."  
I slow my breathing down before I get the urge to scratch his eyes out; no matter how beautiful they are. I catch my breath and breathe through my nose. "If that's a threat, I'm not afraid." I tilt my head with an attitude. "If that's what you need to do, then do it. I'll live."

I can taste the thick silence.

Myles's stone face loosens and changes to a sly smile.

"You think you're hot stuff don't you?" He shakes his head, his pearly whites still gleaming, realizing how ridiculous we sound. "I like you. You're alright."

I got him! Lacey 1, Myles 0. I had no talent on the field, but this is a game I think I can win. "Only on the weekends," I say trying not to break into laughter, realizing how childish we're acting.  
We both laugh at how silly it all is.

I grab the tape recorder out of my purse and place it on the table. "So," I say leaning forward, "can

we try this again?"

Myles leans forward, his eyes full of almond. "Let's." Before I part my lips to begin, he interrupts me. "But first," he says grabbing a bottle of sake and pouring a shot for me and him, "we're going to need a lot of this."

"Better make it a double," I say.

***

I still didn't get any good sound bites from last night. As soon as I pushed record on my tape recorder, a rep from the Cobras called and said there was an emergency meeting at the practice facility. And just when I figured out a way to coexist in a room without wanting to do bodily harm to each other. Unfortunately, I couldn't go with him, no members of the press were allowed at the meeting. I sat there eating my food alone in silence.

The next morning at work, I sit down at my desk and Google Myles McCrae. I rummage through the glitz and the surface accolades: Rookie of the Year, Super Bowl MVP, People's Sexiest Man Alive. The car commercials, the covers of GQ and Esquire.

Don't judge me for staring at the dozens of photos of him shirtless and muscles flexed. My eyes glaze over and a bead of drool is about to dribble off my bottom lip. I can't help it. I'm a sucker for biceps, tight abs, and a tight butt. A girl has her vices. But I happen to love a man with intellect even more, but abs biceps and a hot ass is icing on the cake. And what girl doesn't like to lick the icing. Just so happens I'd like to stick my finger in the icing and swirl it around my tongue and suck it until the last yummy, creamy drop.

Okay. Stop it Lacey!

I pinch myself. How dare I have such thoughts for a guy who's the most self-centered, egotistical, glory-hogging man I've ever met?

That arrogant smile of his pops into my head and the ubiquitous sour taste in my stomach reappears.

Ahhh, now that's more like it.

I quickly get back focused on my work.

Since he isn't going to let me into his personal life that easily, I need to do some digging. What makes him tick? Where does he come from? Why does he act the way he acts?

One thing is apparent—he doesn't like to do interviews.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

Would I need to call people he grew up with. Cousins? High school teammates? Old coaches or neighbors? I wonder how many illegitimate children he's walked out on. Probably five. My guess is he has them tucked away in some small city away from the limelight. Every time I heard about an athlete, it involved some child support case or some DUI.

And so far, I didn't see any. No arrests and no children.

How about old scorned model slash actress ex-girlfriends? I find none.

Wow.

Did he payoff someone shadowy figure to have his private life sealed by the FBI or something?

I'd love to have my private life tucked away like this.

After about an hour of Google-ing and Bing-ing here's what I was able to come up with: He's twenty-five years old. Born and raised in Flint, Michigan. Hometown kid. Graduated from the University Of Michigan with a Marketing degree, with a minor in African-American Studies. That's pretty impressive. Not like the bland, banal basket-weaving degree or history of television degree that most athletes graduate with.

I call Charlie Mayes, Myles's old high school coach who's now an offensive coordinator for the Central Michigan University football team.

"Smartest kid I ever knew," he says from his office. He had the voice of a coach: dominant, aggressive, punchy, commanding, but delightfully pleasant. He says he'd answer any question I ask, as long as it's about sports, academics, but not too much about his personal life. Just the meat. No glitz.

"Is that right?" I ask.

"That's a fact. Some people got the talent, but not the smarts to play the game. You gotta have both." He speaks with purpose, never wasting a word. "But he was different."

"How so?"

"Boy had the talent. Had the game smarts. Had it off the field too. And I'm not talking about street smarts or common sense. Boy was book smart. You ain't see that often."

"Really?"

"I coached a lotta smart kids, but Myles? If he wanted to he could be a brain surgeon, whatever. Took an aptitude test and got admitted to MIT when he was sixteen."

I nearly fumble the phone in my hand. This can't be the same Myles I know. "MIT? That's pretty incredible. Did you ever ask him why he was on a football field and not somewhere else finding the cure for cancer?"

"I ask that boy that all the time. When I tell you the boy was a genius. That. Boy. Was. Pure. Genius." He laughs heartily. "But he was so amazing with the football...as a coach you said, boy you staying on this field with me. You ain't going nowhere. We got a state championship to win. Po, cure cancer when you retire!"

"Po? What's that?"

"Short for poetry in motion. Little nickname. He reminded me of Gayle Sayers. The boy was so graceful on the field—like poetry in motion."

I can't believe this is the same person I met days ago.

"But why football? Why do you think, with all that opportunity, he chose football. I bet he had a million and one people trying to drag him in every way possible."

"Miss lady, there was Hollywood agents coming to the school pitching him movie scripts. Goddamn circus."

"Wow."

"He handled it though. He's wired differently than a lot of folk."

"Where do you think it comes from?"

"His daddy and his momma. They didn't grow up in Flint. They didn't have the mentality that traps most people there."

"A mentality?"

He laughs to himself. "Oh you must not be from Michigan here then."

"I am. I grew up in Warren. Outside of Detroit."

"How you a journalist and you don't know the vibe of the people? See now that area is about that automobile. We make 'em and we love to cruise. Sheeeiiit. Most of most of us was conceived in the back seat of a Pontiac." He chuckles to himself. "You born, you go to high school, then you work at the plant and retire. Everything else in between ain't nothing but a footnote. Wadn't no pursuit of higher education. What for? Fifty, sixty thousand at the plant...you didn't need no bachelors."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

"You couldn't beat it. Wadn't for football I'da done the same. But not the McCrae's, they valued education, using that brain over brawn. They didn't turn their nose up at the blue collar folk, because they punched a clock too, but they just wanted a different way for their boy. Turned out to be right. Look around Flint. Plants closed down, countless men with no work, outdated skills and no education."

"So unfortunate."

"It was debilitating to the city. Never recovered. Myles came outta that. He knows his obligation to the city."

"Would you say it's a debt that's owed? Since he's from there and became successful that he has an obligation to come back and help?"

"Look here. It's understated that's it's a debt, but ain't nobody automatically required. But like I say people know that it's something you _gotta_ do. He don't owe nobody, but he knows he had a lot of folk that looked out for him and helped him along the way. He's well aware of that fact. This ain't the kinda town that has its hand out.

After I hang up the phone I wonder if Coach Mayes and I were talking about the same person. Because the person he told me about, I surely don't know.

But my intrigue is sparked. Heavily.

***

I sit at my desk for a few more hours pondering if Myles is the same man I met on New Year's Eve. Maybe he _was_ right. I didn't know him.

I get a text message from him saying he wants to meet at one o'clock at the children's hospital downtown.

I scroll through a few images on Google, most of them of Myles half naked.

I never cared this much about biceps before. I stare at a picture of him, standing in nothing but a pair of white briefs against a gray background for a designer underwear ad. He stood there, looking at me, bare, raw with brashness. I'm fixated with how his brown eyes pierce through the screen.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and my entire body jolts like I heard a bump in the night and sprang out of my slumber. I slam my laptop shut, nearly knocking over my coffee.

I turn around and it's Karen from advertising.

"Research must be going _really_ good," she says with a sly smirk on her face.

"It's not like that. I just hate these type of superficial ads," I say fidgeting with my thumbs.

"Uh huh. Okay. You've been staring at it for a few minutes. You don't realize how long I've been standing here you?"

"Okay, he has a nice body. Is it a crime to look at it?" I ask with a sharp tone.

"Jeez. I'm just busting your chops. Everybody here is jealous of you. Great project. You get to be with that piece of sexy piece of chocolate all day. Mmph." She fans herself with a manila folder. "What are you doing here anyways? Shouldn't you be with Myles?"

"I just needed to pick up a few things from my desk. I'm scheduled to meet him in a few."

"We're all proud of you, kiddo."

Maybe I _should_ be proud. Everybody else realizes how huge this is except for me. Maybe I need to wake up and smell the coffee.

***

I meet Myles in the parking structure of the Detroit Children's hospital where he's meeting a young boy who's stricken with leukemia. They met a few years ago. It's a requirement for the team captains of the Cobras to visit a kid at the hospital. Myles said they developed a real friendship over the years.

Myles greets me with a warm smile. He hands me a small packet of tissues. "You're going to need these," he says. I nod slowly and we walk through the doors.

Gone are the onlookers, gawkers, crazed fans, and flashbulbs. Here he's not Myles McCrae, Detroit Cobras MVP quarterback, here he's just Myles, just a visitor. And that's how he prefers it.

Walking into the cancer unit reminds me why I hate hospitals. I despise the smell. The food. The sterility of it all. It makes me feel icky, but I keep my composure and don't hyperventilate.

We walk into room nineteen. The sight makes my eyes mist.

His name is Jack, a nine year old whose cancer is terminal. Doctors said he didn't have but a few months or so to live.

The room is peppered with Cobras memorabilia, pictures, stickers, buttons, foam number ones. A life-size poster of Myles running on the field is plastered to the wall. A number ninety-nine jersey is tacked above his hospital bed with the last name of Clinton written on the back.

He wears a black Panther's hat and greets Myles with a half smile. He's a cute kid who looks to be in great health. And he looks like he could be Myles's little brother.

But he doesn't seem to be in the greatest of spirits today.

"Hey champ," Myles says tossing a small football in air. "I missed you." They hug. Much longer than you would a friend you just saw last week.

"Hey Myles," Jack says. His voice is sweet and innocent, just like a boy his age sounds despite his condition.

"I got something for you."

Jack's almond shaped, brown eyes light up and his mouth drops as Myles extends the football towards him. "All fifty-two players. Signed. One of a kind." Jack's mouth cracks open even wider. "You're the only one who has this."

"Thanks Myles."

"You don't know what I had to go through to get this," he says playfully hitting the edge of Jack's cap.

It's rare seeing this side of him, playful, loose, less restrained, unhinged. The sheen is off. The glitz is gone. The mask is off.

"Just to get him to sign it, I promised to buy Antonio Keenan lunch every Monday from now until the start of training camp," Myles says.

Jack laughs hysterically. "He's huge," the kid says holding his arms out wide.

"And he gets bigger every meal. We have to tie a feed bag around his neck just to feed him."

He giggles and his attention finds its way towards me. "Who's this? Myles, she broke the first rule." He points to a sticker on his tray. It says no girls allowed. "Myles, what's up with that?"

"I'm sorry Jack, she doesn't know how to read." His grin widens in delight.

I roll my eyes and try not to laugh.

