This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
I was Lachlan Charming Reed, first-round draft choice. Not some charity case running bullshit drills and failing in front of the entire team.
The whistle blew. I burst into the route. Fifteen yards down. Count from the snap. Hook back.
The ball bounced away before I even turned.
I checked the yardage. Damn it.
I ran eighteen yards. Two extra steps.
My timing was off, and I fucked it up.
“That’s some magic fucking pussy, Elle…” Ray shook his head. “You’ve ruined him.”
She sighed. “Don’t get superstitious now. Remember two years ago? When no one wanted to change their practice socks cause we were on a streak?” She gagged. “We needed real voodoo to clear the smell out of the locker room.”
Ray snickered. “You’re right. Let’s run it again. Throw you down the field. He might be able to hit that.”
“Darn.” Elle snapped her fingers. “And here I didn’t pack my pads.”
“At least you’ve got some underwear on today.”
I set for the ball, but my back stiffened. I stepped towards Ray. “Leave her alone.”
Ray grinned. “Uh-oh. DH is jealous. You get her all night, Charming. Leave us our locker room memories.”
“I said shut it.”
Jack called me to the line. “Let’s go, rookie. We just gotta count together. That’s all.”
“I got it.”
“It’s all right,” Jack said, his voice a little too calming. “These plays take some practice to get right, but we’ll keep working.”
“I said I got it.”
Elle took another picture. I regretted giving her the camera. “One catch, Lachlan. Easy peasy.”
Something snapped in me. I gritted my teeth.
“Yeah? You think? Maybe I could catch the fucking ball if I didn’t have someone in my face flashing a damn camera while I’m trying to learn the play?”
Even the coach’s whistle trilled into silence. The team stiffened.
Shit.
Did I say it out loud?
Jack ducked his head low, murmuring under his breath. “Take it back. Take it back. Take it back.”
Elle’s hand fit snuggly on her hip, cocked just like her eyebrow.
“Do realize that once you’re playing this game for real, there’s going to be a couple million people watching you through all those cameras.”
“No shit.”
“Fine. You want me gone?” She shoved her camera in the bag. “I’m not wasting my time on a tight-end in name only.”
She demonstrated the insult with a slap to her own ass and stalked away. The guys hissed through their teeth—that universal sound of you done fucked up. Jack clapped my shoulder.
“One crisis at a time, lover boy. First you catch this ball, then you hand her yours.”
Christ, he was right, but I couldn’t do shit about it now.
It had been two weeks since our not-so-lazy river ride. Two weeks since we whispered promising words and held each other close. But the camp got busy, and the coach’s demands a little too heavy.
I hadn’t been a decent husband. Hell, I hadn’t even seen Elle outside training camp. After the increasingly bad practices and a tweaked hamstring that slowed me half-a-step, we hadn’t met up for anything more than a couple stolen kisses and a sexy text off the field.
I owed her a third date.
But hell, if I had asked her out right after our river trip, I would have probably woken up beside her this morning. Instead, I screwed myself. Thought I could focus more on the team and the camp. I worked out in the afternoon and evenings. Memorized the playbook at night. Studied film in my downtime.
But I didn’t have time to figure my shit out in the huddle, let alone plan out how to make a woman fall madly in love with me.
Especially when that woman still didn’t trust me.
Something was bugging her. I wasn’t sure what, but she rushed around training camp trying to keep busy, fighting to stay smiling. It wasn’t normal Elle. Whatever bothered her, she bundled it up tight inside, and she didn’t think she could share it with me.
I should have run after her, but the whistle blew. I sprinted down the field.
Jack threw the ball, and I caught it instinctively.
Just like I had done thousands of times before in my life. Just as I would a thousand times in the coming years.
So what was wrong with me?
Practice ended, but I didn’t stick around any longer than it took for me to haul the team’s bags from the field to the facility—two trips. The offensive line invited me out to eat. They seemed surprised that I declined, but they followed me to my car anyway.
And I saw why.
Popcorn.
I circled my Lexus. Thousands of kernels of popcorn smooshed into the interior.