Touching Down(84)

The crowd was going insane now, probably as unable as I was to believe what was happening.

Holding Charlie in one arm, Grant glanced at me in his other. His face was wet with sweat and alive like I’d never seen it.

“Help me with my helmet?” he asked me.

I worked his chinstrap free and tugged at his helmet, which felt suctioned to his head. It came off with a little work, revealing a wet, dripping mess of hair.

“How’s that for impossible?” He smirked at me, his brows disappearing into his wet hair.

“Okay, you proved your point.” I dropped my hand around his neck—his skin was searing hot. “You can stop showing off now.”

He made a face like he was considering that before shaking his head. “Nah, not yet.” Then his mouth crashed down on mine as he bowed my back closer.

The roar around us crescendoed into a whole new realm as Grant Turner kissed me in front of tens of millions of people.

I knew that no one would forget this game because of the uncatchable throw he’d caught, but it was the way he kissed me that I’d remember.

It was the kind of kiss a girl couldn’t forget if she wanted to.





“YOU REALIZE I’M not going to make it through this whole thing without pulling you into some dark corner and having you, right?” Grant’s hand stationed at my back grazed lower.

My face stayed unaffected, my heart not-so-much. “It’s three hours. There’ll be hundreds of people there. Hundreds of people who will want a piece of the Grant Turner pie. I think your presence will be missed, even if it’s for only ten minutes.”

Grant’s fingers played with the short hem of my dress swirling around my legs. “You in this dress?” He lowered his mouth to my ear. “I don’t need ten minutes.”

I fought my smile. “Five?”

“Try however long it takes me to get my fly down and your panties pulled aside.”

Just before we stepped inside the big ballroom, I paused. Looking at him, I pressed up onto my tiptoes. His hands dropped to my hips.

“I might have forgotten to put something on earlier.” I breathed slowly into his ear until I felt him shudder. “I wanted to save time.”

As quickly as I’d rolled to a stop, I started moving again like nothing had just happened. Grant must have needed a moment to recover because he had to jog to catch up to me a few moments later.

“Fuck this party. Let’s get out of here so I can fuck you instead.” His expression was hopeful, even as a stream of people started winding in our direction now that the MVP had arrived.

“Your patience will be rewarded.” I winked at him as his hand tucked around mine.

“Cruel and unusual punishment,” he muttered before he greeted some of his teammates with handshakes and high fives.

I stood at his side, the only place I felt like I belonged at a get-together like this. The New York Storm’s owners threw a big, over-the-top party every time the Storm had come out on top of a season, and this year’s party was taking place in a top floor ballroom in one of New York City’s high rises. The view alone was unreal, but the décor spread around the room was not to be outdone. I wasn’t sure the Pharaohs had seen such lavish excess.

It was such a strange world to be a part of. Such a stark contrast to the one I’d known as a child. Going from having to dig through people’s garbage some nights to having caviar served on gold-leaf spoons was as opposite as it got. I wasn’t comfortable with either extreme—I was happier being able to put simple meals on the table every night.

Grant was in the same boat, so we usually left these kinds of events starving and peeling into the first semi-healthy fast-food joint we could find. I didn’t think my stomach would know what to do with caviar or duck liver. Besides the obvious.

Grant played nice and mingled with the team managers and owners for a whole ten minutes before he started steering me toward a quiet corner.

“I need a fucking break,” he said under his breath, shaking a few more hands as we milled through the crowd.

“Fine, okay. Take a breather, grab something to drink, then we’ll go back in.” I looped an arm behind his back. I’d gone to enough of these kinds of parties with him this season to know they were a rare form of torture for him. From the schmoozing to the adults-only policy to the penguin suits, they just weren’t his thing.

“No, I don’t mean fucking as an adjective but as a verb. I need a fucking break, as in I need a break for fucking.” His eyes were facing forward, but I didn’t miss the glint in them.

“My, someone’s been going over their English lessons.”