"Is she your girlfriend?" Jack says in a teasing manner.

Myles picks up a ball from the floor and hurls it at Jack's face. He blocks it and flings it back at him, even faster.

"Look at that arm. Getting stronger boy! We might have to put you on the practice squad." He takes his coat off. "This is Lacey and no she's not my girlfriend. She's writing my autobiography."

Jack gives me another once over. He curls his index finger signaling Myles to come over. Jack cups his hands around his ear and whispers something him. They both look at me and smile.

"Yes she is."

"Not going to let me in on your secret?" I ask.

In unison, the two of them shake their heads from side to side.

"Boys," I say throwing my hands up in disgust.

Over the next two hours I watch the two play and tease each other like best friends cousins.

This isn't a photo opportunity like I expected it to be. I envisioned cameras flashing and Myles taking a formal photo with the patient, say a few nice quotes to the reporter that will appear in a commercial—two or three heart-warming quotes, and then he would be leave. It's the total opposite. They really seem to have a bond, like an uncle with a nephew.

***

I stand outside as Myles says his goodbyes to Jack.

Myles comes out of room with color draining from his face.

We're silent as we walk to the lobby. We exit the doors and walk towards the parking structure. I turn to ask if Myles remembers where we parked and he isn't by my side. I turn around and he's against the brick wall to the right of the exit. His hand is over half of his face and his body is shaking.

I rush back to him to see him balling his eyes out hysterically. I try to find the words to console him, but I know none would help.

Fog from his hot breaths flood my face.

It's obvious it might have been the last time he'd see Jack alive.

He wipes the tears from his eyes and wraps his arms around me tightly. I rub my hand on his back comforting him as his tears continue to fall onto my shoulder.

I hold him tighter.

We stand that way for a while.

***

"That's so sad," Rachel says to me placing cereal into our shopping cart at the market.

"I know," I say, pushing the cart towards the meat section, "I got it wrong. I thought when the NFL makes the players go meet kids at the hospital it was more of a staged, 'lets humanize our players and show how much they care about the community and not just about a paycheck' thing and they leave once the cameras turn off."

"I totally get it. Sounds like they have a real connection."

My voice loses its fullness. "I feel bad about jumping to conclusions about him." My chin dips to my chest. "I could've blown the entire project."

***

I lie in bed, picking up and putting down my phone for what seems like the last twenty-five minutes. My stomach is tied up in knots.

I jump out of bed and I dial his number.

He answers, his voice deep and relaxed.

"I just want to say I'm sorry," I say in a breathy tone. I never like admitting when I'm wrong.

"For what?" he asks.

"For having you all wrong."

"Mhm hmm. Go on."

"Such an ass. I had you pegged for an imbecile and you didn't make it any easier. You were a dick."

"I'm a dick to everyone I don't know."

"So, it's a shield?"

"I wouldn't say it's a shield."

"Then what would you call it? Most people who put up a shield are hiding something or insecure about something. They have a force field they put up that locks out people. They miss out on developing real relationships because they don't let people _in_." I shift back under the covers.

"Sounds like you're describing yourself."

"What?" I violently push my sheets back. "I am not! What are you talking about? That is _not_ true."

"Yeah, whatever you say." He sounds like he's sipping something hot, like tea.

"It's not true."

"Then why haven't you had a boyfriend since senior year?"

"Excuse me?" I hop out of bed again, pacing around my bed. I feel like I'm under attack.

"I think that's a valid question."

"First off that's not true. Second... how do you know that?"

"If it's not true, why would you ask me how did I know?" He pauses. "And plus, I have my sources."

"It's none of your business."

"Why?"

_"Because_ ...it's not, that's why."

"You being a wordsmith, I expected you to come up with more than a juvenile answer."

"Look, I just called to apologize to you and you're antagonizing me?"

"I'm making a simple observation."

"You know why you don't need to know my business? Because Lacey Nichols's name isn't on the cover of the book."

"Yes it is."

"Don't act dumb. You know what I'm trying to say. The book isn't about me. It's about you. I'm not a writer who wants to put herself into the mix. The number one job of a writer is to not put themselves on to the page. There's a protocol. It's about the subject, not the authors. People don't buy the book to get to know me, they want to know you. It's my job to stay invisible. I called to apologize and now I'm getting the third degree."

"See, now don't deflect the question." He giggles. Is he toying with me? For some strange reason, I was kind of enjoying it. "Why is it so hard to answer?"

"Okay. Fine." I blow hot air into the phone. "I haven't had a boyfriend in a while."

"Three years? How long?"

"Gosh. Do you need an exact number or something? Is it going to make you feel better? Why does my dating status need to be discussed?"

"Because if the feeling to flirt with you arises, I won't feel so guilty." I'm glad I'm on the phone with him so he can't see my face flush with warmth. My cheeks are probably fire engine red.

"Myles, you and I both know you're not afraid of worrying about flirting with a guy's girlfriend. As a matter of fact, most guys would probably find it a compliment that you hit on their girl."

He snickers. "There is truth to that. But I don't get it. You're in an attractive young woman. What's the problem? You're pretty, smart, funny." That's the same thing Brad said. "We're not living in some small town up north. There are lots of single..."

I cut him off. "Lots of creepers. But that's beside the point. I've devoted myself to my career. I've dated, but nothing substantial comes out of it. My career is fulfilling."

"I understand. It can be a bit of a distraction though. Putting everything into your career and nobody to come home to. No one to cook a meal for you, rub your feet after they've been aching all day."

This guy is a master. One minute he could piss me off and have me ready to wring his neck and the other he could have me on a string, swooning away wrapped in his spell.

"I love my career, but dating can get tedious. It hasn't been _all_ bad though. It's a good distraction sometimes," I chuckle, "but a distraction nonetheless."

"Yeah, dating can be a hassle. You wouldn't believe the things I've seen being in the league. A lot of guys have been destroyed by the women we've come across."

"So _that's_ why the wall is up?" We're getting closer to the truth.

"You're not going to catch me driving to Vegas with three grams of cocaine marrying an-ex stripper that I met two months ago. I'm careful. Let me just say that. Though I see how I may come across cold-hearted or emotionally unavailable at times."

"I was going to say black hearted. Devoid of emotion. Emotionally incapable."

"You didn't have to take it to that level. But I get your point." He laughs, nearly snorting.

"How is it working for you though? All those celebratory wins. All those big games you've won and you come home to an empty house? No one to share that victory with? That's has to be little disconcerting."

"I was oblivious to it at first when I was younger. Being out after a game all night with the boys, coming in when the sun was coming up. But now after years of doing that, it gets stale."

"It didn't seem like it the night we met. Seemed like you were in your element."

"That was New Year's. Everybody's allowed to get crazy on New Year's. A lot of times, I'm in bed by nine o'clock."

"So am I. I'm in bed right now."

"Early bird catches the worm."

"Not really. I'm just a bitch on wheels if I don't get my eight hours."

"I bet you're wearing Spongebob pajamas."

I pause.

"I am," I say with a hint of dread.

"Awww that's so cute."

"Let's focus on the matter at hand. Tomorrow."

"Okay. Tomorrow night. I'll be staying at a hotel. I can cook you dinner."

"You mean the hotel chef will cook us dinner."

"No. I mean _I'll_ cook us dinner. Girl, just wait until you see me over a stove. I'm a wizard."

"I'll make sure I'll bring my Pepto Bismal."

"By the time you finish your meal. You'll be in love with me."

"I would say you're full of yourself, but I've said that so many times, it's gotten really old now."

"You're the writer. You can't be at a loss for words. If you are, we're going to have a big problem finishing this project."

"Goodnight Mr. Chef Boyardee."

"Goodnight Ms. Spongebob."

I push end on my phone and a permanent smile plasters my face as I lie on my side.

I love hearing his voice.

I...miss it. Admitting it makes me feel uneasy. This isn't supposed to happen. He's work. Research. I have to draw the line. But he's likeable. Magnetic. Compassionate. And irresistible. Dammit! Why do things have to be this complicated?

Why does he have to be so hot? And smarter than I thought? Why couldn't he be some overweight offensive tackle who just played video games and screwed strippers in his spare time? Why me?

Argh!

***

I originally planned to meet with the University of Michigan dean of students, Michael Foster at his office, but our schedules weren't able to sync up. I settle for a phone interview instead. I decide to interview him because he was a sort of mentor to Myles when he was in school, helping guide him through the rigors of excelling in the university's prestigious hallowed halls and excelling on the maize and blue football field every Saturday afternoon.

"Myles is a bit of a peculiar person," Michael says from his office. He didn't sound stuffy or dignified as I thought a dean of schools, especially at Michigan, would sound. He sounds very inviting and he's much a lover of books as I am. It's easy to speak with him.

"Peculiar?" I ask. Odd word choice. I'm intrigued.

"Here me out. Here's a young man, he could've gone to any top tier football school in the nation and have the red carpet rolled out for him, big man on campus and it would be a cake walk for him."

"Easy ride."

"Exactly. The coach pays someone do his homework. The professor knows this and gives him an A in whatever intro to Facebook class he's signed up for. But instead. Instead," as he repeats, his voice becomes animated, "he comes to Michigan. Our football program has been in the proverbial tank for years. He comes here and takes a full load of classes, every semester. Even in the summer."

"Peculiar indeed."

"The program thinks he's nuts. But Myles is intelligent. He can throw five touchdowns and finish a twenty page paper on the Renaissance Period in the same day. I was one of the only people on campus in his corner."

"His own team was against him furthering his education?"

"Absoultely. And this is off the record."

"Indeed it is." I stood up straight in my chair.

"People saw dollar signs in him. If he's a savior for this program, do you really want your prize investment taking on eighteen credit hours and have to memorize an entire playbook and on top of that satisfy the boosters, the team, and over a hundred thousand screaming fans?"

"I can understand that logic."

"Myles defied that logic."

There's a long pause. The more information about him, the more mythical he became.

I hear his chair creaking in the background. I take a sip of coffee. "And I won't even begin to talk about the whole Rhodes Scholar deal."

I shoot up in my seat, spilling my coffee on my shirt.

***

"Why didn't you tell me you were a Rhodes Scholar?" I yell at Myles as he opens the hotel door. I'm breathless and sweating from rushing up to his room.

"You never asked," he says returning my question with laughter.

"How would I know to ask something like that? You think it's something casual like, 'what kind of bread are you having on your sandwich, rye or pumpernickel'?"

"I don't like to pump myself up too much."

"Are you serious? You're the person who came into our offices and said who's going to make me a bigger star. Now you want to downplay your accolades? That's the last thing you should downplay. That's an amazing feat." He let's me into the room. "I'm confused."

"People don't care about that stuff. And besides, I turned it down." He peruses the room service menu. "I'm getting the eggs benedict. You want anything?"

"What do you mean, you turned it down?" I say showing my palms to him in disbelief.

"I aced the interview and afterwards I did a little research on Cecil Rhodes, the founder of the scholarship. I didn't like what I found." He smiles bitterly.

"And?"

