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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QUINN DIDN'T STIR when I knocked on her door at six-thirty, and I almost left her behind.
She'd be pissed, but I refused to peek into her bedroom and wake her knowing she'd gone to bed half-naked. No way. I couldn't risk walking in and seeing things I shouldn't see. I couldn't risk the chance of getting yet another boner when I had shit to do that didn't involve ogling my house guest.
Just as I grabbed my car keys from the kitchen counter and was about to walk out the door, Quinn raced down the hallway, wearing leggings and an oversized Warriors T-shirt.
"You were going to leave without me," she accused breathlessly as soon as she saw the keys in my hand.
"You were sleeping," I said simply. I rocked up onto the balls of my feet, trying to stretch. I was stiff today, my body aching. Especially my bad knee. "I didn't want to wake you."
I actually didn't mind the idea of waking Quinn, which was the whole problem. Because the ways I imagined waking Quinn up were...not things I should be thinking about.
Quinn scoffed. "I told you to–never mind. Let me just throw my shoes on, and I'll be ready to go."
She'd pulled her dark hair up into a ponytail on the top of her head, and it swished back and forth as she speed-walked across my living room to retrieve her gym shoes from by the back door. And through the swishing of her hair, I spotted something that made my whole body tighten.
My name.
She was wearing a Warriors shirt with my name on the back. My number. Fuck me.
Damn, I wish she'd worn that to Sunny's yesterday so everyone could see her with my name on her back.
"Nice shirt," I grunted after clearing my throat and getting a grip on myself.
After slipping her shoes on, she looked back at me with a grin. "Thanks, it's my favorite Warriors shirt."
"Oh yeah?" I leaned against the counter. "Why's that?"
"Features my favorite player," she whispered, as though revealing a secret.
Despite the strange emotion swirling inside me, I shook my head. "Favorite former player."
"True." She sighed dramatically. "Which is really too bad. I sure wish I knew why he retired. It's not gonna be the same without him on the field."
Her words cut through me. I had been trying not to think about that–about how it would feel when the season started up again and I'd see all the guys running onto that field without me.
I might have my beef with the franchise and their reporters, but I'd miss the guys. Cuddy and his ridiculous pre-game ritual. Rice and his belly laugh that echoed through the locker room. All of those little things.
"You'll find a new favorite player," I said reluctantly.
"Hm." Quinn's eyes flicked over me in a way that made me feel transparent. Like she was getting closer and closer to being able to see right through me. "I'm not so sure about that. No one else rolls their eyes at me when I try to interview them."
