Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(12)

Being as quiet as possible, I head to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. Dark shadows are under my bleary eyes, and I’ve lost a few pounds since the Super Bowl, when I should be bulking up and prepping for summer camp.

Even though I’m headed to the gym, I get in the shower and let the hot water slide over me, trying to shake the last vestiges of that dream out of my head. My back stings, and I glance in the mirror from the see-through glass of the shower. Long scratches are across the yellow-and-black tiger tattoo that takes up most of my back, and a small laugh comes from me. She quieted all the shit in my head last night, a bandage to the turmoil. I recall the way she stood in front of me, all curves and fire, the sound she made deep in her throat as she came under my tongue that first time, her hands deep in my hair, showing me what she wanted—

My cock is hard again.

I ignore it.

Once she finds out who I really am, she’ll probably be just like everyone else . . .

Whatever.

There’s no reason to make something into more . . .

Once out of the shower, I ease back into the darkened room, and moving as quietly as possible, I toss on my workout gear and shoes. On the way toward the door, I stop by the kitchen and grab her NDA, sticking the papers inside my duffel without looking.

It’s the flash of sparkly pink that makes me stop. Lying near the kitchen island are the little panties she wore last night. Memories of her flood my head. Impulsively, I bend over and snatch them up and tuck them in my joggers. I grab a pad of Post-its from the desk; then I scrawl a note for her and leave it on her pillow. I owe her the truth.

I exit the penthouse, and Quinn stands at the elevator, big and muscular, all of twenty-one. He’s one of Lucy’s former foster kids, and I hired him a few months back to be on call whenever I need him. It makes me antsy that someone else might figure out where I periodically spend time. My apartment is a block away, but that building came with top-notch security—the hotel, not so much. I called him last night and told him I was headed to the penthouse, and he came over. He’s got zilch experience in security, but he’s tough looking, and when Lucy asks for something, I move heaven and earth to make it happen.

“Morning, sir. The stadium?”

I nod. “Yeah, and you don’t have to call me sir, Quinn.” We have the same conversation every time he addresses me.

“I’ll call a car for you now, sir. Or I can drive you?”

I wave him off. “I’m going to drive.”

He looks disappointed, and I figure he’s bored just standing here all night—although he still looks fresh. He probably napped in the big leather chair near the elevator. My head nudges toward the closed door of the penthouse. “Will you make sure the cleaning lady skips today? Call down, and let them know.”

His face splits in a grin. “Nice evening?”

I frown. “We don’t discuss my private life. Whoever comes in and out of that room is my business.” I pause. Yet . . . “Tell her I’m sorry, will you?”

He gives me an odd look, then straightens and gives me a nod. “Of course, sir.”

“Quinn. Call me Jack, please. The same lady raised us. We’re practically family.”

Not really. He came along long after I left Lucy’s house and went to college, but damn, sometimes I wish I had a real brother.

He nods. “Sorry, it’s just I’m thankful for the job, sir—Jack. Not many people want to hire someone who’s been in jail.”

Lucy told me all about his drunken skirmish with another college kid, who happened to be the son of a senator. That kid ended up in the hospital with a broken arm and broken ribs. Quinn got six months, a tough sentence for a kid just starting his life, and from what I’ve seen of him, he’s polite and good at what he does, and he definitely looks the part with that brawn. And I’m a big believer in going with my gut, and my gut says Quinn’s a good kid.

“Hey. Forget that. It’s how you live your life now that matters.”

He exhales. “It was self-defense, sir—Jack. He brought it on himself, and I took it and took it until I snapped. The media blew it out of proportion.”

“No need to explain it to me. I’ve snapped a few times myself.” I recall a skirmish I got sucked into on the field just this last season, after a helmet grab that took me down hard and hurt my shoulder. And even though I didn’t start that fight, you better believe people think I did.

I slap him on the back. “Never look back, Quinn. Let people talk.” That’s my motto.

He gives me another hopeful glance. “You think you’ll need me tonight? I don’t have any plans. I can be here or wherever you need.”

I don’t really need him tonight. But I can tell Quinn wants to be busy. “Devon’s got a birthday party at the Razor. You can hang out if you want the hours.”

He grins. “Yes, sir.”



An hour later, I’ve gotten fifteen miles in on the treadmill when Aiden waltzes into the gym, his face fucking perky for the early hour. Looks like someone else is working on his game. Most of the team is on vacation right now, chilling out in some faraway place, enjoying their families or significant others during the off-season. Not me. Here I am, working my ass off to keep my number one spot.

And Aiden . . . yeah, he’s a real go-getter too.