Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love #1)(2)

“Our team won’t be the same without you,” he says. “Maybe if you rehab another season, try different physical therapy—”

“I’ve done it all, Tuck.” I endured two surgeries and rehab from some of the best doctors in the world—and that was just for my knee. I had a whole other round for my face.

He exhales noisily. “But you know I can’t shut up, right?”

I tip my glass up at him. “Nine years together, and you never once stopped running your mouth.”

An eager expression crosses his face, his words coming in a rush: “Let’s play. ’Kay? Like old times? You rescue her from security, chat her up, and get her number, and I’ll wash your Porsche and let you take pics of me and brag about it, post it on Insta, whatever. Anything else that happens”—he flashes a grin—“I’m talking maybe kiss her, will be icing on the cake; feel me? You don’t need a lesson on how to woo a woman, do you?”

My lids lower. “No.” I’ve been a phenom quarterback since I was fourteen. Women have always gravitated to me.

Or they used to.

I catch my reflection in the mirror behind him and see the scars on the left side of my face. Jagged and pink, the longest one starts at my temple, traces past my ear to my jawline, and ends midneck. Sixteen inches long, that cut was a quarter inch from an artery. Other scars, like jagged spiderwebs, slice into my cheek on the same side, then disappear into my dark hair. Last year, my hair was shaved around my ears and longer on top in a classic pompadour, but it has grown out, the longer length brushing my chin. Still, they’re visible. Last week, one of the trainers dropped off some personal equipment I’d kept at the field. When I opened the door, he saw my face . . . and flinched. Might as well get used to it. They aren’t going away. I rub the long one, my thumb brushing over it.

“They give you a dangerous vibe,” Tuck says.

“Frankenstein—yeah, that’s a good look.” I drain my glass and set it on the table.

“All right, buddy, let’s get you moving,” he says as he tugs me up.

I weave on my feet—whoa—then straighten and frown. “What’s the rush?”

He waves that off. “Listen to me. Go talk to that girl. For your best friend in the whole wide world. Please.” He bats his lashes at me.

“You’re an idiot,” I say as I glance back over at her.

While we were talking, the security guy called another one over. They moved her to a corner near the entrance, and she’s got her chin tilted, a defiant look on her face as they question her. In a flurry of her loincloth, she nudges past them and gazes around the room, her eyes landing on me and sticking. Her face transforms, a radiant smile curving her lips.

Tuck lets out a surprised sound. “Huh, will you look at that? She knows you! This is perfect! You’ve got this!” He slaps me on the back. “Go get her, tiger. Go, go!”

“No,” I mutter.

Then the security guard puts his meaty hand on her arm and half drags her to the door.

“Dammit,” I breathe as a twinge of protectiveness rises. I heave out an exhale, shake off Tuck, and jostle my way through the crowd, leaning slightly on my right side to compensate for the prickle of pain on my left.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Tuck calls out. “Save the princess!”

Whatever. I flip him off over my shoulder.

I’ll see what she’s about, and that’s it.

Maybe get her out of here without causing her any embarrassment. I grew up with two younger sisters, and there’s a long list of escapades I’ve saved them from. Hell, I half raised them. What’s the harm in helping the princess? It’ll be a good story and get Tuck off my back.

As I approach, she’s having words with the guy holding her arm. She fights free of his grasp—again—then rushes toward me, the slits of her skirt showcasing her long, toned legs. Security is hot on her heels, but she never looks back, her posture straight, her steps sure, as she keeps that “I know you” smile directed straight at me.

We meet in the middle of the ballroom underneath one of the chandeliers among the dancers, and I send a head nudge to the duo behind her.

“Ease up, guys. She’s with me.”

They shrug and leave. I’m sure crazier shit has happened at an NFL party.

My breath hitches as I take her in. I didn’t appreciate her before at the table, but this close, it’s as if someone created everything I love in a woman: tall, blonde, heart-shaped face, sapphire eyes, luscious tits. Toss in the costume . . .

My teenage fantasy in the flesh.

She takes both of my hands in hers, and the touch sends a buzz of awareness racing over my skin. I didn’t expect that.

“Ronan,” she murmurs.

Okay, she knows my name—not surprising.

“Hey, um . . . ?” What are you doing here?

“Help me,” she implores dramatically. “You’re my only, um, salvation . . . and stuff like that . . . to save the universe.”

I huff out a rusty laugh. “Well, that’s almost Leia’s first line in Star Wars.”

She leans in, and her fingers dance up my jacket and land on the lapels, stroking the black fabric. “I love this suit. You like my outfit?”

My gaze tangles in the soft curves of her body, lingering on her bikini-clad breasts. Gradually, I move up to the smooth line of her throat, to the dark winged eyebrows that contrast with her hair and frame her face. Even without the kick-ass costume, she’s the kind of girl you see on the street and do a double take. Hourglass shape, classic features, and a perfect pouty bottom lip.