Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(46)

I move to stand, and she points a finger at me.

“You. This is your fault. Don’t move. I’ll get this.”

Blowing out a breath, she gives up on her hair and marches to the door. I don’t have the heart to tell her that her skirt is on backward, the slit that was in the back now obviously in the front. And her shirt is crooked, one side tucked in, the other hanging out.

Damn, I love getting her ruffled. Contentedness washes over me. Something about her grabbed me from the moment she sat down with me at Milano’s, and it’s so new and refreshing, and she doesn’t care who I am . . .

Unease trickles in.

But what the hell am I doing? I was ready to fuck her right here on the couch without even thinking about protection.

I don’t have a view of who’s at the door, but the voice is instantly recognizable. Lawrence. I wince. He’s been sending me texts all day wanting to know how the breakfast with Timmy and Laura went and if I took any pics he could post on social media. I hadn’t. It never crossed my mind. I know I need to be spinning this and making the story into Football player spends time with young fan, but . . .

They’re murmuring, but I can’t hear them. I frown. Lawrence can be a bulldog when it comes to protecting me—that’s what I pay him for—but he isn’t the smoothest when it comes to women.

I’ve eased myself up to standing as they walk back into the den. Wearing a suit and his slicked-back Wall Street hairstyle, he walks ahead of Elena, whose face is blank, when normally she’s so expressive. It’s one of the little things I dig about her, the way I can read her. Milano’s: nervous as a poodle. VIP party: pissed. Church: shocked. Our kiss: hot as hell.

Then I see the papers she’s carrying in her hand.

Fuck. My eyes shut briefly. I was getting around to approaching the NDA topic, but Lawrence beat me to the punch with probably the finesse of a bull in a china shop.

“You aren’t answering your phone, asshole. And you know that makes me nervous,” is what he says as he walks in. He takes in my lack of shirt and pops an eyebrow. “I called Quinn when I couldn’t get you, and he said you had a spasm today—and that you had company. I brought new papers for her. You okay?”

“Good.” It still twinges. I’ve had worse injuries than this one on the field, yet this is the one that nags me whenever it wants to pop up. But it’s never hurt quite this bad. I don’t tell him that.

“Nice. You have training camp soon. You want to be on top.”

“I will be.”

“Right.”

“Anything else?” I ask, getting more tense as I watch Elena slap the papers down on my desk, then walk down the hallway to one of the bathrooms.

Lawrence watches her leave. “Good. Privacy.” He takes a few steps closer, keeping his voice low. “Talked to the principal at Timmy’s school. He’s down with you meeting some young fans, signing some footballs. I told him low key, no school-assembly-type thing. Good?”

“Make it casual. No media.”

“What the fuck is the point if no one takes a photo, Jack?”

I inhale, knowing he’s right. “You can take one photo for Instagram or whatever. I don’t want this to become a circus. I don’t want reporters outside Timmy’s school or his apartment. Laura wouldn’t like that.” She said as much at breakfast, and I want to make sure their lives aren’t upturned.

“Fine.” He breathes out a heavy sigh. “Timmy wants you to do this play thing. How are you going to manage that?”

I heave out a groan. I do not want to be on a stage. I picture me up there, weaving on my feet, my face bloodred, trying to get the words out. Hell no. My heart races at the mere thought.

He reads me. “Do you have any clue how hard it is to manage you when you aren’t helping? Just go, and see what happens. Maybe you can be an assistant to the director or some shit.”

I nod, not liking the anxiousness in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder. “She still hasn’t signed the NDA. Told me so at the door. What the fuck? And she’s here now? One word to the press about an injury and—”

“She knows about the shoulder. She was there when it happened.”

Lawrence lets out a string of curses.

“She won’t tell, Lawrence.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve known this girl for three fucking days.” He shakes his head. “Be glad Sophia never knew that injury keeps popping up.”

True. Sophia knew about the scar because everyone in my hometown knew the details of that story, and it has circulated around me for years. Plus, Harvey’s sister wrote her article. I never got around to telling Sophia about my occasional pain, mostly because it happened rarely. I hesitated when it came to her, which should have been a clue that she was wrong for me.

Yet I told Elena. I could have brushed it off as a minor football thing, but I didn’t. I told her the story from start to finish, and I can’t recall doing that since Devon.

Lawrence is giving me details about Timmy’s school in Daisy, quieting when Elena walks back in the room. She doesn’t meet my gaze. Her clothes have been straightened, and her hair is smooth, the long strands gleaming, as if she’s brushed it. Fresh red lipstick is on her lips. She snatches the papers from the table and sits down at the desk a few feet away from us, her head bent as she thumbs through them, pointedly ignoring us.