"The guy was racist." His eyes leave me and focus back on the menu. "The lobster linguine is good, but I don't want to be bloated from the carbs."

"What? He was _not_ racist. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Do your research. It's there. You should try the pancakes."

"No thank you."

"Girl, stop. You know you want some pancakes. Ice cream or something." I hop on the bed and look over his shoulder at the menu.

"Why are you in a hotel anyways? Why aren't you at home? The game is Sunday."

"I know. I always come here to clear my head."

"But it's Wednesday."

"I know. It's a ritual I've had since college. I come here to get away from the noise. Clear my head.

He lies back and then rolls over on his side and facing me, propping his head up into his palm.

"Michael Foster said you went to Oxford anyway. Just for a summer on your own. What's it like there? I've never been."

"It's amazing. There's an energy there that's unexplainable. You can feel the history there."

"Wait. You didn't know all of this from the start?"

"I spent most of the first few days just trying to figure out what a first down meant."

"Did you ever learn what it means?"

"No." I bury my face in my palms and cackle. "This game is so hard. It's harder than Chinese arithmetic."

"It's harder than a thirteen year old boy in a strip club."

I fall back onto the bed in hysterics.

"It's harder than me trying to me trying to parallel park."

"No, no, no." I grab his wrist, struggling to speak from the laughter. "Its harder than you trying not to stop and look at yourself in the mirror."

"Ooohh. That's a good one!"

"It's harder than me trying not to look at your eyes and smile."

I freeze. I didn't expect that. My smile straightens and I clear my throat. Our eyes lock for a moment and I break the uncomfortable, yet alluring silence, by yanking the menu from under his chest. "I _am_ a little hungry." I scan the menu up and down – anything to get the focus away from what he just said. Even though I liked hearing it.

"You know what? You're pretty cool," he says and raises an eyebrow. "You are once you get that stick out of your ass."

"Uh, thanks. I guess."

"You need to not take thinks so seriously sometimes."

"You think you got me all figured out don't you?"

"I almost went to MIT. I think I know a thing or two."

"Or eight. I bet you walk around like you're the brightest person in the room."

"I'm actually kind of shy."

"Shy? Yeah right. You were almost half naked for that GQ interview and you put your feet on the table at the presentation."

"That was my handlers who set up that photo."

"But you did it."  
"They said it would be good for my image. That photo shoot was over two years old. It must have done the job—you remembered it.

"And what about that underwear ad?"

"Okay, you win."

He shoots up off the bed and refills his glass of wine and pours another." He brings it over to me, playfully twirling the glasses around in front of me.

"Thank you. What is this?" I take a generous sip and slosh it around my jaws.

He looks at me confused. "It's not grape juice. It's wine silly. Where did you go to school?" He shakes his head in a playfully disgusted manner.

I slap his knee. Uh oh. I just didn't do that. My patented flirting move. I broke the barrier. The barrier that took me years to learn. I don't want to get close to him. Not him. Not this guy. He's the one you absolutely didn't want to get wrapped up in.

Emotion is battling with logic and it's winning. By a huge margin.

I have to change the subject fast. "You know what, I'll take the French toast. That's without a doubt going to straight to my hips. Just remind me tomorrow to hit the treadmill until I pass out."

"Straight to your hips?" He leans his head back to get a better glimpse of my thighs. "That might be a good thing."

"No it _does_ not." I say defiantly. They're already too muscular for my size. You can thank four years of varsity volleyball in high school for that.

"You do have a little _somethin'_ back there for a white girl." He picks up the phone and places an order to room service. "I'm sorry. Your boyfriend probably wouldn't like me talking like that to you. My apologies."

"I don't have a boyfriend." I say it clear as day, so there's no misunderstanding. "I told you that at least three times already. You must have selective hearing."

"Too many blows to the head remember? So...about this butt thing..."

Over the next hour we discuss butts, breasts, and other topics not concerning the life of Myles McCrae. It felt good to have a nice conversation and be silly for once in a while.

"A lot of guys say I have a big butt...and not in a good way either," I say, continuing our dissertation about rear ends. "I guess it's my cross to bear."

"See black men appreciate thickness in all the right places," Myles says. His eyes narrow and he smirks slightly, his face full of flirtation. And I hate to admit that it's working. Dammit.

"Most guys don't appreciate what they have in their women. Curves should be valued. I don't like the bony types. The whole thirteen pre-pubescent boy look...not my thing." The corners of his lips curl down while he shakes his head and I laugh uncontrollably.

"Not your thing huh?"

"Everyone has things they like and don't like." He gently pokes my knee. "Let's take you for instance. What do you look for in a guy?" Okay, we were veering off the path here. I hate the spotlight being on me. This is about him. He's good at disarming people, no matter how much you disliked him. Stick him in a room with people who were turned off by him and in twenty minutes you'd have new believers, winning over every last one of them. And they wouldn't know how he did it. "And you can't say something generic like a nice smile or intellect either. Be creative." He finishes off he purple contents in his glass and puts it on the nightstand and locks his gaze towards me with intense scrutiny.

"Wow," I snort. This is a big deal for you."

This is actually an easy question despite him acting like it isn't. Senior year of college I actually compiled my likes and dislikes in a notebook binder. And not just a numbered list. This was comprehensive. It was complete with stickers, anecdotes, journal entries. I got up to three hundred and ninety-seven. Not a huge number for a single twenty-one year old, but with the added musings and opinions, the amount of pages grew to telephone book size.

Don't judge me.

I got stood up that night and I went and drank a pint of cheap vodka. The things we do when bored with a bottle of ice-cold vodka in our fists. Keep that between us. He doesn't need to know that. And he never will. Instead, I play coy.

"I like jaws." I feel vein for saying it. It sounds worse coming out of my mouth than actually imagining it. "A nice strong jawline. It oozes masculinity to me. It's sexy." I pause, again thinking about how silly it sounds, but I continue. "That's lame isn't' it?"

"No, it's not lame. Everybody has a _thang_ , you know."

_"Thang."_ I say repeating him in his 'trying to be cool accent'.

He looks straight through me. "Don't do that again. Totally not cool coming from you."

I grab a pillow and throw it at him. Hard. It hit him in his ear. And he shrieks, holding his ear. He shoots up, wincing. "What's wrong with you? That eardrum has been damaged all year. How could you do that?"

"I'm sorry I didn't know. I didn't mean it. I was just trying to play around."

Pain and then anger fill his face. And terror fills mine. "The biggest game of my career is on Sunday! What's wrong with you?"

I rush over to him to try to mend things. He pulls his hand down and says, "Sike!" He tackles me on to the bed and tickles every part of my body. His hands play my body like an accordion to the point where I nearly pee on myself.

"Ohmygodihateyou!" I scream. He finally stops after continuous, desperate pleas by me. I lay on my back, out of breath, sheer moments from breaking out into a sweat. His face lie next to mine and our gaze is fixed on each other's. The heat of our breath mix and my stomach flutters as he slightly licks his lips. His eyes still on me. Mine still on his.

His face faintly inches closer to mine. His lips full, moist, inviting. I want it. He wants it.

And the door bangs.

We both jump slightly and clear our throats, snapping back to the inconvenient reality after being caught in a hot moment.

"Room service," the voice says.

Myles breathes a deep breath of disappointment and answers the door.

Back to work it is.

"Why do an autobiography?" I ask finishing my french toast and strawberries. I look down at it and I guess I really am becoming comfortable around him because I clean the plate. "That's for retired politicians and musicians fresh out of rehab. You're not even in your thirties."

"What difference does that make? I've accomplished a lot and I have a lot to say. The book format works a lot better for me."

"For what to feed your ego? To add bestseller to your repertoire?"

"Absolutely not. I know you always joke about me being egotistical, but hear me out. My story is unique. The city I'm from, most young men who look like me either end up dead or in jail before the age of...we grew up saying say twenty-five...now it's eighteen. With some stroke of luck, I not only made it out, I've transcended what the expectations of what a young black kid is supposed to be. The little ones growing up there now, they don't have many role models. If they can see my story, see that we share the same beginnings, they can take it much, much further than where I am today. I wouldn't have as much influence. I wouldn't have the ears of those kids if I were a marine biologist or a brain surgeon. Sadly."

"That speaks volumes to where we're at in society. Our values are placed on athletes rather than artists, teachers, doctors. You are the ones who are the voice of the people unfortunately. You realized that at a young age. It's pretty remarkable to have a vision like that."

"But this isn't exclusive to me. The league is over sixty percent African-American. Other players have a platform just like me, but they never use it."

"So what are you going to use it for?"

"Stick around ole chap and you'll see."

I scrunch my face up at him for being a tease.

"But on the opposite side of the coin, I'm raised to this superhero status, where it seems like I'm no longer human..."

"And are above making mistakes?"

"Exactly! If I do make a mistake, the ground shatters apart."

My respect for him grows ten-fold. I can't fix my mouth at this point to call him dumb jock or even egotistical. No man who's willing and committed to lending his support to his community at that age can be egotistical. It's the exact opposite. I turn on the tape recorder at his request and sat mesmerized as he speaks for hours about his upbringing in Flint. He speaks of old friends, living, incarcerated, and deceased and their impact on him. He tells me what it was like to have gone to more funerals than weddings.

But it isn't always gloom in the conversation. He speaks about how in high school he was recruited by dozens of college coaches around the nation like he was the hottest girl in school being asked out to prom. He reminisces about stepping on a college campus the first time and the frat parties where he did keg stands. He tells about how his mother nearly fainted when he says he wanted to play football in high school. That 'barbaric, mindless, silly game' little did she know would propel her son to heights unimaginable.

We mostly don't talk about the actual game of football. My boss wants the glitzy stuff: quarterback heroics, dalliances with supermodels and Hollywood actresses. That was all true and he never downplays that aspect of his life. But this book needs to be so much more than that.

But I do need to add in a little of the fluff for good measure.

"Have you ever played hurt?" I ask sipping another glass from a bottle of vintage Sicilian cab he just opened. It tastes like heaven.

"Everyone plays hurt," He says so nonchalantly. "It's a part of the game. You deal with it."

"No. I mean seriously hurt. Like you say to yourself, I really shouldn't be on the field right now because it might jeopardize the team or this may jeopardize my future career."

He smooths his pants and takes a hefty sip. "When mama died."

I look at him with tender eyes. "I found out hours before the kickoff. It was a Monday night game. She hadn't been sick or anything. She passed from a heart attack. All of my family came from out of town to the house. Hardest thing I had to see was my father break down the way he did. I never seen that man cry until that day. I decided I wasn't going to play. The game wasn't important—being around my family was. Football—it's a game. But my family, my dad especially, they wanted me to play. He said she would have wanted me to get out there. She never missed a game and she wouldn't be missing that one. So I went out there."

"How did you muster up the courage to play? No one would have criticized you for sitting out. I couldn't have done it. I'd want the world to swallow me up in some dark corner."

