Colleen chuckles. “Not yet, but I could see her spending a large sum of Uncle Dunne’s money on some date nights with a few players.”
“Hopefully not me.” I grunt.
Walker hooks a thumb at me. “Someone is a little grumpy. What’s wrong, big guy, someone piss in your whiskey?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s scotch, and no. The free drinks are the only reason I’m here.”
“Well, that and your affinity for helping repair the Pistons’ reputation,” Colleen teases me, her eyes dancing with sarcasm and amusement.
That makes me crack a smile. “Oh, what I wouldn’t do to remove the stain from this team.”
Walker gets distracted by something across the room and smacks Clark on the pec until he turns to look. “If you’ll excuse us …”
The two of them make off without further explanation, and I’m left standing there with a half-hard dick I’m trying to discreetly readjust in my dress pants, and Colleen.
“Thank you for coming tonight, I know it’s not your first choice. This is a big event for our season ticket holders, and the team being here is a great draw.” She nods courteously at me.
I tip my head slightly to acknowledge her appreciation before sipping my drink. “I’m not such a surly bastard that I wouldn’t show up for a team event. I know how this world works, I play along.”
“You’ve been a great source of steadiness for the team this season, I think that should be praised.” Colleen’s lips are blood red from her makeup, and it’s distracting.
The past few weeks have been uneventful, which is just how I like it. We play games; we win most and lose others. The media still picks at the scandal in most postgame interviews, but a lot of the infamy has died down, and I can avoid it most days.
Our team is gelling a bit better, and I’ve grown closer to Walker, and Clark. We often grab beers after road games, or play cards on our nights off in Packton. Otherwise, I spend most of my time alone. When we play in San Francisco, I drive up and stay with Ronnie and Bryant for the night, which eases my soul a bit.
But I’ve always been a loner. When you grow up without a family, without any roots, it’s hard to form attachments even when you live in a place for a long while. I have no one to celebrate milestones or holidays with, and I’ve generally been okay with that. Though watching the Callahans work together and spend so much time around family—a sight that’s unavoidable if you’re a Pistons team member—leaves a hollow sort of ache in my chest.
Especially when I watch Colleen. She has an intimate closeness with almost every single person who works in the stadium. From her blood relatives to the janitorial staff who cleans out our locker room, the general manager knows everyone on a first name basis. She’s here from the time I arrive on practice and game days, and I typically see her car in the parking lot when I’m leaving.
It’s difficult to ignore her presence, to turn a blind eye to the way she warms up a room every time she walks into it. Colleen Callahan is a consummate professional, but her easy likability and top-notch listening skills draw people in and make them feel comfortable.
I swore to myself I’d hate any Callahan on sight, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to not only not hate her, but not fall a little bit under her spell.
“So, you’re saying you’re going to bid on me?” My voice sounds foreign with its slight hint of charm.
Colleen looks as shocked as I feel, though an adorable smile curls her full lips up. “Well, Mr. Swindell, I don’t bid. That would be a conflict of interest.”
Something about the way Clark was making eyes at her got under my skin, and I can’t help the flirty nature that’s coming out of me. It’s been a long time since I spoke to a woman in any sort of pursuing nature, and maybe it’s the scotch. Maybe it’s her dress, or the way that dark makeup is doing something to my insides. Or maybe I’m just fed up with watching this enigmatic woman walk around and not being able to do anything about how she unconsciously catches my attention.
I shrug, raising my eyebrow at her. “Sometimes conflicts can be a good thing. You know … if you’re interested.”
Aliens must have taken over my body, or maybe it’s the feel of the room tonight, but we’re about to spark a fire. I feel it, low in my gut, the kindling of the embers.
“Again, I don’t bid. But …” Colleen looks around, biting her lip in a way that makes my balls ache. “If I did, I might open my checkbook for a night out with you.”
There is a squeak on the end of her words, as if she surprised even herself with how saucy she’s being. In the grand scheme of male-female courting rituals, dating, hookups, whatever you want to call it … what we’re doing is so PG that it can barely even be considered flirting. But at the same time, there is an X-rated undertone.
“I would have liked to see that.” My smile hides a hint of the devil in it.
Someone calls her name from across the room, and she turns her head slightly, acknowledging whoever it is. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go rub elbows. General manager duties call.”
“Of course. Have a good rest of your night, Colleen.”
She gives me a shy smile before turning to walk across the room.
And that’s when I see the back of the dress. I almost shove a fist in my mouth to keep the low growl from coming out of my throat.
Her dress ties at the nape of her neck, and then is completely open until it sweeps dangerously over her tailbone. The entirety of her back is exposed, smooth, golden brown skin on display for all to see. I want to run my hands over all of that velvet and hear her intake of breath as they move to disappear under the black material of her dress.
Shit, I think I might be in trouble.
11
Colleen
The ticker on the bottom right-hand corner of the screen alerts viewers to just how much time there is until my father’s interview debuts.
It’s the only thing that has been covered on the baseball scene, much the sports scene, in the last two weeks since it was announced. I decide to stay in my office, or his former office, to watch it rather than going home.
I don’t know why, as its masochistic, but it feels like the only way to watch it. I’ve been on edge for days, accidentally dropping things or trailing off in the middle of sentences. I’m not an aloof person, I have clear-cut communication skills and am usually extremely attentive to my staff and the coaches. But this is fraying my nerves, the waiting, and a part of me is relieved that it is finally here despite whatever he’s going to say.
The office is slowly becoming my own. About three weeks ago, one of our staff members came in and packaged up all of my father’s belongings and took them out while I was in a meeting. I’d come back to a bare office and was greeted by the knock of our usual interior designer an hour later. Since then, she’s had my office repainted a warm white, brought in a bunch of beautiful white flowering plants, added touches of Pistons red to accent, and had my favorite family photos framed to put on the credenza. I transformed the bar into a cart with flavored fruit waters in beautiful pitchers, and some of my favorite chocolates and cookies, rather than the chauvinistic scotch lineup like something out of Mad Men.