The Billionaire Takes a Bride (Billionaires and Bridesmaids,(51)

“I think you’re pretty amazing, actually.” The words came out of him easily, and when she stiffened, he wondered if he’d made a mistake in confessing it. But it was true. The more time he spent around Chelsea Hall—now Chelsea Cabral or Chelsea Hall-Cabral, he supposed—the more he wanted to be with her. Wanted to hear that cheery laugh of hers. Feel her soft skin pressed against his as she slept next to him, her cold feet on his leg.

He wanted all of Chelsea, damn it. If his family had f*cked this up for him, he’d never forgive them.

She gazed up at him, head cocked. “Wanna come to the bout tonight?”

Sebastian was surprised at her offer. “You’re sure? I don’t want to intrude.”

“It’s probably going to be crowded. And people are going to be rowdy. And I’m probably going to get a few smacks to the face, so I don’t want you rushing on the track to save me because I’m a girl.” She said the words derisively.

“First of all, I would never rush onto the track to save you, because you can kick everyone’s ass out there.” At her delighted laugh, he continued. “And second of all, I’m fine with you getting a few smacks to the face as long as you elbow them back.”

“Elbows aren’t allowed,” she teased as she slid past him. “Everything else is, though.”

“Well, then, I have to go to cheer on my derby wife, don’t I?”

“Oh, my god, that’s so cute.” She turned and patted him on the chest. “But Pisa’s my derby wife. You’re just my man. You don’t get a special title.”

He toyed with a lock of her blonde hair. “I don’t know. I kind of think being your man is a pretty special title.”

Her expression softened and her gaze slid to his mouth for a long moment. Then she pulled away, smiled, and bounded down the stairs. “I’ll tell them to hold a ticket for you at the front. Tell them you’re Chesty LaRude’s piece of ass.”

“I shall wear the name with pride,” he called back, and chuckled.

A few hours later, he was back in the bleachers, seated next to Diane, Morning Whorey’s real-life wife. They drank beers and chatted and he sketched as the bout went through jam after jam. Chelsea took a few hard knocks at the beginning, but she’d found her stride and was delivering a beat-down to the other team’s blockers. Diane gave him play-by-plays since he still didn’t know the rules of the game. Not that it mattered. He spent most of his time watching Chelsea and suppressing inappropriate feelings of lust every time she bent over and flashed her yellow panties under that impossibly short skirt. She was kicking ass, though. The bout had been tight the entire time, and when they hit the halfway mark, Chelsea looked up in the stands, scanning for him. He waved, and she blew a kiss in his direction before skating off with her team for the halftime powwow.

“So how’s married life?” Diane asked, peering over his shoulder at his sketchpad. Her beer sloshed over her hand. “Oh, my god. Holy shit. Is that Chesty?”

He slid away a foot, edging away from her beer. “It is. I just sketch for fun. It’s not very good.”

Diane thumped into the bleachers next to him. “Are you kidding? That’s f*cking incredible. Do you think you could do a sketch of Whorey when she comes back out? Please?”

“I can try,” he said, switching to a fresh piece of paper. “What’s her number?”

“Sixty-nine, of course.” Diane giggled. “God, that’s amazing. You should do the trading cards for the girls.”

“What? No—”

“I’m serious,” Diane said. “They hired a photographer for the trading cards but he sucked ass. All of the girls hated the photos. They’d probably love drawings of themselves.”

“I’ll think about it.” Sebastian demurred, picking up a new pencil and watching the halftime show with mild interest. His thoughts were on Chelsea and his sketches. What would she think of him doing sketches of the other girls?

She’d tell him to go for it and to be brave about his art, because she was fearless.

Maybe he needed to be more fearless, too.

When the girls skated back on the track, he looked for Morning Whorey, and then began to sketch her angular face and the expression she made when the jam started. At his side, Diane squealed and clapped her hands, beer forgotten. “That’s so her! That’s amazing, Sebastian!”

He grinned and took a sip of his beer, feeling a bit more relaxed about his art. Someone else had seen him draw and the world hadn’t ended. Wasn’t so bad.

The Rag Queens fell behind for a time, and his sketches were forgotten as the stands erupted between each jam, cries of disappointment erupting every time the jammer banged her hands against her hips, calling off the jam. Then, Good Whip Lollipop managed to score a Grand Slam on the other team, bringing the score within two points and three minutes left.

Then, the Rag Queens tied them on the next jam.

By that time, the crowd was on their feet, and Sebastian was caught up in the excitement. “This is the last jam,” Diane yelled in his ear. “Time’s gonna run out so they have to hustle.”

His gaze flicked from the jammer to the pack, just ahead of them. The women were tense, ready to start. The whistle blew, and the pivot moved out in front. Then, a second whistle, and the jammers took off. As he watched, Chelsea skated in front of the other team, then widened her legs as she skated, deliberately blocking as much floor as she could. The other team’s jammer tried to jump her extended leg and managed to knock both of them to the ground. He held his breath as Chelsea went sprawling, his worry for her overriding his enjoyment of the game. But she quickly picked herself back up and skated back to the pack. Meanwhile, Good Whip Lollipop was busy fighting her way through the pack to score. She passed one player—