"You and me both. I don't know where I got the strength to play that day. And play as well as I did. She wanted me to play. Hours before the game, I went to lie down in my old bedroom and fell asleep. I had a dream that she spoke to me. I don't recall what exactly she said, but she did say to keep on pushing. And I did."

"I've watched clips of that game on the internet. That was the best first half for a quarterback in league history. It was amazing."

"Thank you. She was on the field with me that day. Right in the huddle. I choked back tears that entire game. I just felt like a kid again in a park, drawing up plays in the sand with my boys." He dings his glass with his nails a couple of times to distract him from the sting he surely felt from conjuring up the memory of that day. His eyes fight back every tear that wells up.

We're on the bed close now, our elbows gently touching. I feel closer to him.

"Have you ever lost someone?"

I nod hesitantly. "My sister. Julia." I breathe deeply, thinking if I should tell the story. "Before I went to college, senior year, my parents filed for divorce. It was nasty. Very nasty. Julia and I heard every fight. Every dish broken on the floor. Every scream. Even though I was seventeen and a little mature, no kid should hear those kinds of things. No kid wants to hear those things being said about their mom and dad. Julia cried herself to sleep every night. She wasn't taking it well at all. I wasn't either, but I tried to be strong...be a big sister to her. She was fourteen at the time. She started seeing a therapist and got a little better. My parents got better too. They tried working it out. It seemed to work out for a while, but not for long. After I moved away to school, it got real bad and so did Julia. First it was the cutting of her hair. Clumps and patches of it at a time. Then she started cutting herself. I would visit on the weekends sometimes and my dad had moved out. No one told me anything. They just acted like nothing was wrong. My family was falling apart and they acted like it was normal."

"One night at school, my mom called me, sounding hysterical. You know when you hear from someone and you know it isn't good news? I thought it would be an aunt or grandfather, but never in a million years would I have that I'd hear those words – your sister Julia passed away."

"What happened? If you don't mind me asking."

"I can talk about it now and not have a panic attack." I pause to gather myself, swallowing hard to force the pit down my throat. "She swallowed a bottle of prescription pills. They weren't even hers. They were my mom's. For years I hated myself because..."

"You felt if you were there with her, she wouldn't have done it," he says finishing my sentence.

I nod in agreement.

"She looked up to me. I was her big sister. I know for a fact she thought she was alone. I still have a lot of questions. Like why didn't she call me? She could have visited me and stayed for a weekend. I know she felt like she couldn't go to anybody."

"Unanswered questions will drive you crazy if you let them. I'm sorry to hear about your loss."

"I'm still taking it one day at a time, you know? It's still raw."

"You never do get over it. They say time heals all..."

"But time isn't enough," I say finishing his thought. He nods. "There's an emptiness that never gets refilled. Time, new experiences, moving to a new city, personal growth...those are all great things, but they just aren't enough to replace the hurt."

"The pain never goes away. You just have to find a way to mask it."

Then it goes silent. Myles sips his water. The ice clangs around in the glass. I hear him crunch a few of the small cubes in his mouth.

More silence.

I always fall apart like a house of cards when I talk about Julia. I'm shocked I keep it together.

The subject definitely needs to be changed. "So," I say, pursing my lips together in a flirtatious manner, "Have you ever been in love before?"

His head yanks up like a perched raven spotting its prey. His smile creeps up to his cheeks like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

"Fuck love," he says smiling.

I nearly choke on my wine. I cough hard and my eyes water. He reaches over and pats me on my back. "You okay there?" I nod furiously, my face stinging. "You need some water?"

"Do you need some?" I twist my neck to him with an attitude, still hacking.

"Whoa," he pushes away from me laughing, "where's that coming from?"

"Fuck love? What kind of animal says that? I expected you to say something like that, just less vulgar."

"Well allow me to rephrase that." He clears his throat and clears each side of his mouth with his napkin like he was at etiquette class. I shake my head in repulsion, not removing my narrowed eyes at him. "Love is overrated."

"That's an even worse thing to say."

"You watch too many chick flicks."

"I don't watch that trash."

"I forgot, you're a writer, you read those trashy romance novels with naked with long, flowing blonde hair on the front cover. Guys named Flavio and Sergio."

"The written word is so much better than some popcorn movie, but that's besides the point. Love is not overrated. It's perfectly fine. Maybe you just aren't good enough to receive it. You were hurt weren't you? Some girl probably hurt you bad. Ripped out your heart and stepped on it. Yep. I can see it now. Probably in college. Big man on campus. Every girl wants you except that one girl. She probably wasn't even the cutest. But you liked her. Hundreds of hotter girls. But you wanted her, because she didn't care about how you can throw four touchdowns in front of a packed stadium. What was her name?"

"Why does a guy have to be flawed or bitter or hurt to have a quote unquote unpopular opinion about love? Typical woman."

I sigh violently. "Ohmygod, I could rip my hair out right now. You're such a...a...a...man."

He smiles. He stands up and pulls his sweat pants out by the waist and looks down into them. "Yep. Dick. Balls. All there." His pants snap back into his stomach.

Did he really just do that? He really did do that. "You're abrasive." I bury my head into my hands. "Worst project ever. Epic fail Lacey."

"And to think this is just the first week."

Fuck my life.

I look at my watch. It's a quarter past...whatever. It doesn't matter, it's late. I yawn. "It's late. I better get going."

"Fine. Leave then. You're not wanted here." He folds his arms and pouts his lips like a bratty stepchild. I stand up and stumble over my feet. Those sneaky Malbecs. Always getting the best of me.

He takes hold of my arm, pulling me down on the bed. "You're not getting behind a wheel like that."

"It's okay. I've done it plenty of times."

"We all have. And we're all stupid for doing it. Stay here. We've had a fun time." I did as well, but I'm not admitting it. Now I _could_ call a cab, but I don't feel like waiting. And then I'd have to catch it all the way back to the hotel in the morning to get my car and still be awake in time to attend his practice and do more interviews tomorrow. It didn't make sense to leave.

But there's only one bed. Trouble.

"I'll stay. And not because you asked. Because I don't want to drive drunk."

"I'll even be a gentlemen and sleep in the other room." Thank God there's another room. Me and him in the same bed? Trouble waiting to happen—even if he slept on top of the covers.

"I didn't know you and the word gentlemen could be in the same place."

"Hardy har har. You have a room all to yourself!"

"Oh don't I feel special?"

"You should. I don't let anyone in my room. This is my ritual. No one even knows I'm here. So yes, absolutely consider yourself lucky."

He guides me to the spare bedroom across the suite. Two doors separate the rooms. Nice digs, but kind of disappointed by it. Too basic. Especially for a millionaire star quarterback. I expected king sized bed with thread count sheets that I couldn't fathom sleeping on. It's just blah.

I guess my blank expression my face gave it way. "Not up to your standards?" He smirks.

"No, this is fine. I just thought this would be..."

"More extravagant?" he asks finishing my sentence.

"Well yeah. No bear skin rugs, no stripper pole."

He shrugs. "I'm a frugal kind of guy. What can I say?"

After nearly panicking about how I would brush my teeth, I thank God that the gift basket on the desk has a mini toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash. I sit on the edge on the bed, folding my arms thinking about the kiss Myles and I almost had and the one we _did_ have on NYE. I fight the urge to go back into his room and cuddle with him. That's out of the question. I already took this too far, much farther than it should've gone. He _does_ have succulent lips though. I bite mine just imagining how he tastes. It gives me chills just from the thought of it.

I haven't snuggled with anyone in weeks.

Myles knocks on the door and I rush over and open it. He stands there in a tank top and shorts. His biceps are begging for me to reach out and touch them, caress them, but I regain my composure. "Wishing me a good night?" I ask hoping he would say yes and wrap his arms around me and kiss me like I'm the only woman on the planet.

"I wanted to give you this to sleep in," he says holding a football jersey in his hand. "You didn't plan on staying here, so wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable and sleep in jeans."

"Don't worry. I sleep." I frown up, realizing I'm saying too much more than I should have. "I mean...thank you." I take the jersey and stretch it out in front of me. It's his. Number twelve. "Not bad."

"It's clean."

"So you just carry around your own jersey?" I lean up against the doorway.

OMG, his lips look soooo delectable. And he knows it. My pussy quivers looking at them. Just appraising them forces me to envision me straddling his chocolate frame, riding his cock ravenously, suckling his bottom lip making him scream.

"I told you I have a ritual. I'll tell you about it tomorrow."

Silence.

He looks at me. I look at him. We say nothing. My heart races and I fiddle with my thumbs.

We both laugh nervously.

He folds his arms, his hulking frame dripping brown toffee. I want it to drizzle all over my body.

"Do you need anything? Tea? A magazine?" His voice is gentler, but still deep, his smile more inviting.

"I...I'm fine." I swallow the dry lump in my throat, resisting looking at his mischievous eyes or his buttery lips.

I want it and I know he does.

Why can't he just lean forward a little bit more? I would finish the rest.

Neither of us made the move.

"Well...goodnight." He takes a half step back, waiting for something, any type of response that would give him an invite to make a move.

I give none.

"Goodnight," I say. He fades away into his dimly lit room and closes the door behind him never taking his eyes off of me.

Why didn't he make a move? Why didn't I? I sit up in bed my chewing my fingernails trying to make sense of what just happened.

The image of him staring at me, begging for my touch, stayed with me until I drifted off to sleep.

***

The Cobras facility is another world in itself. It's like a small community college, complete with a museum of the team's history, banquet hall, auditorium, and dormitory. I know the league is a billion dollar industry, but I'm amazed at how professional things are run here.

I pass security clearance after my name and appointment is verified, not once, but twice. And I have to wear a press pass around my neck at all times.

I'm here to interview Spencer Ross, good friend of Myles and the starting tight end for the Cobras. They played against each other several times in high school on rival teams and developed sort of a kinship over the years. They became even better friends when the Cobras drafted the both of them. Myles says if there's anybody on the team that truly knows him well, it's Spencer.

I sip my coffee, walking catlike onto the practice field among a constant stream of commotion: trainers are stretching player's hamstrings out on the sidelines, their faces grimacing, coaches are deliberating over clip boards, their hands scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, and then there are the reporters, complete with their tape recorders, notepads, and smartphones surrounding the players.

And nestled right in the middle of the chaos, seemingly at peace of it all, seeking solace under the hot flashbulbs and rapid-fire questions, complete with a smile made for the silver screen is Myles. He sees me walk by the fray and winks at me. If my eyes serve me correctly, I swear I saw a twinkle in his eye when he winked at me. Maybe was a flash from someone's smartphone. Maybe it's the wine from last night that compromised my ability to judge reality from...desire.

Wait. Did I just say desire?

Okay, let's just get things straight. We almost kissed. Almost. But we didn't. Period. I know we did on NYE, but that doesn't count. Let's not get ahead of myself. Anyone can get caught up in the midst of a hot moment that didn't even happen. I was drunk and he's a cutiepie. That's it. Now it's morning and I'm sober. Back to work. Back to reality.

