Fumbled (Playbook #2)(37)

“TK!” I scold him, heat flooding my cheeks. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why?” he asks, and I don’t answer. “I’m alone. Is Ace by you?”

I glance around my empty bedroom. “Well . . . no . . .”

“Poppy.” TK’s voice has an edge to it and I give up trying to predict where his moods are taking him. “You know how many women I’ve wanted to explore a relationship with since I got drafted?”

I try to think back to our earlier conversations, but I can’t remember the exact number. “Not many?” I figure it’s a good guess because there’s no way he’s stupid enough to bring this up if it wasn’t the case.

“None,” he corrects me.

Jaw to the freaking floor.

None?

Why? How is that even possible?

“It’s possible,” he says, reading my mind in the same freakish way he was able to when we were younger. It creeped me out when we were kids, and it still creeps me out.

“There had to be at least one.”

“Not. Fucking. One.” He stresses each word. “I don’t know if you know this or not, but people consider me a catch.”

“You are?” Obviously, I know this is true. He’s funny, hot, and rich. But he also has a ginormous ego and I’m not adding to it.

“Yeah, I am.” He knows I know. “You might not want to hear this, but I’m gonna tell you anyways. I came into this league at twenty-two. I was single with seven figures in my bank account. I was looking for fun only. I didn’t even hook up with most of the women who took me back to their place.”

“Okay. I call BS on that.” I glance at my closed door, straining my ears to make sure I don’t hear Ace’s impatient footsteps coming to get me.

“We have enough real shit that’s happened between us to deal with. I’m not going to add to it by lying to you about something stupid.”

I know this too.

“I know,” I whisper, feeling bad for even joking about it.

“I know,” he whispers back, and if I close my eyes tight enough, I’m convinced I’d feel his arms wrapping around me. “Remember when I told you that I made sure nobody trapped me?”

“Yeah.” As much as I wish I was able to forget every word he spewed the night I told him about Ace, the opposite happened. It’s like everything that came out of his mouth was etched onto my brain.

“I kept my distance. I never got close enough for anyone to catch feelings or want it to go further than a good time,” he says. “I’m the fun guy. The player they can brag to their friends about. I’ve never given anyone expectations of more.”

I scrunch my nose, thankful he can’t see my face. I try my hardest not to work out the math of his confession.

“I’m not sure I understand why you’re telling me this.”

“Because.” He sighs, his giant hands no doubt working their way through his long locks. “I need you to get where I’m coming from. I don’t take women home. I don’t save their numbers in my phone. And I don’t say lines.

“I know we’re different people who’ve lived different lives, but you can’t question everything I say to you. Yes, I’m here for Ace, I already love that kid. He’s the shit and I don’t want to miss out on another minute with him.” He stops and I blink away the tears that pop up hearing him talk about Ace. Then more words come. “But he’s not the reason I want to explore things with you. If anything, he’s the reason we should stick to just trying to be friends. But even when I was mad because I thought you were lying about him, I was still dreaming about you. Spending the day with you guys was the happiest I have been in years. Being with you makes me feel like myself again. And you’re so fucking beautiful that even though it’s only the first day of camp, I’m already getting yelled at in meetings because I can’t focus when all I think about is when I get to be with you again. When I’ll be able to touch you . . . kiss you again.”

Holy crap.

I mean . . .

I was not expecting that.

At all.

Thank God I’m standing in front of my bed, because after all of that? My legs lose the ability to keep supporting me.

I don’t know how long I lie on my bed not saying anything. Ten seconds? A century?

TK calls my name, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to clear the lusty haze clouding my vision.

“Sparks?” he repeats himself.

I sit up, smoothing my shirt and clearing my throat. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“You good?”

“Yeah.” I glance down at my shaky hands. “I’m good.”

“So you understand where I’m coming from?” he asks, laughter—and cockiness—evident in his voice.

Pull yourself together, Poppy!

“Yeah.” I pinch myself on the arm. “I understand.”

“Good,” he says, sounding all happy-go-lucky, not moody, or tired, or like a Sex God, and I wonder if maybe he developed some extra personalities to go along with all the muscles he’s amassed over the years. “So are you and Ace coming to practice on Friday? Tell Ace we’re wearing full pads. It’s gonna be a good one.”

“We’ll be there.” I try to sound normal, but instead I sound like an overexcited cartoon character from a show Ace stopped watching years ago. “Like Ace would ever let me off the hook. You don’t need incentives, seeing you is enough. Even though . . .” I smile up to my ceiling. “He was talking about Maxwell Lewis a lot last night.”