Before We Kiss (Fool's Gold #14)(83)

Sam flipped on a few lamps. She saw a fireplace with an old-fashioned brick hearth. The mid-century touch suited the room.

“Nice,” she said as she glanced around.

“Want to see the rest of the place?”

“Sure.”

They went into the eat-in kitchen. It was open, with plenty of counter space and lots of cupboards. There were plenty of gadgets, including a complex-looking espresso machine and massive stove with a built-in grill.

Beyond that was a formal dining room. There were two spare bedrooms with an adjoining bath at one end of the house. The master was probably at the other.

The colors were all muted guy-tones. Beige, sage, taupe. She assumed he’d employed a professional decorator. Minimal artwork covered the walls. It was mostly abstracts or landscapes. Chosen more for the decorative value than because he liked it, she would guess.

“Where are you?” she asked when they returned to the great room.

He raised his eyebrows. “Should I state the obvious and point out I’m right here?”

She smiled. “I meant, where are you in this house? It’s great and beautifully decorated. But it’s not you. The muted colors are very neutral. That’s you on the surface, but underneath, you have a lot of passion. Where are the bold touches? The whimsy only you would see.” She put her hands on her hips. “Wait a minute. You’re some famous football guy.”

He winced. “Famous football guy? Is that how you think of me?”

She laughed. “You know what I mean. You have to have stuff. Where is it?”

He didn’t answer right away. She wondered if he was going to try to deflect her. And if he did, should she let him? But then he took her hand in his and led her toward the other end of the house.

He dropped her bag outside a partially closed door, then motioned for her to lead the way. She pushed the door open as she entered and found herself in what she would guess was the heart of the house.

The room was huge. Probably the result of two bedrooms being combined. There were bookshelves all along one wall. But instead of books, the shelves were crowded with awards. Statues and plaques, glass swirls and silver bowls. There were dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

Black leather chairs—big and comfortable looking—faced a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. The wall opposite the bookcases had been painted a dark crimson. Framed L.A. Stallions posters showed Sam, Jack and Kenny in action. Below was a built-in cabinet that went the length of the wall. Complicated-looking equipment gleamed. Remote controls sat in a basket. There was a refrigerator, a small microwave and wine cellar.

All the comforts of home, she thought, knowing this was where Sam allowed himself to relax.

She studied the posters of him, passing over the ones of his friends. There were three—two of him kicking and one of him right after the kick had scored. When his teammates had carried him on their shoulders.

“Which game?” she asked.

“Super Bowl.”

Right. Because Sam had kicked a field goal in the final seconds—winning the game for his team. A fact she had known but never really internalized.

“That must have been something.”

“We’d worked hard to get to that game. Everyone played well. I was fortunate to be able to add the final points.”

Which all sounded like an ESPN sound bite.

“It must have been a lot of pressure. Don’t a couple of billion people watch the game every year?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

She walked to him and grabbed him by his shirtfront. “Sam, come on. That was a huge moment. You won the Super Bowl. You didn’t throw to someone, or catch a ball someone else had thrown. You did it yourself. You and the goal and the ball. You did it.”

His mouth twitched at the corners. “There’s no I in team.”

“How many clichés do you have?”

“How much time you got?”

She dropped her hands to her sides. “Just tell me it was cool.”

“It was.” His mouth curved again and this time he smiled. “It was better than cool. It was like swallowing lightning.”

“Best night of your life?”

Some of his humor faded. “So far. I was hoping it would be overshadowed by having a kid, but until then, yes.”

“Don’t you get a ring?”

“We do. Want to see it?”

She nodded.

He walked over to the bookcase. As he approached it, she saw a center display. A ring sat in the middle of an acrylic or glass case. A huge ring with the L.A. Stallions logo and plenty of diamonds. Bold letters announced World Champions.

He opened a drawer underneath and pushed several buttons on a pad. There was a faint click as something unlocked, then he pulled out the ring and handed it to her.

She took it and studied the design. “I’ve never seen you wear it.”

“Look at it. This isn’t the kind of ring you wear every day.”

“I suppose it would get in the way.”

The ring was heavy and attention-grabbing. She slid it on her middle finger. It was impossibly huge.

“Still,” she said, handing it back to him. “Very cool. What a moment. You’ll always have that, no matter what. You have to be proud of that.”

He put the ring away. “I am proud. But what feels like the bigger feat is having a life after football. Not all the guys figure that out.”