“Hey.” He sounds grim. Looks uncomfortable. He hasn’t smiled, not once since we locked eyes, and I remember how stingy he used to be with those smiles. How I felt like I unlocked a treasure chest of unlimited riches when he started smiling more. Only for me.
There were a lot of things he did only for me.
“Are you mad?” When he frowns, I further explain myself. “About the game. About the interception.”
He nods, his perfect lips twisting to the side. “It wasn’t a good game for me.”
“I thought you looked great.”
“I played like shit. Disappointed my team.”
So typical for him to beat himself up over it. “You guys still won.”
“By the skin of our teeth.”
I tilt my head. “I’ve never understood that saying. Our teeth aren’t made of skin. Like, where did that saying even come from? It doesn’t make sense.” I’m making no sense. Why am I talking about this when I really want to ask the important questions? Like:
How are you?
Are you happy?
Are you sad?
Is your life fulfilling?
Are you dating someone?
Do you miss me?
His lips curl the faintest bit. An almost smile. “Only you would overthink a cliché.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m vaguely offended.
“It’s what you do, Mandy. You’ve always overthought a lot of things.” The meaningful look he sends me is full of all sorts of unspoken messages.
Ones I don’t want to confront right now.
“You’ve done it, though,” I tell him, trying to change the subject. “You’re a big deal, Jordan. You’re one of the most respected quarterbacks in the NFL.”
“I don’t know about that.” He shrugs. Always modest. Like everything he does is no big deal, when it’s a huge deal.
“Please.” I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t laugh or smile.
“It’s only the start of my third season,” he points out. “We’ve had some good luck and a great team, including our coaches. They’re all waiting for me to screw up.”
“Who’s waiting for you to screw up? Your team?” I don’t believe it.
“No. Just—everyone. The media. The other teams. Their coaches. People who hate me.” He rubs his hand against his jaw. “There are a lot of people who hate me.”
“It comes with the territory.” I wish I could tell him that I would never hate him. But maybe he wouldn’t listen. Or worse?
Maybe he doesn’t even care.
“You’re right.” He stands up straighter, glances around. Appears pleased that no one notices us. “How are you, Amanda? How’s work?”
His quick change of subject doesn’t faze me. “It was busy today.” I wave a hand at myself. “I had to come straight to the game. That’s why I’m still in my Atlas polo.”
“It looks good on you.” His eyes are locked on my boobs, and I almost want to thrust my chest out.
I restrain myself. Barely.
In high school, I was flat chested. They grew a little bit over the years, but I can never say I have big breasts. Because I don’t. I have nice little 34B-sized boobs that don’t quite fill up the cup size; they look extra good in a padded, lifted bra, and that’s about it. My legs are better. They’re long and lean and I’m tall, which I used to hate, but I can now deal with it. Most guys I’ve gone out with have been the same height or a little taller. There had been that one blind date with the guy who was five-foot-four and wore lifts in his cowboy boots.
I’m not into cowboys. Or short men. This probably makes me prejudiced. Or sexist. I’m not sure which.
Jordan is taller than me. He’s six-foot-three, I think.
Oh please, I know he’s six-foot-three. I read his stats online. He weights 225 pounds. He could crush me.
I find that unnaturally arousing.
“Thanks,” I finally say when I realize he’s still staring at my chest. He lifts his head, our gazes clashing, and all we can do is look at each other, all those unspoken questions floating between us. My skin is tingling, my blood flowing hot through my veins, making me vitally aware of my existence. It feels like I stuck my finger into an electrical socket and shocked myself.
“You’re welcome.” His voice is a deep rumble, and he clears his throat, looks to the side, rubs his jaw again, suddenly appearing anxious. Twitchy. “I need to go. Talk to the sponsors.”
No! Don’t go! Not yet!
My brain is an overdramatic lover of exclamation points.
“Sponsors for what?” I ask casually, trying to stall him. Keep him with me, if only for a few more minutes.
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Marketing reps from a huge sportswear chain. They like to stop by and schmooze us. Take us for drinks or dinner, when they should just email our agents and put something together for us to consider. They all say they can offer the personal touch.” I can tell he wants to roll his eyes.
“They’re talking to just you?”
“And Cannon. Marketing people love our high school connection.” His smile is rueful.
All those old insecurities come rolling back, forcing me to remember how different we are. His world is nothing like mine. He’s making million-dollar-plus endorsements and I’m working at Atlas Wellness Center. He’s worth millions on his own and comes from a wealthy family, and I almost live paycheck to paycheck.
“It is pretty neat, how you two are playing together again.” I want to punch myself in the face the moment the words leave my lips. Neat? How lame can I get?
“We don’t even play together that much, at least not on the field. He’s defense, I’m offense.” His gaze lingers on mine. “But you already know that.”
He’s always respected my football knowledge. Sometimes I think I even impressed him. Taking a deep breath, I part my lips, ready to say something, but we’re interrupted.
“Hey.” We both turn to see Cannon headed toward us, his expression urgent.
“What’s up?” Jordan asks coolly.
