Most Valuable Playboy(43)

“Almost being the operative word.” I crack open a beer, hand her the wine, and toast. “To almosts,” I say, my voice echoing in my quiet home.

“To almosts,” she replies, and the air between us crackles and hums.

I turn on some music on my phone, and even though I’m tempted to crank up my favorite rock anthems, I find something that better sets the tone. Then I want to smack myself for going for mood music.

“Are you trying to put me to sleep?” she asks, laughing.

I wink. “Just making sure you’re paying attention.”

“Put on the good stuff,” she says, and I switch to a playlist that starts with “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele.

“I love this song,” she says, her face animated as she taps her foot against the floor.

“I know. That’s why I picked it.”

I adjust the ice pack as she sings the first few lines, then I join in for the chorus, using the beer bottle to sing into, while she cranks up the volume courtesy of her wineglass turned microphone.

“We would kill it in a karaoke duet.”

“But I insist we sing ‘Islands in the Stream.’”

“I accept your insistence,” I say, as I refill her wine and grab a second beer.

We make our way to the living room. Violet tips her chin at the Christmas tree in the bay window. Red ribbons and silver ornaments hang from the plastic branches, along with ceramic candy canes and green felt mini-stockings. Blue and white lights flicker on and off, set on a timer for the evenings. “You set up your tree. It’s adorable.”

I give her a look. “Violet, how long have you known me?”

“Twenty years. Why?”

I gesture to the perfectly appointed tree. “Do you really think I pulled that off? Lined up ornaments with that kind of pinpoint precision?”

“Let me guess. Mama Armstrong did it?”

I laugh. “You guessed correctly. The whole nine yards.”

“Tell Mama Armstrong she’s a masterful decorator. Oh wait, I’ll tell her myself when she comes by for her color.”

“Speaking of, did Maxine schedule a hair appointment?”

“She did. For next week. But if I could handle the players’ wives, I can handle Maxine.”

“Damn, you’re tough,” I say, then eye my shoulder. “Unlike me. I can barely handle three-hundred-pound linemen slamming into me.”

“Ha. Yeah, you’re the very definition of tough.”

I flop on the couch, adjusting the ice pack.

Violet kicks off her shoes and joins me, tucking her feet under her. “Does it hurt still?”

“Not really.”

She arches a brow as she takes another drink of her wine. “Not even a little?”

I hold up my finger and thumb as the music shifts to “Wonderwall.” “Okay. A smidge.”

She puts her wineglass on the coffee table and waggles her fingers. “Let me help.”

I put my beer on the table, too. “Ooh, is this where we play quarterback and physical therapist?”

She rolls her eyes. “Is the team’s PT your fake girlfriend?”

I shudder, thinking of the lean and lanky physical therapist the club hired—the very male PT.

Violet cracks her knuckles, sets a hand on my shoulder, and tells me to face the other way. I turn so I’m looking at the stark white wall and the framed prints of Italy and Spain, New Zealand, and Australia, all the places I want to go someday. I release the ice pack, letting it fall to the floor. Her hands curl over my shoulders, and my reaction to her touch is instant.

I groan because it’s so goddamn good as she digs her fingers into my flesh. “Tell me about meeting the players’ wives.”

“They were fantastic,” she says, and as she recounts her time in the suite, I sink into the magnificent sensation of her hands on me, her thumbs driving into my muscles, her fingers kneading my flesh. The way she touches me sends sparks through my body as if an electric current sizzles under my skin, spreading into my every molecule.

While I’m on edge like this, everything in me buzzing toward her, I close my eyes and images flash. All the ways I want this night to go. How good it feels to have her hands on me. How dangerous it could be to get closer. Her brother. Our friendship. Whether she feels the same way. My contract. The pact. My focus.

But then I think about how I feel with her. How my heart bounced around in my chest when she watched me today. How warmth radiates through me when I see her texts. How her lips feel sliding across mine.

I remind myself that I take chances all day long. I play a risky, violent sport for a living. I can either stay safely in the moment of this impromptu massage, or I can run into the fray.