Real or fake, whatever it is, it made me smile like a seven year old when they're told if they were good they would get an ice cream cone.  
I snap out of my emotions as I see Spencer.  
He greets me with a smile, holding himself up on a pair of crutches. His left ankle is wrapped up in a large boot. His smile quickly changes to a confused frown, as if some well-tucked away thought instantly reappears as he sees my face.  
"I think I know you," he says taking a sip of his coffee, or tea or beer or whatever fit is that football players drink in the morning. That's mean. I'm trying to wipe off the pretentiousness, really I am. His eyes study me over the rim of his cup. "I think I met you before. Your voice _did_ sound familiar over the phone."  
From where, I wonder. I don't know any athletes, aside from Myles. I've never dated any and I sure as hell never had sex with any, even after those head-pounding Sunday mornings in college where I was too drunk to remember what happened hours before.  
"I'm sorry. I don't think we've ever met," I say. I'm sure the wrinkles in my forehead give away my cluelessness.

His eyes light up. "Now I remember! You went to Northwestern," he says pointing at my chest. "I dated your roommate my sophomore year."  
I stare blankly at him. It's still not ringing a bell. I remember my roommate Kim, but not him.  
"I'm sorry. I really didn't pay attention to the guys she dated. There were so many coming in and out, after awhile it got confusing. It was like a turnstile of boys."  
The skin between his eyebrows puckers. "That was my fiancée." His voice is flat with a tinge of anger.  
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."  
"We broke up after college though." His voice returns to the same cool tone he greeted me with.  
"Sorry to hear that. I'm sorry I came across so curt."  
"It's okay. That was the reason why we broke up." Ooookay. Thanks for the info. I thought I was here to speak about Myles and not his dating woes. "I'm shocked you don't remember me. We had a huge argument."  
"You and I did?" Out of the corner of my eye, I see the web of media dissipate and Myles put his jersey on.  
"C'mon, practice is about to start. We need to get off the field like right now," he says grabbing my arm gently, walking me up the stairs to the upper deck, which overlooks the indoor field.  
I take a few more sips of coffee and the memory of sophomore year begins to filter back into my consciousness.  
"I can't believe you don't remember! You said I stole your Norah Jones cd."  
My eyes grow to the size of footballs. I smack him on his thigh and instantly pull my hand back in fright, desperately hoping I don't injure him any further.  
"You!" He breaks into a laugh, doubling over.  
"Yeah, remember me now?"  
"How could I forget?" I waive my hand flippantly. "I cherished that cd." I bury my face in my hands, all the memories flowing in like water... "I feel so bad. Come to find out, you didn't take it."  
"Duh. That's what I tried to tell you." He smacks his palm into his forehead.  
"I left it at my parent's house that weekend."  
"Why would I of all people listen to Norah Jones?"  
"Beats me. You and Kim used to play that one song all the time."  
He shrugs. "That wasn't me. I just played whatever she wanted just so I could get in her pants."  
I bite my cheek. "Ugh. Must _all_ you men be the same?"  
He rakes his eyes over me with a look of disgust. "Let's not get into the battle of the sexes now."  
"Right. Let's get down to business."  
Spencer gives me a lot of insight to Myles's spiritual side, or at least a method to Myles's madness. Myles believes in God, but isn't attached to any particular religion or faith. He's a very spiritual person. Even borderline superstitious. The purple knit tie he wore the day he got drafted, he wore it under his jersey for every game he played in his rookie season. He also said Myles has a mantra he repeats one hundred times lying on his back in front of his locker. I ask him what is it that he says and he says he's sworn to secrecy and I'd have to batter him to near death and then—only then—would he even consider telling me. Spencer is six foot four and two hundred and sixty pounds. I have a lot of reasons to believe him.  
He jokes that he thinks Myles would run for president a decade or two after he retires. He folds into laughter when he says it, but stops abruptly when thinking about it further. He cocks his head and says Myles would probably win too if he ever decides to run. Those are the juicy bits I need for the book.  
But that isn't the most interesting thing I notice.

Every time I look down at the field, I'd catch Myles's helmet turned up towards our seats. Like he was checking up on me. Okay. Maybe he's worried about what people have to say about him, even though he considers Spencer a friend. Maybe he has reason to—Spencer is a big time flirt. An innocent tap on the leg here, a compliment on how nice my hair is—he was all over. Innocent flirting. I can tolerate it. It's a part of the business. Okay. Okay. I didn't really stop him either.

But Myles is concentrating on what's going on with us rather than what's happening on the field.

He'd throw a pass and it would be too off target for the receiver to catch it. He'd walk back to the huddle and he'd still be looking up at us. He'd get behind the center and fumble the ball in his hands.

"Get your god damn head in the game McCrae!" the coach says screaming at Myles. "Biggest game in our franchise's history! No more mistakes!"

The next time up, Myles throws a laser to a wide-open player who swipes the ball mid stream and dashes to the end zone. "That's more like it," his coach yells walking away to the sideline.

When Spencer tells me a joke about how big Myles's ego is, I collapse into a giggle fit and Myles's next pass is caught by the defense for an interception.

"Ouch," Spencer says.

The coach throws his clipboard onto the turf and Myles pounds his fist into his hand.

Hmmmm. A bit jealous are we?

***

I spend my entire Saturday, not doing research, but at the mall. I have to find a new outfit for the team meal that Myles invites me to later. It's players only. Reporters and beat-writers are traditionally off limits, but he says he's the team captain and can break any rules he wants.

I stand in front of the mirror for over three hours applying makeup. Should I straighten my hair or just leave my curls as they are? How about slacks instead of jeans? Leather jeggings would be too unprofessional. But these are football players I'm dealing with—they'd probably like it. They're eyes have seen worse. I need to find a fine line between journalist and down to earth. Just loosen up Lacey. Why is my heart racing?

"Jesus Lacey. You know we only have one bathroom right?" Rachel says from outside the door.

"Sorry. I'm just putting on some finishing touches," I say applying my fourth, different color of lipstick. I think I'm going to settle on red.

"You never take this long. Remember Stephanie's wedding? You were ready in twenty minuets." I open the door, Rachel is standing smack in front of it with her arms folded. Her eyes narrow, surveying me from head to toe. "Wait. You're sweet on this guy aren't you?"

I turn and face the mirror again, wiping a tissue over the smudge of red on my teeth. " _Please_. I am not. He's a football player for God's sake."

She briskly enters the bathroom and picks up the lipstick applicator and sees the Elle magazine folded out to the page that read, "Hottest Makeup Trends of Winter 2015. "What is this?" She picks up the makeup kit. "What is this stuff? You _bought_ all of this? You never put on makeup.

I pay no attention to her and poke away at my hair. "And?"

I can feel the gossip wheel churning inside her mind. " _Lacey_ likes _Myles_." She says in a sing-songy, schoolyard girly-girl manner.

"What are we five now?"

The doorbell rings and my body jolts, chilling every centimeter of my skin. "That's him! That's him!" Rachel slams her hands over her ears due to my voice rising to maximum level decibels. On my tippy toes, I scuttle into the bedroom. "Can you get the door?" I squeal to Rachel, still in the bathroom. "Tell him I'll be down in two minutes. Two minutes! Please!" My voice chokes with terror as I nearly trip and fall into the closet.

From upstairs, I hear Rachel invite Myles in and introduce themselves to each other.

More than two minutes passes when I finally slip my heels on. This outfit will have to do: a white, wrinkled blouse, black leather jeggings, black heels, and a black leather jacket that I bought at the Salvation Army.

I look damn sexy. My curls are perfect, as they always are. My lipstick pops – cherry red. I surprised myself with the mascara. I followed the directions on the page and after many do-overs, I finally get the cat eye effect with my eyeliner. I can get used to this makeup thing.

After a few sprays of perfume, I saunter down the steps––awaiting my presence to be welcomed.

The two of them are discussing his GQ Man of the Year photo shoot. He cradles a black motorcycle helmet under his arm. Myles's lips parts and his eyes perk up as he struggles to realize I'm the same girl he just saw yesterday.

He shoots up off the ottoman and scans me from head to toe, gracing me with his trademark smile. I pray I don't fall down the stairs. I despise heels with a passion.

He licks his lips and mutters something only audible to himself. I smile and look at Rachel and she's smiling too.

My heels plod down on the floor, taking the last step.

"Hi, Myles." I put on my best breathy, seductive voice—and I can't figure out why I do.

"You...look..." He shakes his head in disbelief.

"A Rhodes Scholar and you can't figure out the words?" I ask confidently.

Rachel's head jerks back in shock from those two words. "You're a Rhodes Scholar?"

Myles doesn't respond. He never releases his eyes from my frame.

"Are you ready to go? I didn't know you had a bike." I snatch the helmet out of his hands at marvel at its sparkling blackness. "So awesome."

He nods again. Frozen. His face is concentrated, like it's burning a permanent image of me standing before him inside his head.

Tonight is going to be exciting.

***

We hop on his bike—a sleek, midnight black rocket—Myles pushes the pedal to the metal and the roar of the engine snatches us deep into the night.

I wrap my arms around his stomach, clenching his silk shirt, as we rip through the night like a panther's claw, curving through the concrete arteries of the city, hoping, praying we didn't hit a batch of black ice and crash. My stomach clenches tighter with each twist, turn, dip, and dash out traffic. The brisk wind mutes the thunderous purr of his bike, but I could feel its motor humming through my body as we bullet through the silent city.

La Dolce Vita is a traditional Italian restaurant planted right on the edge of Detroit's northern city limits. Their eggplant Parmesan is always on my to-do list, but I never could venture off my normal beaten path of work to home and vice versa. To the right of it is a burned down record shop named Lou's Records. The sign's still standing and in good condition. Groovin' Since 1958 it reads. To the left of the restaurant is a used junkyard that's caged in. Rusted cars with hoods missing and dusty tires stuck in patches of mud litter the yard. It looks open. There's a gentleman, in overalls sitting at the front desk, holding a mug and reading a book.

The restaurant is nestled in a tucked away, hidden in plain sight by green ivy covering its sidewalk entrance. A hidden, glistening gem stuck between two eyesores. That's the beauty of Detroit. A beautiful struggle. You can literally walk by the place and not even know it's there. Even its sign out front is covered up by the greenery. Around the back corner is an outdoor café adorned by cobblestone and Christmas tree lights. I've never been to Milan, but I imagine it would be the same as this. The faint scent of espresso sings in my nostrils.

The entire team filters in the private room of the restaurant, clad in their best fittings. It was Myles's idea for everyone to dress up. If they want to be winners, they have to dress like winners, he says as he says hands the keys to the valet.

I walk behind Myles in the crowded room as he introduces me to his players, all dressed in black suits, ties, and dress shoes. Being so tiny in room full of two-hundred plus pound men intimidates me. Myles grins and extends his hand to me. I grab it and rarely do I let go of it for the rest of the night.

I sit back and watch him control the room of men in suits the same way he controls them on the field.

They hung off every word he says. Every pause he held between each sentence, they hung on the edge of their seat. Spencer's right. He really _could_ run for president if he wanted to one day.

