Page 23 of Playing Santa

I bet you and Jimmy would love seeing a game in person. Who wouldn’t? Srsly

Jumping out of bed, I can’t wait for her response as I grab my sweats and head to the bathroom to get ready. I need to get out of here in the next five minutes. There’s a team bet on who’ll be last to practice this morning and the loser gets to stay late for drills with QB Gabe Wyatt. His stupid-ass idea.

By the time I get in the car I’m sweating it out about the time. I get to the stadium and make it to the locker room with ten minutes to spare before official practice, but I know that’s late by Gabe’s standards. Everyone on the team knows it.

Pulling into the players entrance, I race to the lot. Dozens of cars already fill the space. My phone pings again and I remember my text exchange with Ronnie. Torn between checking to see what she says and running my ass off to get inside as another car pulls up behind me, I swear out loud. “Fuck.” I push open the car door and slip my phone out at the same time.

Jogging to the Staff Only entrance to the locker room area with Max Devon right on my heels, I glance at my phone’s screen. Fuck. The text isn’t from her. I scroll down to see I have no new texts from her. She never answered my question about going to the game. About to push through the door, Max comes up on me and shoves past me, the bastard. We sprint down the cement corridor as if we’re in the gold medal hundred-meter dash. No way I want to stay late today. I want to get home early to see Ronnie and Jimmy before they leave.

Out of breath, I crash through the locker room door right behind the sneaky back-up QB. It’s going to be one of those days. A long version. Gabe grins at me and makes a shooting gesture with his hand. Fuck.

* * *

After practice and the extra QB drills during which I haul footballs and defend Hunter Quintanna as he’s going out long for passes, I finally find my way back to the locker room with Gabe and Hunter.

“That would have been a hell of a lot more constructive with Tate defending, don’t you think?” I grouse. Gabe grabs a towel and snaps it at me, but I make him miss.

“I may be just a kicker, but I’m not slow,” I say.

“Whatever you say, Sean.” Gabe laughs.

“Where’s Tate? Why isn’t he running extra drills with you as usual?”

“He has a baby at home. Needed a break.”

“You’re both getting soft,” I say.

“We’ll see what you think when you have someone to go home to some day,” Hunter says, “Oh, wait. That’s right. Never gonna happen.”

I smirk, but I keep it to myself that I might have someone waiting for me at home right now. The thought warms me better than the hot shower I take. When I get into my car, I check my phone again, but there’s still no text from Ronnie. Damn.

When I get home, I’m not surprised when I find she’s not there. She’s left the usual dinner and another fucking cake. But no note. Fuck. Pacing around my living room, I wonder if I’ve lost her again.

“What the hell,” I say to no one, and pick up the damn phone and dial her number, praying that it’ll ring. Praying that she answers it if it does ring. A lot of praying for a guy who doesn’t pray.

When she answers the phone, I grin and promise myself I’ll go to church again, one of these days.

“Ronnie, I—”

“I’m sorry, Sean. I should have talked to you sooner, but the reason I answered your call is to tell you that I can’t dog sit for you this week.”

“You can’t?” I know code for I don’t want to when I hear it.

“No. It’s impossible. I need to focus on my real job at the shelter and on Jimmy and it’s not fair to any of us because pet sitting for you and Dasher takes so much time and it’s not a long-term thing, not something I can’t rely on.”

“How do you know—” she doesn’t give me a chance to discuss it, to ask about Jimmy and how he’ll feel.

“I’m sorry, Sean. Good-bye.” She hangs up. I dial her number again, unsurprised that there’s no answer, that she’s shut her phone off again. Fuck. This is so out of left field I have no idea what spooked her, what I did wrong. No idea what’s in her head besides some misplaced concern about accepting anything that smacks of charity from me—or anyone no doubt. But damn. There’s so much more going on between us than dog-sitting and I know she knows that.

But that’s the fucking problem, you idiot. She doesn’t want to start anything with a player, a guy she can’t trust, a rich guy.

After pacing a tight circle around my family room about a hundred times, I grab my jacket and leave the house because I can’t stand the endless loop of anxiety taking over my head. Jumping in my car, I head to Louie’s. Gabe and Hunter and some of the others are probably there and I need to spill a beer and some tears to clear my mind. But when I get there, no one’s around and I end up drinking with the bartender and Louie. In spite of my mood and Louie’s questions, I don’t spill my problems. What am I going to say? I have a mad crush on a woman I hardly know, I’ve barely kissed her and she’s rejected me like a bad dream? No fucking way am I sharing that. I ought to get over it.

When the phone rings on my drive back home, I find myself hopelessly hoping it’s Ronnie saying she changed her mind. If not, I’m screwed for tomorrow—or more like it Dasher’s screwed because the puppy will have to spend the day in the cage. I tape my dashboard to answer the call.

It’s not Ronnie. It’s Garino.

“I’m sorry,” she says without preamble, “It’s all my fault. I spooked Ronnie.”