Page 97 of Just for the Cameras
“But we’re not really attached.” Why am I fighting with him? No idea. Seems like a recipe for disaster.
“We are,” he growls. “If you don’t use the link I sent, it will tell me. So fucking use it.”
Then with that, he grabs his helmet and takes off toward the group of guys finishing up their waters before heading back to the field.
I guess that’s that.
An intelligent woman with a heart of fucking gold.
Did he mean that? Because once again, that’s a compliment from Graydon St. John and I don’t know if I should be happy or concerned.
Before taking his directions, I allow myself to observe Graydon in his element and the way he stands with such dominance among some of the largest men I’ve ever seen. All the guys are tall, but he’s by far the tallest and most muscularly cut. With his football pants landing just above his knees and his socks pushed all the way down, bunching at his ankles, his muscles glisten under the sun, flexing with just the smallest of shifts in his body. The sleeves of his jersey ride up high, unable to move over his biceps, so his arms are nearly on full display. His pants cling to his muscular ass, a part of his impressive body that I stared at a lot today. And his nearly permanent scowl meshed with the way his hair is mussed and sweaty make it incredibly hard to look away. It’s hard not to notice him.
Especially when he’s punching his dad in the ribs for disrespecting me.
Or carefully placing his hand on my back as he maneuvers me through the drills at training camp.
Or how he nearly bit a guy’s head off for slapping me on the ass.
I should not be attracted to such barbaric behavior.
And yet, when he looks in my direction, the scowl on his face lessening as he takes me in one last time before he places his helmet on his head and gets to work, I can’t help but feel…almost like there is something blossoming between us. Like there’s something deep in my bones telling me he might not be the asshole I think he is.
I really need to work out more because even now, after another long bath, I’m sore.
I can only imagine what tomorrow will bring.
Wrapped up in my robe, my hair wet around my shoulders, I pick up a cup of decaffeinated coffee I made with my new coffee maker, then sit on my couch for some much-needed rest…and cookies.
After work, I swung past By the Dough, one of my favorite cookie places in town, and purchased half a dozen cookies: two pistachio, one cookies and cream, and three chocolate chip. I froze some and placed one giant chocolate chip cookie on a plate to have with my coffee.
The brace on my wrist is so much better than the splint, and I’m grateful for that. At least something good happened today. The cookie and coffee are to quell the nerves that keep racking my throat every time I think about Graydon and what might have happened to him at practice today after I left. What kind of things did he have to do because he punched his dad in the ribs?
I really hope it wasn’t much.
But from the look in Graydon’s murderous eyes, it seemed like he would have done it again.
From the moment he saw his dad, any ease from the morning washed away. Sure, when we were running drills and he was threatening the lives of his teammates, he was more intense, but there was still a lightness about him. Not when he saw his dad, though. Any jovial mood he might have been in dissipated, and it was like this dark cloud hung over him and he turned into pure, unfiltered anger.
What happened between the two of them that would spark such a reaction?
I break off a piece of my cookie and plop it in my mouth as I pickupmy phone and connect it to my Bluetooth speaker to play some Ed Sheeran. Once I pick my favorite playlist, a text from Graydon appears.
My stomach somersaults at the sight of his name. Not sure how to handle that reaction, so I’m going to act like it never happened.
Graydon:Thank you for using the link.
Thank you?
Huh, didn’t know he had manners in him.
Maple:Thank you for sending it.
Graydon:I’ll have one set up for you tomorrow to get to work.
I’m about to text him back that I don’t want him to do that, but I know he won’t listen. The request will fall flat, and there’s no point in arguing with him, not when I know it won’t make any difference. So I concede.
Maple:Thank you.