“We need to go. They want to take us to dinner.” He jerks his thumb toward the two men in suits who stand nearby, covertly watching us.
“You get to see your aunt and uncle?” Jordan asks.
“Yeah.” Cannon smiles. “They’re so excited. Came all the way from Ohio to watch the game. I’m going to take them to Fisherman’s Wharf tomorrow.”
“Good idea.” Jordan claps him on the shoulder, his expression grave, his voice going deliciously low. “Give us one more minute, okay?”
“Take your time.” Cannon smiles in my direction. “Good to see you again, Amanda. Let’s get together soon, okay? Go out to dinner or something?”
I would love, love, love to go out to dinner with Cannon. I’ve always had a soft spot for him. And maybe I could ask him questions about Jordan. Ones I would never actually say to Jordan’s face, because I’m a complete chicken. “Sounds good.”
He walks away and Jordan remains silent. As do I. I don’t know what to say next. I feel like he’s going to bust out something momentous on me, but what? A declaration of love? That he’s never stopped caring about me, thinking about me, wanting me? Please.
That’s wishful thinking on my part.
“I’m really glad you came to the game,” Jordan finally says, his voice so low I have to step closer to hear him. “I wish I had played better.”
“You did fantastic,” I say softly, tempted to reach out and touch him, brush his hair away from his forehead, touch his arm, his chest. But I don’t. I need to keep my impulses under control.
He’s not mine anymore to touch.
“It’s good to see you. In person.” He offers up one of those barely there smiles again. Here and gone in a flash, no teeth revealed. “I’m glad we were able to reconnect.”
Does he still want to stay connected? Yes? Maybe?
Probably not.
“I’m glad we reconnected too.” My cheeks are flushed. I can feel the he
at in my face and I’m now smiling so hard, it hurts. “I’ve—missed you.”
The confession is out there. The truth, baldly stated and hanging between us like the crackling chemistry that’s been on low boil since we first laid eyes on each other.
Yet his expression remains stoic. No flicker in his beautiful blue gaze, nothing. No I miss you too.
My smile falls and I know he sees it. He takes a few steps closer, definitely within touching distance, more like in kissing distance, and he reaches out. Settles one of those big, magical hands on my shoulder, gives it a light squeeze.
“Take care,” he murmurs.
And then he’s gone.
Cade keeps up the nonstop chatter the entire drive back to my place. He tried his best to play it cool when we were in the suite, but the moment we got in his car, he was practically bursting with the need to talk about his experience.
“I can’t believe you know those guys,” he says again and again with a shake of his head. “That you actually went to school with them.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him what dicks Cannon and Jordan used to be. Maybe they still are, I don’t know. But during our senior year, both those boys treated me fairly, like we were actual friends. Cannon because he respected me, and Jordan because, well…
He was in love with me.
And I was deeply in love with him. Seeing Jordan tonight, talking to him, those fleeting moments when his gaze was on me, or when he actually touched me, all those feelings came rushing back, flooding me with emotion. To the point where all I can do is sit here and think about him and wonder…
Am I still in love with him?
It’s not possible. Too much time has passed, too many things have happened. We could never get back what we had. I destroyed that chance by breaking up with him.
At least he was civil toward me.
I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts I don’t realize we’re back at my apartment complex until Cade pulls into the tiny parking lot. He cuts the engine and watches me, an expectant look on his face. Like he might want to kiss me or something.
That is the absolute last thing I want to do, what with Jordan Tuttle still lingering in my head.
“Thanks again for taking me tonight.” Cade’s smile is bright in the otherwise mostly dark interior of his car. “I had a lot of fun.”
“Thanks for going with me.”
“We should do it again sometime. Go to another game.”
“Um, sure.” I don’t want to go on another date with Cade. He’s a great guy, I just don’t feel…anything for him beyond friendship.
“Or dinner again. I found a great Thai place I think you might like.” His smile grows, and dread fills me. I don’t want to dump him tonight. I just made him go to that game with me so I could have someone to lean on. I used him for support, so that probably makes me an awful person.
At this moment, I definitely feel like an awful person.
“Sounds good,” I tell him weakly. “Good night.” I reach for the door handle, ready to bust out like I’m making a prison escape, but he stops me, his hand going to my shoulder, his grip firm. I turn to look at him, not saying a word, and he leans in. His eyes start to close…
I avert my head at the last minute, his lips grazing my cheek.
He pulls away, disappointment flashing in his gaze, and I refuse to feel bad, yet I do. I’d rather be friends with him. It’s all stupid Jordan’s fault for coming back into my life at the worst time.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, pushing the passenger side door open and making my escape. I bend down to wave at him through the window once I shut the door and he waves at me in return, starting the engine and backing out of the space so quick, he’s gone in what feels like less than a minute.
I hustle back to my apartment, hating how late it is, and how quiet. I can hear the distant thundering of cars on the freeway, a dog barking at one of the houses across the street, and I let go a big sigh of relief when I’m actually in my tiny place with the door firmly locked. It’s not that my neighborhood is unsafe, it’s just…being alone late at night is a little scary.
