Kickin' It (Red Card #2)(28)

“You travel like this all the time?” I put my feet up on the little stool that only first-class people had and waited.

Matt set his phone down next to me and motioned for the flight attendant. “Whiskey neat.”

“And what will you have, miss?” The flight attendants on Delta were all dressed in pretty purple dresses that almost looked out of place.

“Water,” Matt answered for me.

I gave him a pleading look.

“And a light beer,” he added, “with lime.”

“Beer?” I hissed under my breath when she left.

“Beer helps your muscles, liquor just makes you dehydrated. Not that beer doesn’t, but it does help recovery, and you limped like Quasimodo all the way through security.”

“Glad you noticed. Not enough ibuprofen in the world when it comes to you, Matt Kingston.”

“And not enough whiskey in the world when living with you,” he said sarcastically. “Put your phone down. People are staring, and usually I fly private.”

I almost dropped my phone. “Private, as in, just you?”

“Yes.” He thanked the flight attendant as she handed us our drinks.

“Wait, like just you, the pilots, and—”

“A flight crew, that’s it.”

“How much does that cost?”

“More than your college degree, why?” He grinned. “It’s part of the lifestyle.”

“Oh.” Suddenly insecure, I put my phone down and looked around, wondering what everyone’s jobs were, if I was even capable of living the sort of lifestyle where people recognized me.

And then there was Matt.

I knew he was loaded.

But reading about it and experiencing it were two very different things, weren’t they? Because when you read about it, your imagination is never as good as the reality, is it?

Like I thought first class just included free drinks and bigger seats.

I was wrong.

And as I watched more and more people laugh over champagne, talk on their cell phones, open up their fancy computers, and ask the flight attendant to put away their nice jackets—I knew I was in over my head.

What was I thinking?

I was an athlete.

I didn’t do polish.

I did nice, tight college-girl dresses and sneakers.

Panic overwhelmed me as I gripped the armrests.

“Parker?” Matt’s low voice was soothing as I felt his touch on the back of my hand. It was warm, strong. Without thinking, I flipped my hand over and interlocked our fingers.

He squeezed tightly as I exhaled.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he whispered as my heart thumped against my chest loud enough for everyone in the cabin to hear. I just wasn’t sure if it was the fact that I could hold his hand and not have a panic attack, feel his warmth and like it (love it?), or that I’d suddenly come to the conclusion that I didn’t just need his help getting the attention of a team, I needed his help getting and keeping the team. Period.

I swallowed the dryness in my throat.

My pride.

And slowly turned my head to the right. His eyes were always so blue, so stark against his light hair and easy all-American smile. But he wasn’t smiling now—no, he looked concerned, the man wasn’t even blinking.

I opened my mouth. “I think I need more polish.”

The corners of his mouth lifted up at the sides, giving him a boyish look. “Like nail polish or polish polish?”

“Oh no! I didn’t even paint my nails! Do I need to paint my nails? Are they going to notice that I’m not—”

Matt’s free hand covered my mouth in a manner that would have normally set me off, but the way his eyes drilled into me, the warmth from his body, even the way he smelled, like something rich and elegant, and all I kept thinking about was the cologne guys wore in high school that made you sniff just a little bit harder, it was that but refined, not overwhelming. And I didn’t feel manhandled by him, more like he was trying to calm me down the only way he knew how.

“I don’t like polish,” he whispered. “Fingernail polish, that is. Never have.” His smirk grew into something more tantalizing, beautiful, his shining white teeth adding to the devastating effect that was Matt Kingston’s face. I tried not to sigh.

I failed.

“Furthermore . . .” He pulled his hand away and gripped my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re an athlete. All the team cares about is your stats and that you’re not a media risk and you’re a hard worker. Just be you, Parker.”

“A week ago, you would have said to be anyone but myself,” I countered in a whisper.

His eyes lowered to my mouth then back up to my eyes. “A week ago, I judged you like everyone else.”

“That’s the problem.” I felt my lower lip quiver. “All they know is what they’ve read, they don’t know the truth, you don’t know the truth.”

“I know you work hard,” he said quickly. “I know you let me drill you until you’re exhausted and ready to burst into tears.” He bit down on his bottom lip and looked away like he’d said something wrong. “I know I respect you as an athlete. And I know you want this more than anything.”

Not more than anything.