Page 114 of Off Limits: The Firsts
The crowd cheers as a highlight of one of my goals is shown on the closing credits of SportsCenter. I glance around at the crowd, at my teammates who are milling about, and try to figure out why she’s here.
Because I know it’s not for me.
“So you’re here, why?” I ask. “You miss me that much?”
A shadow glances through her eyes and as quickly as it’s there, it disappears. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, it’s official business then.” Our eyes hold for a beat. “I can help you mix pleasure with that business.”
She tips her glass toward me. “Thanks for the drink, but—”
“Keep your money.” I push the cash she’s sliding across the bar top back toward her. “And your attitude.”
“That was a new record. Us being civil.” Her smile in response is all snark. “It was good seeing you.”
I grab her wrist to prevent her from walking away. “Back to that again?”
“Back to what?” She pulls her arm back but remains where she is.
“You walking away without an explanation.”
Her glare is enough to tell me she gets the dig. That she remembers just as clearly as I do that last time we were together. “I wasn’t aware my presence here in Chicago meant I owed you an explanation.”
She’s sexy when she’s stubborn. She always has been. Maybe I forgot just how much . . . or maybe the years have added to her confidence and her confidence merely adds to everything about her.
“So let’s see,” I say, completely ignoring her comment and loving that it’s pushing her buttons. “You’re working, but you weren’t in the clubhouse before or after the game like I’ve seen you do in the past.” I lean back in my stool and study her. “You have clients on the team, but you’re not partying with the team.” I chuckle. “You’re flying under the radar. That means you’re here trying to steal someone.”
“Who died and made you the Jacks’ official detective?”
“Private Dick reporting for duty.” I give a mock salute and earn a glare from her. “And, babe,” I say, strictly because I know it pisses her off, “you forget that I know you.”
“I’m not your babe, you don’t really know me”—I lift a brow at that but she just continues—“and I prefer the word recruit.”
“Recruit. Got it. Isn’t that kind of like using the word borrow instead of steal?”
“More like asshole instead of prick,” she says, but I don’t buy the innocent flutter of her lashes for one second.
“I always did like that mouth of yours,” I murmur as I tip my bottle of beer, but keep my eyes on hers.
“Are we done here?” she asks but makes no attempt to move, which answers my question. She is here for a player.
“So, you’re not after Callum, since he’s already your client.” I stand up and crane my neck. “Maybe it’s Heffner.” I tip my beer to the other side of the bar where our burly defenseman is chatting it up with a few ladies. “Nah. He’s not easily swayed and has a perfectly solid and long-term contract. Finch, then?” I ask. “He doesn’t seem too happy with his agent, so I’m pretty sure if that’s why you’re here, the struggle to get him over to your side wouldn’t be too tough.”
“Thanks for the intel. I’ll file it away in my need-to-know, but uh, who says I’m here scouting anyone?”
“You’re here to get laid then?” I flash a grin and hold my arms out to my sides. “If that’s the case, here I am.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” She takes her time uncrossing and then recrossing her legs, and I take in every long inch of them as she does.
“You’re just here for the night then? Flew in from New York to catch a game, then sit at a bar and talk to the guys afterward, but you’re—uh—not recruiting?”
There’s the slightest hitch in her movement and it’s her tell. She’s definitely here to steal a client.
“Just came here to enjoy the atmosphere of a winning team, a player who’s on top of his game”—she lifts her chin to me—“and get a break from the monotony of things for a bit.”
“How’s what’s-his-name?” I ask, thinking of the guy I saw her with the last time I was in New York. Or was it at the ESPYs? Regardless, he was too slick, too pretty, and nothing like who she needs.
She was on his arm but her eyes were firmly on me.