It makes me think. Every time I would meet wit Myles, the perception that I had of him melts away. He's something special and he knows it.

We swirl spaghetti noodles in beds of marinara and basil and cabernet flows down our tongues in between conversations about unruly coaches and nagging injuries. But I know they're holding back because I'm here. I tell the three gentlemen at our table to speak how they would speak to each other if they were in the locker room and I was invisible.

After a few rebuttals due to them wanting to be respectful to the lady, Myles reassures them. "She can take it. Trust me," he says.

"I'm fine," I say. "I've heard it all and then some."

To my surprise, they still remain respectful. As the servers brings out the next course of meals, the conversation shifts to politics, international travel, organic vegetables, oddly enough.

"I swear," Marcell, the backup running back, sitting to the right of me says, "I know it's just rumors and shit..." he catches himself and stops, "my fault on the cursing."

"Don't mind me," I say.

"She curses more than I do. And that's when she's sober," Myles said.

"Well, you got me there," I say.

"Well, I know it's just rumors right now, but if they ever have an expansion team in London and I get traded there...I'm retiring. Off rip, feel me?"

"C'mon man," Ryan, the red headed and bearded offensive tackle says, "You didn't like the big smoke? I thought it was great."

"How can you say it was great when we were only there for four days and spent most of it in a cold ass practice facility?"

"Mr. Rhodes Scholar over there is pretty quiet. London's a fuckin second home for you ain't it? He nods, swallowing his last spoonful of crème Brule.

Myles leans over to me and whispers, "I'll never be able to live this Rhodes Scholar thing down." He says to the rest of the table, "I loved living in London."

"But you couldn't live there?" Ryan asks.

"Permanently?" Myles says. "Hell no. I like the sun too much. I could live there for a set amount of time, but not the rest of my life."

"What about you miss writer girl?" Ryan asks.

"I could definitely live in London. But Paris is the place that calls me. The crepes. OMG." I say.

"Fuck is a crepe?" Marcell asks.

Ryan shrugs, "I think it's a bagel or something."

I give the two of them an unforgivable look. "You are in downtown Detroit and you've never been to Paris Crepes?" I ask.

"I still don't know what a Crepe is." Ryan says.

"Ask your girlfriends what a crepe is," I say to them.

"Red Ryan over here'll find out what a crepe is before he finds out what a girlfriend is," Myles says. "And Florida boy Marcell over here is just trying to survive the winter."

Marcell blows a breath of frustration and bewilderment. "They told me the winters was bad up here, but shit, I didn't expect all this shit," he says. "How do ya'll get below zero wind chill, a foot of snow, and ice, all that same time?"

"I thought Florida boys could take anything?" Ryan asks.

"Shit not this," Marcell replies.

"You just need somebody to keep you warm at night," I say.

"I got plenty. My bed is still ice cold," Marcell says. He's about to sip his water before he pauses. "Wait ain't you that girl from the New Years Eve party that fell down the stairs? I knew you looked familiar. That looked like a nasty fall."

"No, I think that was someone else," I say. I don't care if I lied. I want nothing to do with that episode again.

"Any way. Ol' Po over there knows a thing or two about the ladies keeping his bed warm," Ryan says. "Throw about five touchdowns tomorrow, see if you don't bring home like four or five of 'em."

"Easy easy now," Myles says deflecting. "I'm trying to change my ways."

"Oh he's a player huh?" I ask.

"This guy? You didn't read his interview in Playboy? We got it taped up in the locker room," Ryan says.

Myles buries his face in his napkin.  
"Playboy interview. Wow. You seem to have kept that one from me, Po." I say mockingly.

By the time the crème brule and coffee arrives, Myles looks around the room and sees restless faces, as the night is starting to wear thin. Suit jackets are off and ties are loosened.

Marcell, the backup running back to the right of me leans over and buries his head into my ear. "You know you're getting insider access, right now. You know that right?" he asks.

"Call me lucky then," I say.

"Dead ass," he says nodding. "Not even coaches are allowed at these type of meetings, let alone reporters. You must've really got inside of Po's head. He really doesn't like your type."

"Brunettes?"

"No, the media."

We share a laugh that's interrupted by Myles clanging his butter knife against his nearly empty water glass.

"I like to thank ya'll for coming out," he says standing up, buttoning his suit jacket.

"Like we had a choice," someone said from the middle table creating laughter out of the bunch.

"I want to thank everybody for attending," Myles says. I want to thank the staff here at Motown Grille for letting fifty some odd barbarians come in and pour libations and be eat drink and be merry, putting their establishment at risk of being destroyed. And I also want to thank our rookie of the year, Cavaris Young, for footing the entire bill tonight. Give the young man a round of applause. Don't worry, we know you got it. That fat ass contract you got can take care of it."

"Drink up. Tomorrow's a night game, so we got time to recover from our hangover. Except for you, Kendrick, we know you can't hold your liquor. Everyone raise your glasses. Toast to the memories we'll make tomorrow. Think about that jersey you're going to wear tomorrow. Think about what it represents. It represents history. It represents pride. It represents this city. This a bare knuckle, blue collar, we go to work type of city. The people more than look up to us. They see themselves in us. They seek solace in us. We know the issues and problems this town has. For those four hours every Sunday, those problems, the layoffs, the abandon homes, the water getting shut off, car repossessed, their son getting murdered, old lady's getting robbed, for four hours those problems don't exist. Let's not give them something to enjoy and take their mind off the ills that trouble them Monday through Saturday, let's give them something they'll tell their kids about...the first playoff win for this franchise in over thirty years."

The men roar, beating their fist on tables, giving each other hi-fives. I feel the room shook. The passion in their eyes is penetrating. Myles has them pumped up enough to go and play the game right now in three piece suits and wingtips right outside in the parking lot.

Myles's voice excels with excitement and riles up crowd to a rambunctious pitch. "We waited all season long for this moment. The pain, the hurt, the loss. The mornings you couldn't get outta bed from the pain. All the reps in the gym. All the injuries you played through. The moments you missed seeing your son and daughter. They all culminate tomorrow. Tomorrow we will come face to face with the question." His voice cools and the men's voices fall silent awaiting his next words. "Will it all be worth it?" He looks around at every set of eyes that are locked on him. "Let's fuckin win tomorrow." He says calmly.

I'm afraid plates would shatter from how rowdy the players became, chest bumping and barking obscenities into each other's faces. It's organized confusion. I have to admit, I'm just as much as pumped up as they are.

***

We stand on my doorstep of my apartment under the greenish flickering porch light and I'm trying my best to not slur my words. I hand him his jacket back that I wore on the ride home. The temperature dropped a couple of degrees and the fog from our mouths mix together.

"I had a wonderful evening," he says. The glow from the porch light highlights his strong jaw line and softens his cognac-colored eyes. His gaze lingers on my face, studying my bottom lip, flowing down to my neck and back up to my lips again.

"So did I..." He cuts me off before I could finish saying how I had a good time. His hands grab my waist and pull my body to his, pressing him into me. He pauses right before his lips met mine, his breath is wet. He looks deeply into my eyes as if to make sure the moment is real and revels in it.

A breath is caught in my throat.

Our lips crash into each other's. He tastes, sucks, and swirls just the right amount of tongue and he tastes like cinnamon. He grabs the back of my neck gently and pulls me in tighter. His lips are warm and succulent, perfect against the chill of the night that fill my cheeks. And before I know it, it's over.

He pulls back and my eyes are still closed, trapped in the moment. As I reopen them, he smiles slightly, licking my taste from his lips.

"See you tomorrow," he says walking backwards off the porch back to his bike.

"See you tomorrow. Good luck." I say, still frozen unable to move my limbs from the kiss, except my mouth, which forms a smile.

I close the door and hear his bike roar off into the night.

***

I fall back into the door after I close it and lean against it for what seems like an hour. I don't care about the book. I don't care what my boss thought about. I don't care who thinks about it. I don't care if Myles is a notorious heartbreaker or not and that I was setting myself up for failure. This is just a kiss. A nice kiss. Okay, an awesome kiss. But a kiss nonetheless. An innocent kiss. Friends kiss. Animals kiss. There isn't a proposal and an engagement. There's no wedding announcement. Just a kiss. And there's nothing wrong with kissing.

I kick off my heels, smiling from ear to ear. Rachel's on the couch, curled up in a blanket, holding a remote control by her fingertips. Her arm dangles off the couch. Her eyes open up slowly.

"Welcome back Cinderella," she says groggily.

"Sorry to wake you," I say, still smiling.

"Wait, what happened? You're smiling." She peels off the blanket and stands up, planting her hands on her hips. She points her finger at me, walking closer. "Fess up."

I gently stomp my foot on the carpet. My lips purse together, holding in the gang of butterflies in my stomach. "I kissed him."

We both scream and jump and twiddle our fingers towards each other, our hair flying all around like an eighties rock band. "You kissed Myles McCrae. So fucking jealous right now. Oh my God. I soooo have to put this on Facebook." she pulls her phone out of her back pocket and her fingers tap the screen in a frenzy.

"No,' I say yanking the phone out of her hands and throwing it on the couch. "Not a word of this gets out. I shouldn't have done it."

She looks at me like I'm insane or if I spoke Chinese. "What are you saying shouldn't have done it? Are you crazy?"

"I'm only with him because of the book. What if he's just buttering it up so I'll be biased towards him? We wouldn't even know each other if it wasn't for that. It's not like we were genuinely interested in each other at first. We practically hated each other's guts. I crossed the line. That's the first rule. Don't cross the line. I know better than that. Now things are going to get weird. What if he catches feelings?" I pace back and forth with my arms flailing at my side. "What if I catch feelings? He's a football player for god sakes. What am I thinking?"

"He's just not any football player. You struck gold."

"But I still have to write the book. What is my boss going to say if he finds out that I'm romantically involved with him? That might compromise the entire project. I'm supposed to remain objective. Argh!"

Rachel grabs me by my shoulders and shakes me thoroughly. My curls drape over my face, like a dust mop. She spins me around and guides me to the couch.

"It was just a kiss. That's all. Did he slide an engagement ring on your finger?"

"No."

"Are you pregnant?"

"God no. Rachel?!"

"Then you have nothing to worry about. It was just a simple kiss. Jesus Christ girl get a grip on yourself."

She darts off to the kitchen muttering something to herself. She reappears, still complaining under hear breath about how some people never see the positives in front of them.

She stops before she starts upstairs. "I'm going to bed Lacey. You know, if you two like each other, who cares about some book. Work should never stand in the way of love. Trust me, you don't get many chances at this kind of stuff."

I look over at her hand; she finally took her engagement ring off. She kept it on even after Todd broke things off.

