Fumbled (Playbook #2)(4)

I’m frozen in place. Watching with horror and fascination as he shakes out his arms and legs, drying off with the efficiency of a wet dog. A wet dog with biceps straining against his checkered blazer sleeves and quadriceps about to bust the seams on his tailored-to-perfection pants.

“What was that?” He looks down, clearing the wet hair stuck to his face so he can see the klutzy culprit. And when he does, the change in his demeanor is instant. His green eyes triple in size, his back goes straight, and the almost man bun is long forgotten. “Poppy?”

“Hey, TK.” I wave with both hands.

Then I run.

God.

I hate my job.





Two




I always considered wearing heels one of my weaknesses. After I was hired here, I wore them around the house for hours until I no longer looked like a newborn giraffe. I wasn’t sure if it was worth it, considering the questions I had to dodge about why and how and where I was going to wear them. But as I take the stairs at the Emerald Cabaret two at a time and reach the back door in record time, I know it was probably one of the most useful exercises I’ve ever forced upon myself.

I hit the metal door running and it flies open and starts to close just as fast. I barely miss it clipping my shoulder before I hear it slam shut.

Freedom.

Hands on my fishnet-covered knees, I gulp in the warm Colorado air. Between the sobs threatening to escape and my desperate need for oxygen, it feels like I’m swallowing razors. I’m so hot, I feel like I might pass out at any given moment. My straightened hair is shot to hell, I can already feel the curls forming against my neck. But I still can’t stop shivering. My stilettos wobble against the parking lot pavement, and I know there’s no way I’m making it to my car.

I start to lower myself to the ground, careful not to go face first. I wouldn’t call myself vain, but scraping my face against the pavement doesn’t sound particularly pleasant.

I’m squatting, my fingers grazing the gravel, when I hear the squeak of the door opening behind me.

“Sorry, Sades. I don’t even know what happened in there,” I lie. I know exactly what happened. The thing—or more accurately, the person—I’ve been avoiding for the last ten years.

Instead of a response, a set of familiar hands whose touch I should’ve long forgotten grab my waist. They are stronger than I remember, maybe even bigger, but the jolt of recognition, and the resurrection of butterflies I thought had died years ago, is the same.

The messed-up part is, I’m not surprised by this turn of events. The eternal-optimist part of me was rooting for Sadie to push through those doors. The realist, been-shit-on-and-present-for-the-last-decade-of-my-life part of me knew it would be TK.

He lifts me with ease and sets me on my feet before turning me to face him, doing it so slowly, I’m not sure he even wants to be doing this. He always was too curious for his own good, at least some things never change. I keep my eyes closed, trying to prepare for what I thought I could avoid forever.

For what has now become inevitable.

“Poppy?” His deep voice disbelieving.

I screw my eyes closed tighter and take one last deep breath before opening them. Act normal. Act normal. Act normal!

I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I have to try to recover from that scene. Shoot the breeze and hope he leaves me alone.

Leaves us alone. Which shouldn’t be hard; he’s done it already.

But when I raise my chin to look him in his bright green eyes—the eyes I know so well—I damn near crumple onto the ground beneath me.

I’m so not ready.

“What the hell, Poppy?” His gaze travels the length of my body. But he doesn’t look appreciative. He looks pissed. “What is going on? Why are you here?”

I remember everything about him. I remember the way he mumbles nonsense in his sleep the night before a big game. I remember the way he shies away from praise for anything other than football. I remember the way he dances like nobody is watching him even though he has zero rhythm. Everything.

But I guess he forgot I don’t take being questioned or talked down to well . . . at all.

“I work here.” I put my hands on my hips and tilt my head, trying my hardest not to show my nerves. “Obviously.”

He narrows his eyes and I see his jaw clench under his thick, light brown beard . . . a beard that wasn’t there ten years ago. A beard that only accentuates how his features have changed from teenage boy to very grown man. “You know what I meant. Why are you in Denver? But since you brought it up, why the fuck are you working here?”

It’s a valid question.

He went to college thinking everything had been taken care of and my sights were still set on Northwestern University.

I never made it. I didn’t even send in the application.

But I can’t tell him why.

At least not now.

“I came to live with my aunt for my senior year and never went back.” I shrug my shoulders and look away. It’s not a lie, it’s just not the whole truth either. “I work here because I have bills to pay and I like the hours. Though I doubt I even have my job anymore. Thanks for that, by the way.”

The weight of consequences settles on me like a boulder to the gut. Not only did I spill drinks on TK and who I’m assuming are his teammates, but I ran away like a maniac and turned a little scene into a gigantic one.