Now that Harlan has experienced the joys—pun intended—of workout dates, I am ready to collect.
I push open the door of the gym on Fillmore Street, spotting the regular crew at the weights. I head over to join Harlan and Cooper, setting down my water bottle with a satisfied grin. But if anyone should be satisfied it’s those guys—they clinched a playoff spot yesterday. Still, I get to gloat on another matter.
“Hello, gentlemen.”
“Don’t look so pleased, kiddo,” Harlan says, but I can tell the guy is trying valiantly to come across like a hard-ass.
Newsflash—he’s failing. He’s such a marshmallow.
I give an easy shrug as I stretch my quads. “Pleased? Me? Why ever would I look pleased?”
I’m so pleased.
Harlan rolls his eyes, shakes his head, pushes up from the weight bench. “Let me get my wallet. I’ve got a Benjamin. I presume you take cash for your bets, duckling?”
Time to mess with him again. “Sure . . . if you don’t want to do Bitcoin.”
Harlan rolls his eyes.
Cooper hoots. “Oh man. Jason, you better watch it. You don’t want to piss off the King of the Jungle.”
Actually, he’s dead-on. I don’t want to tick off Harlan or Cooper. I like this pack of friends I’ve made in the NFL, and I damn well want to keep them. They’re good guys, and the world doesn’t have enough of those.
“Actually, we’re all good,” I say to the receiver. “You can just buy me coffee next time we hang out.”
Harlan laughs. “You hate coffee, and I always make good on my bets.” Then he inhales deep, squares his shoulders, and says, “You were right, Jason. Workout dates are awesome.”
I wiggle a brow. “They’re the best.”
“Workout dates are the absolute best,” he adds, barely able to suppress a grin. “God, I love workout dates so much. Apparently, I was having workout dates all along, and they were great. You knew it, kid,” he says, poking my chest. “You fucking knew it.”
I give a sly smile. “I know some things,” I say, even though my last workout date didn’t pan out.
We just didn’t spark like I wanted, like I’ve sparked with others in the past.
With one other guy.
One I wouldn’t mind sparking with again.
“Yes, you do,” Harlan says, then pays up. I pocket the dough, and the three of us lift weights, shooting the breeze as we go.
When we finish, I’m getting ready to head to the Hawks training facility for practice when the door swings open to the gym.
And someone I used to know walks in.
Someone who definitely makes me spark.
Trouble is, he’s also my rival.
33
Emerson
Early February
* * *
I whistle with approval as Katie holds up a sparkly fuchsia Renegades sweatshirt. “Is this the winner?”
It’s the top for her to wear tonight, for many reasons. “Perfection. The sparkles are so very you. Plus, you totally look like a WAG,” I tell her as I kick my foot back and forth in our Vegas hotel room.
“I’m not a WAG for much longer,” Katie says, but she doesn’t sound wistful. She sounds happy, like she’s been about, oh, say, pretty much everything these last few months. She turns to the other person in the room. “And I guess you’re not a . . . what . . . much longer?”
Abby giggles. “I’m not a KAP after tonight. Kids and pets,” she adds as she ties the shoelaces on her royal blue Converse sneakers, the team colors.
“Wait. Kids and pets of sports stars go together like wives and girlfriends?” Katie asks the cutie-pie perched on the end of a king-size bed.
“Yes, because pets are important too. Like the pony you and my daddy might get me someday,” she says, batting her lashes.
I hold up a hand to high-five the seven-year-old. “Work it.”
“I’m trying. I swear I’m trying,” Abby says.
Once she tugs on her sweatshirt, Katie goes over and bops Abby on the nose. “You sure are trying. And trust me, I’ll campaign pretty hard too, once your daddy retires.”
Abby pumps a fist. “Yes.”
I point to the bed. “Sit,” I tell my best friend. “I need to touch up your makeup.”
Katie’s eyes turn serious, her forehead creasing. Hmm. Is she remembering the last time I did her makeup? Her wedding day that never happened?
Well, today couldn’t be more different.
I can’t wait.
“I’m just going to make you pop for TV. You know the cameras are going to be on us,” I tell her and Abby. But I shake a finger at the adorable kiddo. “No makeup for you.”
“I know,” Abby says, then stares intently as I powder Katie’s nose, dust on some blush, and give my friend a smoky eye.
“Are you excited for today?” I ask breezily, doing my best to keep my tone casual.
“I’m excited and insanely nervous,” she says, fiddling with a friendship bracelet in Renegades colors that Abby made her. Abby wears a matching one. “I can’t even imagine how he feels, playing in his last game.” She flashes me a smile. “Except, I can. He’s told me.”
“And how does Mister Harlan Taylor feel?”
“Ready,” she says with a crisp nod and a smile. “Like the timing is totally right.”
Abby pops up from the bed. “I need to use the little girls’ room. ’Scuse me.”
She rushes to the restroom and shuts the door. “And speaking of timing, thank you again for babysitting her in your room tonight,” Katie whispers, nodding to the bathroom. “Tonight might be the night.”
She has no idea.
I just grin. “Happy to help.”
“And what about for you? How’s everything with you and Nolan? You looked so cozy in your last episode.” She says it like she’s leading a horse to water and wants me to drink up a whole stream.
As I swipe on her mascara, I smile softly. I’m not drinking from that river. No way. “We’re just friends. The show is going great. We’re landing new sponsors. He’s my friend and my co-host.”
“That’s what you say now,” Katie teases.
“That’s what I’ll always say,” I add.
But when Nolan, all broad shoulders and smoldering gaze, joins us as we head to the stadium for kickoff, I wonder how long always will be.
It’s like he gets better looking every day.
Sexier every night.
More dangerous by the hour.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, then drops an arm around my shoulders.
A friendly arm.
Since he’s a friendly guy.
A friendly guy who, every now and then, makes me think dirty thoughts.
I shove those all out of my head, though, because it’s game time, and I’ve got a job to do.
Epilogue
Katie
* * *
Four Hours Later
* * *