"It's just a guy, Rachel. They'll be others. So what, he's a millionaire and can throw a ball a hundred yards. He's a guy. Another one'll come in days. They all do." I grab the pint of ice cream on the floor next to me. Mint chocolate. It's nearly melting. "Besides, my career is first and foremost," I say prodding the spoon into the green, creamy lump. "I don't live or die by whether or not a man likes me. My life will _surely_ go on if I stay single." As soon it rolls off my lips, I wish I can take it back.  
She winces.  
"Wow, Lacey." She folds her arms, surely stinging from my last comment. "Have a little compassion why don't you. There you go again, only thinking of yourself."  
I feel bad for saying that, but she isn't innocent here either.  
"Me? Thinking of myself? If being dedicated to my job is selfish, I'll gladly be that." I hated being called selfish. I've been called that since the seventh grade.  
"I call it like I see it."  
I scowl at her. "You need to go to bed because you have absolutely no idea what you're saying right now. You sound incoherent."  
"You have a famous, talented, smart, rich man at your doorstep and you want to throw that away like leftovers? And I'm the one who's incoherent?" Her blue eyes shoot a look at me that could turn me to stone. She shakes her head slightly and screams. "Argh! She groans and throws up her hands with the same casual flippancy she always does. "All you do is complain about all the other guys you dealt with in the past. This one's too ignorant, not brainy enough. Not worldly enough. He's married. He didn't have his bachelors. He's scared of commitment. He didn't make enough money for your standards. And when you do finally do get shot at a decent guy...and not only decent. A once in a lifetime guy, you back down from it. You're looking at someone who just got an engagement broken off with them. An engagement. Every girl's dream. My dream sweetheart dumped me. And you're sitting here sulking, because what? You working with him? Who cares? Obviously he likes you. You'd be stupid for not giving it a shot."  
I still shake my head in shame, thinking she's just venting from the shame of being dumped. "Go on shake your head. You don't get it now. You might not get it until five years from now. But one day it'll click. Probably when you're fifty, single with twelve cats and saggy boobs. Who's gonna want you then?"

She grabs two fistfuls of her hair and stomps upstairs muttering something to herself. She flicks the light off, leaving me to sit among the scented candles and silence. The only thing I can make out is her saying I'm unbelievable and something about thirty cats.  
I slip a lump of ice cream in my mouth and sniffle.

***

Today is the first playoff game that the Cobras will host in over forty years. They made it to the championship game last year, but fell short. They played on the road the entire playoffs, so this game made up for lost time. Most of the fans in attendance today weren't even alive when the Cobras had a winning franchise. They had a few winning seasons here and there but nothing to wash away the bitter taste of a losing season after losing season. These fans deserved it, Myles repeated to me over and over. The city has had much to deal with and giving the loyal fans of the team a victory parade on Woodward Avenue would mean everything to him.

I arrive at the field a couple hours before kickoff, just to get a feel for what the players go through before game time. Some were closed off to the world, with gigantic headphones wrapped around their dome. Others were playful, cracking jokes on anyone who's in the vicinity.

I stay away from Myles. Not because of last night but because I didn't want to bother him with business. This is his day. His time. I don't want to intrude and fill anymore thoughts in his head than there's already plenty of.

After a round of stretching, he stands on the sideline downing a cup of Gatorade. Sweat rivers from him. He wears an all black body compression suit that's specifically designed for him. Sleek as a panther. It contours every bulge, every curve, every muscle of his athletic body. Just looking at him I need a sip of cool water just to make sure my body temperature stops rising.

"Glad you could make it," he says breathing heavy, coming towards me. He makes breathing heavy sexy. I wish I can share a bit of heavy breathing...Stop! Lacey. Stop it now. This isn't the time.

"Thanks for the tickets," I say.

"Your friend couldn't make it?"

"Rachel isn't talking to me right now. And Gena...I'm not talking to her right now."

"Women." He shakes his head.

"McCrae time for snaps," Coach Jackson shouts from midfield.

Myles takes another sip. "Gotta go. Thanks again for coming. I'm glad you're here."

"Likewise. Go get 'em!"

He winks and darts off towards the huddle.

***

I feel the tension biting my face as I stand like a spider against a corner of the Cobras locker room.

It's an hour before kickoff. The warm-ups are done. The pregame interviews are wrapped up. It's game time. The air in the locker room is dense, suffocating almost. There's no music blaring. No idle chatter about the hot chick in the neon pink Cobras tee sitting in section C. No trash talk about how today will be a record statistic-wise for sacking the quarterback. In fact, the fifty-two men are silent. Deafening silent. Everything and everyone is still among the black laces being slipped through the tongues of their cleats, tape being criss crossed around their ankles, and pads being pushed down on top of their shoulders.

They are about to do work. They are about to protect their home like Grecian warriors preparing for the last stand.

The copper taste of anger bangs through every pair of pupils I lay eyes on. It's at this moment I realize I don't need to be here. I don't belong. My presence, although unnoticed, isn't welcome.

I slide out the back door without a peep.

I sit in the upper level executive suite with I didn't want to sit in the upper level executive suite with members executive management, local politicians, and businessmen. I want to be with the people and soak up their energy. I want eat overpriced Coney dogs and light beer. I want to hear the profanity spewed from middle-aged men about how the other team's quarterback is an overpaid piece of shit. I want beer spilled on my shoes and gum stuck to the bottom of my shoes. I want to feel the roar of the crowd. I sit in the first row at the fifty-yard line. Perfect.

The stadium is sold out and flooded with purple and black, shirts, jerseys, and caps. The fans got the memo that the team called for a purple and black-out. This is their time. Even I shed my traditional jeans and a blazer for a Cobras hat, purple tennis shoes, and a cute jersey –Myles's jersey of course. Maybe I'm becoming a fan after all.

***

Myles threw for four touchdowns three hundred and forty seven yards passing, and eighty-nine yards running in a romp over the Cobras 45-17. The city is near riot status after the clock struck four zeros. It was an amazing performance. Seeing him live in the flesh made me a believer. The command of the team. They rally around him. They believe in him. They were down 14-0 at half time and rallied to score forty-one consecutive unanswered points. The man next to me, sitting his teenage son was literally spellbound. He says he never saw anyone in Cobras uniform do things like that on the field. He doubted he would see anyone again in his lifetime play that way too.

"This one's for you Detroit," Myles shouts into the microphone standing midfield. His pearly white grin fills the Jumbotron screen for the eighty thousand screaming fans to see.

The team ventures around the rim of the field and slapped fives to the fans pouring congratulations on them. Some fans even had tears in their eyes. Flashbulbs go off. Fireworks blast.

"Wait for me in the tunnel. One hour," Myles says to me as he reaches my section.

I nod, my cheeks warm, smiling ear to ear.

***

He never shows. I wait. And wait. Check my phone. Then wait some more. I move down towards the end of the tunnel to make sure my phone isn't in a dead zone. I wait some more. I take my battery out and restart my phone. He still doesn't show. All the times I call his phone it rings with no answer. His voicemail is full.

I bite my lip.

I pull out my phone and call again and this time it went to voicemail. Straight to voicemail. I know what that means. This isn't my first time around the park.

All star athlete just plays the game of his life in his hometown state on the biggest stage of its franchise history and his phone is off. He's probably in the showers, picking out two or three long legged bimbos to feed his appetite. After game snack. This is just what they do. I should know better.

Silly me.

I see Spencer come out of the locker room with two women on his arm. His foot is still in a cast.

"Spencer," I shout. He sees me and smiles. I meet him halfway. "Spencer have you seen Myles?"

"No I haven't seen him," he says. "You okay?" I know I look a nervous wreck.

"I'm fine. He asked me to meet him here. He hasn't showed."

My throat grows thick.

"Nate. Hey Nate!" he hollers to the three hundred plus pound center. Nate looks over to us. "Nate, where's Po? You seen 'em?"

"No, I haven't seen him since coach passed out the game balls," Nate said. "And that was over an hour ago."

"Sorry," Spencer says. I avoid eye contact with him. And everyone. I can't bear for anyone to see the defeated look on my face. "Maybe he'll turn up. It can be a madhouse around here after the game.

I nod, still not looking up. "Yeah. Thanks," I say with a toneless voice.

I should turn around and walk to my car, hunched shoulders and all, get in and drive the hell home. But no, there's that pit of doubt in my head. What if he got tied up with the media? What if he meant in the other tunnel on the opposite side of the stadium? What if his cell died? What if he's in an impromptu meeting with his agent or maybe the president called to congratulate him on a magnificent game. I know the president loves his sports. Or maybe it's just a simple case of a guy doing what his gender does best – disappoint. Again I fell for it. Just when I say I wouldn't fall for it again.

I walk the long mile of shame towards the parking lot among the event staff pushing broom sticks, clearing up popcorn, soda cans, spilled beer, and splattered ketchup. Each step closer I get towards the exit, the colder it gets.

My chin trembles. I feel tears behind my eyelids ready to fall, but I hold it together.

When I get home, I arrive to an empty apartment. God knows where Rachel is. I prefer to be alone now anyways. I pull a bottle of pinot noir out of the cabinet, cork it and take a long swig right out of the bottle. I don't need a glass. It's going to be a long night.

I hear the sound of rain fall on top of the roof.

I take another long sip and swirl the liquid past my grinding teeth. I pound my fist on the kitchen counter, shaking the plate of two half bitten slices of pepperoni pizza.

I take another long sip of wine, flushing heat to my already sweltering body. I feel so stupid.

"I'm not going to cry. Not going to cry." I say repeating it like it would actually help.

"That's it. I'm not doing the book. Tomorrow I'll march into Ben's office and tell him I quit the project. I don't care if he'll fire me. I'd just get another job. I don't need a dream job. It's about time I wake up and become an adult and stop chasing some dumb dream of becoming an author. If this is what being an author entails. I don't need it.

I finish the last swallow of pinot and heave it in the trash.

The wine rushes right to my head and I plop down on the couch right before my legs get wobbly.

The rain clatters against the pavement and then rushes into a downpour. The blinds are open and I don't get up and bother to close them shut. I want to sit in the darkness and watch the rain.

I'm nearly about to drift off into a wine-induced coma when the violet beams of headlights illuminate the room shock me back awake. It's probably Rachel, finally getting home from work.

Even though it's thundering and lightning outside, I'd stay slumped on the couch and let her scramble for her keys to open the door. Payback for how she spoke to me last night.

The door bangs. I don't get up to answer it.

I hope she gets soaked.

The fist bangs louder this time as the rain pelts down angrier.

"Lacey," the voice hollers.

It's Myles.

I walk heavy-footed to the door.

Whatever he wants, I don't have time for. All of the excuses – I've heard them before.

I swing the door open and he's there soaking wet, shivering holding a jacket over his head as a shield from the shower with a crumpled body posture and a blank look on his face.

I stand there, arms folded, lips pursed in defiance of any lie or exaggeration he's about to spew at me.

"Lacey, I'm sorry."

I say nothing. "Are you going to let me in?"

