Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(47)

“Nah, I ate with Lawrence.” I’d thought about texting her to see if she wanted to go out for dinner, but worry for my dad kept rearing its head. I drove to his house and did a walk-through. It was obvious he’d been there—his sink was full of dishes—but he was gone. He’s avoiding me.

I push those things away and focus on her. Lazily, I watch her flit around the kitchen, bustling like she belongs, stuffing pizza boxes in the trash, cursing as they tumble back out.

I move her to the side. “Here, let me do that.” I pick up the boxes, folding and crushing them with my hands—See how strong I am?—only a pepperoni flies off and lands on my shirt. She erupts in giggles, and when I turn to mock glare at her, my foot tangles in the box on the floor, and I do a little slip and slide before I catch myself on the counter.

“Oh my God, pizza boxes are trying to kill you!” She crosses herself. “My curse is rubbing off.”

“I swear this never happens,” I muse with a grin. “Have you watched me play football? I’m a badass.”

“Mmm, lots of times.”

I arch a brow, satisfaction and pleasure rushing through me. “So it wasn’t just my national championship game. Whatever happened to the guy you watched it with?”

“Jealous?”

“No.” I’d like to meet him and check him out.

“Meh, he and I never worked out, but I can still see your bio piece they showed during halftime that night. Your hair was clipped short, and you sported a smirk as you flexed your muscles.”

Most of the cockiness was for show. I was still reeling over Hannah.

“Impressed by my stats, I see. Why haven’t you ever mentioned that you were a big Devon Walsh fan? I could have signed some footballs, maybe a shirt.”

She throws a balled-up napkin at me, and I catch it. “Why do I need those when I’m sleeping in your old practice clothes?”

My body tightens at the image of her in a bed, my shirt bunched around her hips, a peek of her thong showing. Heat rises, my pulse kicking up. “What about when we first met? You never brought up recognizing me.”

Her head dips as she avoids me, pretending to inspect the granite on the countertop. She pushes up her glasses on her nose.

“Giselle?”

“Haven’t you put it together by now, Dev?” A pink flush starts at her throat and eases up her face.

I inch closer. “No, I haven’t.” Seems I’m in uncharted waters with you, baby.

We do that staring thing again where I can’t take my eyes off hers, cataloging the microexpressions on her face, and then I get tangled up on a small heart-shaped freckle above her lips, that full sweet mouth that’s perfect for—

Myrtle lets out a big snore.

“Are you going to make me use your name again?”

She scrunches up her face and throws another napkin at me. “My OCD for questions isn’t foolproof. I can not tell you.”

“Still waiting.”

“Fine! I saw you play in college, had an instant crush, went and tried to get a similar tattoo, then met you years later and couldn’t get the nerve up to tell you that I not only held my breath the night you got drafted and watched most of your games in the NFL—even when you played for Jacksonville—who I can’t stand! Then you got traded to Nashville, Elena started seeing Jack, and there you were at the community center, in the flesh, and I couldn’t even think of what to say, so I pretended like I wasn’t a fan. Happy?”

“Fucking delirious,” I murmur.

She laughs. “Really?”

“It’s a layer to you I had no clue about. Smart girl who digs football, and I’m your favorite player. What else could a guy ask for?”

“Cookies?”

I laugh.

We’re close, our shoulders touching as we hover over the island and look out into the den. I’m watching Giselle, drinking in her delicate face, the way her shirt clings to her chest—and she’s looking at Myrtle. She leans into me and whispers, “Besides all that, you are very handsome. Eyes like a rain forest. Hot bod. Athletic grace. A black panther. Also, you might be the inspiration for a hero in my book—”

“Vureck?”

“You remember?”

I smirk, following her eyes to the lady on the recliner. “I see what’s going on. You’re buttering me up. Myrtle has no place to go, does she?”

She plops onto the stool and cups her chin. “Her place won’t be ready until tomorrow morning.” She gives me a look. “You mad now?”

I pick up a bright-green apple she bought and throw it in the air. No one’s ever set fresh fruit in my kitchen before. “We only have two beds.”

She nods. “She can take my room, and I’ll sleep on the couch. You’ll never know she’s here.”

“No, I’ll take the couch.”

She gapes. “You’ve done too much already! I will not take your bed. I insist on the couch.”

Visions of her in my bed with me dance around me—until I push them away. “All right.”

A small frown puckers her forehead. “I’ve moved in with a nervous dog who pees in your expensive shoes, invited a guest, let her smoke pot, and inadvertently nearly caused you to break a leg. You’re living with a curse-ridden maniac.”