Everyone who works within the New York Warriors organization knows that star player August Fletcher refuses to talk to most people...and especially team reporters. All except Quinn Castle, that is.
Quinn doesn't know why the broody football player...
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"THOSE BARS IN New York too uppity for anyone to show you how it's done on a pool table, huh?"
My head spun, trying to comprehend what August was saying while simultaneously digesting the way his fingers skimmed over my skin. If he noticed my goosebumps, he didn't say anything.
Which was good since I still hadn't recovered from the other thing that had come out of his mouth. I wasn't sure if he was talking about breaking the rack of balls or having sex on a pool table, but it didn't really matter, seeing as I didn't have experience with either.
"You haven't earned your question yet, Fletcher," I said, shooting his words back at him.
I felt a low rumble vibrate from his chest, shaking my ribcage. He was so close and all-encompassing as he reached around me that I could feel everything.
"Then let's get this game started," August murmured before showing me how to pull the cue back. He released my wrists once I was in place, letting me strike the white ball on my own. I hit it dead on and with enough force that it flew into the stack of solid and striped balls, dispersing them across the table.
But nothing fell into a pocket, and I stepped back in disappointment.
This was going to take a long time, and I was eager to get to work.
"I propose a change of rules." I leaned against the table, facing August. He assessed me with one raised brow, waiting for me to continue. "Every ball in the pocket earns a question," I said. "I'm not waiting until the end of the game to make conversation."
August's expression remained flat, seemingly unimpressed with my suggestion. But then again, August always seemed unimpressed. When the Warriors won the Super Bowl two seasons ago, August barely cracked a grin.
"Or we could just, I don't know..." He sighed heavily. "Drink a beer, listen to the music, and play some pool."
"You don't even have a drink."
"Well, that's easily solved." Without breaking eye contact, August hollered behind him. "Hey, Sunny! What about another Islander?"
"On it, Auggie," the man behind the bar shouted back. Sunny himself, presumably.
August's expression remained steady as if daring me to argue with his logic now. So I said, "There's also not any music playing."
August chuckled slightly before tipping his head at something behind me. I spun to see a jukebox in the corner, tucked away like someone hoped no one would notice it if they put it there.
"So what do you want to listen to, Castle?" August asked, exasperation evident as he walked around the table to the jukebox.
"The music was your suggestion," I pointed out. "I thought it would be better to have a chance to talk. You know, maybe about why you abruptly retired from the National Football League when you were at the top of your–"
