Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(35)

While I do anything but look at Tahoe, another player walks up to him.

“Twenty to one—that’s demoralizing. Just what my ego needed after our losing streak.” His eyes fall to me in appreciation. “Is this the lady I need to thank for your excellent performance, Roth?” the guy asks.

Tahoe smirks but slams the door of his locker. “Yeah, but you can thank her another day,” he says. His gaze falls on the sweaty jersey I’m holding against my chest. “You caught my jersey.”

It’s just him and me now in the aisle.

“I kind of had no other choice, it was either catch it or let it fall on my lovely face.”

“Ahh, we can’t have that, can we?” He laughs and pokes the tip of my nose with his fingertip.

I scrunch my nose up and pretend I’ll bite his finger if he touches me again. “I’m not putting it on. But it’ll be great to dry my dishes with.”

“Hey, a wash and it’ll be good as new.” He pats me on the butt.

“A wash? This needs to be burned, T. Roth. Burned,” I say.

“So where’s the fire?” He lifts his brows in challenge. His eyes sparkle. Is it possible that up close and smiling, this man looks even more intimidating than he did out there, wearing that threateningly mysterious visor?

“I…”

The fire is inside me.

In places you will never know.

“Let’s do a crazy ceremony—we’re burning your sweaty jersey before it stains my closet,” I tell him.

It seems like a good idea not to hang on to his jersey. Soon I’ll be sleeping in his shirt like Rachel did with Saint’s—and that did nothing to help her stop thinking about him. I don’t need to think of Tahoe for another second, especially at night. I have all I need in Trent. I do. I do.

He shifts close, his thigh against mine as he toes my shoes with his bare foot. “Should I bring the matches?” He’s smirking as he sits down on the bench to slip on his loafers.

“I’ve got plenty of matches.”

As he stands, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s right, you do.” He looks briefly at my lips, then he grabs his duffel so we can leave. “Let’s get you home.”

He leads me out and drives me home.

On our way there, we talk about the game—his goals—and the fact that they won.

He tells me the history of lacrosse. It started with Native Americans. When a boy was ready to become a man, he would play a game of lacrosse. But it would be played across eight or nine miles, where, once gaining possession of the ball, the boy would have to run like hell mile after mile, never knowing when he would be attacked and fought for the ball.

“Fastest-growing sport in America,” he finishes.

“Well it was about time people caught up. I declare myself a fan. I’m a lacrosse groupie.”

He grins at that then shakes his head. “You could never be a groupie.”

“Excuse me?” I scoff. “Because I didn’t paint two zeros on my cheek? I like my makeup to make me look better, not worse.”

He shoots me a doubtful look and then parks his car in an empty spot outside my building. He turns to me. “Hey, thanks for coming today. I liked seeing you up there.”

The car feels warm all of a sudden.

I try to shrug casually. “I liked seeing you play.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” It has to be 200 degrees in here. “And you know it, Tahoe! You’re like a star for your entire team.”

“My team and I have been training for years.”

“You really love the game, don’t you?”

He nods. He uses his hands to create the long rectangle shape of the field before him. “I stand there, in the middle of the field. Behind me is my goal. Before me, my opponent’s goal and my attackers. My defense is behind me, my wings to my right, all I need is to get the ball and put it in that goal. That’s it. Simple. Nothing else in life is that f*cking simple.”

The passion in his eyes makes me feel…happy. Giddy almost. And so very warm.

We’re still parked in the same spot. I wonder if we’re prolonging the moment here. In his car.

“What else are you this passionate about, besides scoring?”

“I live for scoring.” A devil’s light sparks in his eyes and suddenly I can’t take the heat anymore.

I force myself to open the door. “Don’t get out, I’m fine.”

He gets out, locks the car, and follows me inside. “So what’s in line for tonight?” he asks me in the quiet elevator as we ride up to my floor.

“Bed.”

He stares at the elevator numbers as they climb. “Alone?” His eyes slide to mine, and he quirks a brow, but his gaze is intense.

“No,” I admit with a shrug.

“Davis?” He almost sneers the word.

“Wait. How do you know his name is Trent Davis?”

“I asked.”

“Well, stop asking. And it’s not Trent, it’s Wynn. Emmett is out of town and we’re having a girls’ sleepover.”

“Ahh.” He smirks.

I point at his beard.

“You should celebrate by visiting your barber. That beard!” I cluck and shake my head.