My evening routine is starting later than usual, but I keep to it. I take a shower and wash my hair. Slip into an old T-shirt—from high school, what a surprise—and then blow-dry my hair. Climb into bed with my phone, shocked to see I have a text message from that number I haven’t put a name to yet.
It’s Jordan’s number. And he’s left me numerous messages.
It was good seeing you tonight.
Sorry we didn’t talk much.
We should get together again sometime.
If your boyfriend doesn’t mind.
His texts make me smile. He’s ridiculous in the absolute best way.
I’m glad we got to see each other too.
We should definitely get together.
And he’s not my boyfriend.
My phone starts ringing, and it’s Jordan wanting to FaceTime. I answer without thinking, immediately regretting it because I’m wearing that old high school T-shirt which proves I’m lame or thinking of him or whatever conclusion Jordan will draw. Plus, I don’t have a lick of makeup on. Don’t have a bra on either, meaning I’m not at my best.
At least my hair looks good.
“Why are you FaceTiming me?” I ask the screen, scowling at his handsome face. Ugh, he’s too good looking, even late at night when he should look his absolute worst. I sort of hate him in this moment.
“Felt bad that we didn’t get a chance to talk much.” He hesitates. I can see doubt flicker in his gaze for the briefest moment. “Your boyfriend seems nice.”
“I already told you he’s not my boyfriend.”
“He was very possessive of you, Mandy.” Jordan’s voice goes a little deeper and I swear I can feel it vibrating in the pit of my stomach.
I know exactly what moment Jordan’s referring to. “That’s because you offered to take me home and we went to the game together. I think you intimidated him.”
“I was just trying to be nice.”
Please. That innocent look on his face doesn’t fool me. “You’re my ex-boyfriend. You intimidated him,” I say again.
“Whatever. I think he was star struck. He probably wished I was taking him home.” There’s that ghost of a smile again. Seeing it makes me smile a little too.
“He probably did,” I agree.
“So he’s definitely not your boyfriend?” Jordan raises his brows.
I want to shout at him, why do you care? But I don’t. I guess he’s just curious. This is what happens when you reconnect with an ex, right? We’re curious about each other’s lives, including romantic entanglements we’re not involved in…
“Cade isn’t my boyfriend,” I say firmly. “We went out on one date.” Well, two.
“Two if you count tonight,” Jordan says like he’s living in my head, which he sort of is.
“Right. Two,” I say weakly, leaning back against my pillows. He has to know I’m in bed. Where’s he at? He appears freshly showered, his dark hair damp, and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt that stretches tight across his shoulders and chest.
Too bad he’s not shirtless. I remember Jordan always had great abs. I bet they’re even better now.
“You in bed?” he asks, again residing in my head.
How does he make those three words sound so freaking suggestive? “Um, yes.”
He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his thick, dark hair, messing it up perfectly. Hardens his jaw so he now looks extra sexy. Stares off into the distance for a moment like some sort of model in a photoshoot. “I won’t make the first move,” he finally says.
I’m confused. “What are you talking about?”
“You. Me. I refuse to make the first move. I’ve done that time and again over the years, and you still ended up destroying me.” He takes another deep breath, like that was a lot for him to say. I suppose it was.
But I want him to say more.
He doesn’t.
He just watches me in that infuriatingly Jordan Tuttle way of his. Where I’m supposed to be able to figure out his moods and what he wants from me. I thought I was the only one who really knew him, yet I’ve wondered over the years if I only knew the person he presented to me. Did I ever really understand him, ever?
I’m not sure.
“Do you—want me to make the first move?” I am an idiot for asking. What if this is his one shot to turn me down? Humiliate me on the spot? He could’ve been wanting revenge for years, and now he’s finally going to get it.
My heart is whoosh-whooshing in my ears as I wait for him to say something. Anything. It’s almost painful, how long he takes to speak. My breath keeps getting caught in my throat and I wonder if I’ll pass out from lack of oxygen.
“What do you think?” He sounds stubborn as hell. Defiant, even.
“I think that technically you made the first move by inviting me to your game tonight,” I say tentatively.
“And I think you technically made the very first move by following me on Instagram and sending me a message.” He sounds pleased that I did that.
“You’re the one who said on national television that you missed the one who got away,” I point out.
“Are you assuming you’re the one who got away?” He raises a brow.
My heart stops. I’m gaping at him, closing and opening my mouth like a dying fish.
He actually laughs for all of two seconds before he turns into serious mode once again. “Of course I was talking about you.”
My heart resumes beating, only now it’s doing double time. “You’re mean.”
“So are you.”
“How am I mean?” I rest my hand on my chest, then drop it. I don’t want him staring at my braless breasts.
“You’re the one who broke up with me all those years ago.”
I say nothing. I don’t know how to argue that point.
“Did you actually want to break up with me?” He peers in close, his face completely filling my phone screen. “Or did someone make you?”
“Who would make me?” I ask incredulously. No one forced my hand. I made that stupid decision all on my own.
“I don’t know. Your parents. A new boyfriend.” He leans back and I see those broad shoulders shrug.