"Why should I?" ask." I try to let my voice rise, but it's useless. Shit, I can't believe I started to like him. "I waited and waited and waited. Just where you told me and you never came. You never came." I stomp my foot on the carpet, making a wet thud. "I feel so foolish for ever liking you. You were just like I thought you were. So how many girls did you fuck at one time? Three...four?" My face falls into my palms and I breathe slowly to get myself back under control. "I knew my instincts were right from the start, but I thought you were different. Somehow. All the 'I'm different from those other athletes because I got accepted to MIT or I read Ernest Hemingway in my spare time...I fell for it like a sucker." I pull the jacket off his head and let the rain douse him. "It's not your fault. It's mine. For letting you in. For getting close. For not doing my job. My fault. My fucking fault."

He reaches out to grab my arm but I draw back. "Don't touch me. Please. I feel shitty. I don't want to see you right now. Just go. Please."

"Lacey."

"Myles, please just go."

I grab the door and shut, but he blocks it with his arm effortlessly. "Will you wait a second? And let me explain." He exhales noisily.

My eyes narrow. "It's a free country." I shrug.

"I'm sorry..."

"You said that already," I say interrupting. It's rude of me but it's rude of him to stand me up and look like a jackass in front of his teammates.

"Can you let me finish?" He pauses and then continues. "I didn't stand you up. I was on my way out to meet you when the owner and the general manager wanted to have a word with me. This is a contract year for me and we've been negotiating all year. We went into the owner's office to talk. My agent wasn't with me. They said some things that I didn't like. It got heated. I slammed my phone on the floor. I told Roger, head of security, to tell you that I was going to be late." I stand there emotionless. "But I guess you didn't get the message. I wanted to call you but I didn't know your number heart. As soon as I came out and you weren't there I came straight here."

"You remembered where I stayed?"

"I etched it in my brain."

"Why should I let you in? How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"Besides the cameras all over the stadium that I could show you, you don't trust my word?"

My gaze left his eyes and I look up at the ceiling.

He drops his jacket and takes off his hooded sweatshirt, stepping back into the parking lot. The rain is screaming down. He strips his shirt off, his mocha brown skin, glistens under the electric blue sky.

He throws his hands up.

"I've never lied to you. I'll stand out here all night if I have to." He voice rises over the pelting rain."

I giggle uncontrollably, but cover my mouth with my fist.

"I'll catch pneumonia and miss next week's game. Is that what you want? Myles McCrae will not play in this Sunday's Conference championship game due to being hospitalized with pneumonia. Author Lacey Nichols left him out in the cold. Thousands of fans demand answers and go on a witch hunt for her residence to burn her at the stake.' Is that what you want? To be strung up and have a stake driven through your heart. You want that? Because that's that these people will do."

I can't stop laughing. Dozens of windows in the complex light up.

"We love you Myles!" someone shouts.

"I love you back," Myles yells. He doesn't take his eyes off of me.

Another voiced sounds off. "You da man Myles."

Then another. "Let him in girl! Or I will."

I double over in laughter.

"Listen to the people Lacey. You can't disappoint them. They know where you live." There's that smile of his again.

I bounce up and down in place, anticipating what was going to happen next.

"Will you come back here silly? You're going to freeze to death."

He runs back towards me, sloshing water under him.

He pauses at my doorstep. "You're something else." I say. My voice was breathy.

"No, I'm just plain ole Myles." A drop of rain holds at the tip of his bottom lip. I want to suck it off. Water drips off of his silky skin. He looks appetizing.

He clutches me by the waist and yanks me to him. We're chest to chest. Inches from each other's lips.

Time stretches the moment, we're face to face, pent up heat radiates from us, our lips awaiting each other's. Is this right? Is this wrong? I don't have the answers. I don't know. I don't care.

He pauses, like he's thinking the same and then crashed into my lips, kissing me savagely like he couldn't wait to kiss me all night long. Like the game isn't even on his mind and the only thing he could think of is my tongue in his mouth.

His lips taste of warm rain in the summer. He tastes different from before. He tastes how I dreamed someone I loved would taste, thoughtful, caring, meaningful, and desirous. His wet hands coast up and down my body, raindrops from the porch splash inside. His left hand grabs my waist and he slams the door behind him, shutting it with a wet thud. He slides off my jersey, revealing my black lace bra, feeling my warm skin against his tender, wet skin. I feel his heartbeat; it's shooting like a bullet. So does mine. The moment is finally here.

Our lips but a mere half-inch away, I shudder, desire coursing through my bones, my head dizzying from thinking if I will regret this going forward. What about the book? What about my job. What if Ben found out? It could compromise the entire project. Everyone will think I'm a slut. All these questions swirl inside my head. But the doubt quickly fades as he devours my mouth, his lips tasting of cool rain. He yanks my body into his, his sculpted frame, contrasting with my tender, softness matched like a hand in glove, missing piece to a puzzle.

One hand runs though my hair, and the other trickles down my every curve from my shoulders, skimming my breasts, and resting on the curvature of my hip. His touch is tender, new, exploratory. Like my body is a playground for him.

Thunder roars through, setting off car alarms. Quickly, I regain my senses. I tense up and push my arms into his abdomen, jolting him back a foot. We both breathe jagged, trying to make sense of what's happening.

A bolt of lightning illuminates the room and our dark bodies. I see the confusion on his face. As quickly as the light fills the room, it leaves shrouding us back in the darkness.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"I can't do this. I just can't," I say.

"But why? What are you saying?" His hands brush over the top of his scalp clueless.

I turn my head away looking at the stack of magazines on the floor, anything to not look at his eyes. I can only see half of his face in the darkness. His brown eyes cut me like steel.

"This is too much. I can't do this." I moan, but it doesn't escape my mouth. I'm doing it again; missing out on the moment just as Rachel said.

He instantly grabs his shirt off the floor and I taste the sour taste of regret in the back of my throat.

Another bolt of lightning strikes and monstrous thunder rolls. I see his towering frame from behind, every muscle on his back rippled. Years of dedication in the gym. Bulging arms that triumphed over adversity on the hundred hard field. His broad back, powerful, mighty from putting a franchise and city on his shoulders. I bite my lip.

I tug his wrist, stopping him from wrapping his fist around the door knob. My throat tightens.

I can't let him go. I more than want him, I _need_ him.

"Myles I'm scared." I draw him closer to me, our faces near again. Our breaths intertwine again. My voice lowers to a whisper. "I'm scared." his eyes fix on me and his heart rages through his chest matching mine. My voice trails off. "So scared," I say as I nibble his bottom lip. I run my hands under his shirt feeling every bulge, every ripple, and then I travel up to his nipples, gently flicking them with my thumbs. My supple skin against his brick hard frame makes him throw his head back and groan louder than the rolling thunder outside.

He grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head, I swiftly envelope my mouth over his taut nipple, sucking it, biting it, his hardness protruding against the denim of my jeans. A moan flees my nostrils, the flavor of skin is delicious.

Myles clenches my tiny frame and twirls me around flattening me against the wall. It's cold, but his warm, hulking body is hot enough to divert my attention. He swallows my mouth, and rips the jersey over my head. Without missing a beat he jabs his tongue into my inviting mouth, his hands ravaging every inch of my skin. I wrap my hands around the back of his neck, holding on to him, to protect me from my thoughts, my worries, from...myself. I'm weightless under him.

"Your touch feels so good against me," he huffs into my ear before nibbling my earlobe and tracing his tongue down the hollow of my neck. I arch my back and wrap a leg around his waist, feeling my pussy saturate with wetness, from him kneading both of my breasts with his bronze hands. They feel like magic over my skin. He slithers his hands behind my back unhooking my bra and places a hardened nipple into his mouth.

"Fuck!" I scream. The pleasure is immense. I grab the top of his sweatpants and boxers and slid them down to his ankles. His cock is magnificently huge. I gaze at it and stroke his shaft while he rotates his tongue against my taut, fleshy nipple.

His loosens the button on my jeans and slides a hand down, caressing my pussy up and down. I spread my legs to open up deeper. He curls his finger into me, making me squirm against the wall, his touch making my pussy scream. "Myles, ohmygod," I say my voice quavering. He laughs under his breath. This man knows what he's doing. He's an artist and I was his canvas. Blank, naked, and ready to be drawn, sculpted with his powerful hands. I grab my belt and slide my jeans down.

I step back, smacking his lips, marveling at my naked frame, still shivering and convulsing while he stands there, his fingers still fucking deep into my pussy. "I want you inside me right now," My legs were about to give out. He slides three fingers into my drenched pussy, in and out faster with each pump, making me come just from his mere touch. I capture my breasts and massage them as my pussy heaves from the pleasure.

I look at Myles's cock—it's throbbing, pre-come coating his head. I want to suck his cock, but I want him to fill me up instead.

He reaches down and steps out of his sweatpants at his ankles and grabs a purple latex packet condom out of his wallet. I clutch his shaft and stroke it like it belongs to me, rotating it and lubricating it with his pre-come. His hardness vibrates under my touch, feeling like it grew under inch from clenching it.

I take the packet from his hands and rip it open, sliding it down his erectness myself.

I lifts me up by my waist like a rag doll and plants me against the wall. I drape my legs around him and my arms around his back, locking to him like a moth to a flame. Our eyes lock once again and in one violent thrust, he impales me with his cock. I want to dissolve into him. He melts his lips onto mine. Gone were the gentle kisses. Now they're hard, forceful, demanding as his cock plunges further into my pulsating snatch. I arch my back and hold to him tighter, relenting, releasing myself into his whims, taking me to a place I only dreamt of. I want to become lost into him. He grips me by my lower thighs, his fingers burrow into my skin. I welcome the pleasure-filled pain. He holds me tighter, taking control, his fingers burrows harder into my thighs. I let go, my body lifeless under him. He slows the pace of his thrusting down to a slow wind. My hands caress his back feeling him use every muscle in his frame to power into my pussy. His lower back bends and powers through into me feeling every inch of his thickness gyrate, each pump deeper than the last. My bottom lip quivers as no man has ever come close to filling me up like he does. And he knows it. The pleasure is excruciating.

He speeds up his rhythm and I buck my hips back towards him. "Lacey! So fucking good!" he screams. I open my pussy further and he buries his tongue into my mouth tasting my desire.

I rock back at him, only making him pump harder, becoming lost inside of our lustful dance.

He thrusts violently, faster and faster, our bodies knocking against the wall louder and louder. I can't hold back any more. Each stroke takes me closer to that point. The point I never reached before with any guy.

"Fuck me harder!" I shriek. I bang back against his cock as he thrusts like he wants to split into my body. Tears nearly fell from my eyes from the agonizing pleasure.

"Come for me," he whispers as he lets out animalistic groan.

My body collapses and shatters as my pussy shocks from the intense orgasm. Myles moans as his sweaty body fell into me, his cock pulsing, spilling his seed into the latex.

My legs spasm, still tangled around his body like a vine, as the two of us are stuck the wall, each moist breath longer than the last. He pecks his lips on my cheek, slick from our moment. My hair sticks to my face.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers into my ear, still holding me in his arms. He holds me all night.

***

It's 3AM and someone's banging on my door...

Part Two Coming Soon!

Evelyn Rosado

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Other Titles:

Breathless (For The Billionaire) Book 1

Fractured

Craving For Curves

His To Indulge
