Her smile lights up the block. “So you read about me too?”
I shrug, all offhand and casual. “I checked you out from time to time.”
She dips her face, hiding a smile. Funny—Katie is not a shy woman. Not at all. But her temporary display of it is insanely adorable.
“I like that image,” she says, all soft and vulnerable. That’s something she’s been a lot of today but now she’s vulnerable about us.
And I like it.
Except, I can’t like it too much.
The timing is still all wrong.
As much as I want to ask her out, not only am I leaving for training camp, but she’s clearly not in the place for how about dinner next month when I’m back?
At least, I don’t think so.
“And I like the image of you looking me up now and then,” I say, taking another bite of the eggs, then move on to her question. “To answer, I love being a receiver. I played both positions in college, but receiver is way more fun than running back. Plus, there are many, many more opportunities for play-making when you have a passing QB. Which is most of the QBs these days, so it’s a helluva good time.”
“But is that why the team switched you? So it’d be more fun?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “No, that’s just a bonus that I dig. The coach had the idea after a game several years ago against the Hawks. Cooper was throwing to Jones, but he was swarmed by the secondary. I was open. Coop threw to me instead, and I ran it in for a touchdown. About a thirty-yard pass.”
“And that did it?”
“Started it at least. The next game we had an injured receiver, so I stepped into the role again. Boom. It was like magic.”
She grins, a little bit like she’s keeping a secret. “Definitely.”
I nudge her with my elbow, quirk a brow. “What’s that look for? Like you’ve got an ace up your sleeve?”
She raises her face, her smile magnetic. “Just that I’ve seen your games. You and Cooper are definitely like magic.”
That makes me feel damn good. Sure, my stats tell me I’m good at my job. The results make it clear. Two rings don’t lie either, especially since I was MVP in one of those games. But hell, hearing a woman you’re hot for say she admires the way you work elicits a special kind of thrill.
Because football isn’t just a game. It’s my livelihood. It’s my passion. It’s the thing that’s made me tick my whole damn life.
But . . . what will I do without it?
All good things come to an end, and eventually, this game will too.
The last thing I want is to overstay my welcome.
I do not want to be the guy who hobbles off the field, booed by fans shouting good riddance to an over-the-hill dude.
I want to go out on a high note.
End it on my terms.
But when? That’s the question, and it’s one I just don’t have the answer to.
Great.
Here I am, my mind cycling back to work issues on a night when I’d like to escape them.
“So, what about you?” I ask, since I’d much rather be her distraction tonight.
I’d rather be her distraction another night too. And maybe another after that.
But I’m pretty sure that’s not in the playbook.
9
Katie
Now it’s my turn to catch him up on my career.
“I started a yoga brand with my sister, building on the classes I’d been teaching—yoga for people who hate yoga. And boom. Turns out there are a lot of those people who learn to fall in love with it. Our style is a little irreverent, a lot fun.”
“And you’re the face of it,” he puts in.
That’s all true. When Olive and I met with the investor in Los Angeles seven years ago, Charlotte liked my style and Olive’s penchant for numbers. She invested and helped us grow the concept. Now, some of my classes are available online for a subscription package of videos. Others I do in person, when I tailor sessions for clients and retreats. And others still are taught by the teachers I’ve trained in our various studios. “We expanded it to twenty studios all across the West Coast. Added clothing and fashion, with T-shirts that have sayings like Yoga—it’s cheaper than therapy; If you think I’m bitchy now, you should see me when I miss yoga; or Yoga is my favorite way to pretend to work out. So that’s my story, and Sassy Yoga has been fabulous,” I say.
“You became a yoga queen,” Harlan remarks as he takes my plate, rinses it, and sets it in the dishwasher.
“Please. I’m a yoga empress,” I tease, then roll my eyes in self-deprecation. “That’s the term an LA magazine used to describe me, and the nickname weirdly stuck. Now, some of my students call me a yoga empress in the classes I teach.”