Let’s Celebrate!

We win our first game and I’m beyond pumped.

I’m not normally a hit-the-town kind of guy, but I feel like I should celebrate in some capacity. Too bad the only thing my teammates want to do is go out to a bunch of clubs.

That’s a hard pass for me, for obvious reasons.

First, I don’t really drink that much. Not after my painkiller days. But there’s another reason for my reticence—even if I did go out and abstained, the team would probably disapprove.

It just wouldn’t look good with the image they’re currently trying to cultivate for me. I’m no longer just a guy in a committed relationship with Eden. Nope, now I’m also the newest hotshot poster boy for the Comets.

Just a few days ago, management, having seen an old beefcake photo of me, decided to have me pose for a bunch of photographs with my pads on, but my shirt off.

I guess those shots then went up online somewhere, seeing as yesterday I received a huge batch of fan mail, mostly from women.

There were lots of letters stating variations of: You’re so hot, would you want to go out sometime?

A few marriage proposals were even in the mix.

Those made me laugh. I plan to show some to Eden. I think she’ll get a kick out of them.

So yeah, due to all those reasons, clubbing is most definitely out.

“Maybe some other time,” I tell the tight end, Caleb, when he double-checks to see if I might change my mind.

He’s the teammate I like the best so far.

“No problem, man,” he replies, looking like he does really understand. “I’ll catch you later.”

He’s already showered and dressed, so he grabs his bag and leaves.

I’m showered but still in a towel. I drop it and pull on boxer briefs and a pair of nice black pants. Then I put on a crisp white button-down shirt.

Ready to go, I leave the locker room and head down the tunnel.

I don’t go toward the parking area, though.

No, I go back to the field.

I have a little reflection to do, something I used to do in my former playing days.

The stadium lights are on since the cleanup crews are still working, but all the spectators are gone.

Shit, I can’t believe what a great game we had. We pummeled the Dover Sharks and won with a score of 35-21.

And—this one makes me grin—I freaking ran in one of our five touchdowns.

As I gaze out over the bright green turf, reliving each and every play in my mind, I can’t help but think of Eden.

Wonder if she enjoyed the game from up there in the luxury box.

I hope she got along well with the other women. She was so worried.

Wonder if she saw me score.

Did she see the stellar pass I threw to a receiver down field that put us in scoring range?

Did she watch that play unfold?

I realize then that I should just ask her all these questions, instead of guessing and wondering.

Yeah, I should definitely do that.

Taking out my phone, I start to type out a quick text.

But then I decide to just call Eden instead.

“Hey,” she answers on the first ring, sounding really happy.

“Hey,” I reply.

There’s sudden mock-concern in her tone when she says, “Wait, is something wrong?”

Despite her teasing tone, I can’t figure out where she’s going with this.

“Why would you ask that?” I inquire.

“It’s just… Did you hurt your thumbs passing the ball tonight?”

“No,” I reply, still confused as all get-out. “What makes you say that?”

Laughing, she finally gets to the point. “It’s just not many people actually call anyone anymore.”

Ah, I get it now. So I play along.

“Is that so?” I say.

“It is.”

“So what do they do these days, Eden?”

“Everyone texts, silly man.”

Silly man?

Shaking my head, amused, I murmur, “Maybe I prefer the more personal feel of a call.”

“Clearly. But you’re lucky I answered. I generally ignore incoming calls.”

I’m smiling like crazy.

Why does this woman make me feel so damn good all the time? Why’s she making me smile so often?

Softly, I inquire, “What made you answer this particular call, then?”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then she says, “I saw that it was you.”

My heart skips a beat, but I play it cool. “Wow, I feel honored.”

Trying not to burst out laughing, she says, “You should.”

I like that she’s comfortable enough to tease me.

Feeling so good I can barely stand it, I say, “So what are you doing right now? Are you back at the house?”

“Uh-huh. I just walked in the front door.”

I hear her shuffling around, so it must be true.

But that doesn’t stop me from asking, “Feel like coming back out?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I’m in the mood to celebrate, and I can’t think of a better way to do that than to go somewhere with my girlfriend?”

“Ha-ha,” she retorts.

That one catches me off-guard. It kind of hurts hearing her dismiss the possibility so easily.

But why would she not?

Fuck, I’m being ridiculous.

In a more casual tone, I ask again, explaining that I meant we should just grab some food. Nothing crazy and certainly nothing like a real date.

She’s up for that, so we make plans to meet at a local pizzeria.

“We’re so wild,” I remark, shaking my head.

“We are,” she agrees, snickering. “Maybe we should really go crazy and order pepperoni on our pizza.”

“What about black olives?”

“Those too.”

“Oh, you bad, bad girl,” I say slyly.

“That’s me, Graham, the woman destined to corrupt you.”

Man, if that were only true. I could get into being corrupted by Eden Vetterly.

On my way to the restaurant, I can’t help but obsess over that. Oh, how I wish it would happen.

By the time we meet up at the pizzeria, I’m so worked up that I can’t keep my eyes off of Eden.

The fact she looks gorgeous as always doesn’t help matters. Her makeup is minimal and her long auburn hair is down. She’s still wearing the skinny jeans and pink blouse she had on earlier but it’s not rumpled at all.

Damn, she’s stunning.

“Where should we sit?” she asks, breaking me from my perusal of, well, her.

“Huh?” I so eloquently reply.

She knows immediately what’s up, though she doesn’t seem offended.

Good.

Pointing to a sign, she says, “It says there we can just seat ourselves. So where would you want to go?”

“Uh…” I scan the restaurant, which is moderately busy. “How about we grab one of those big circular booths in the very back? We’ll have some privacy there.”

“Okay. Good call.”

I’m happy that she’s cool with the plan. Already, on the way in, we were stopped twice by fans wanting to let me know what a “great game” it was, and then asking me for an autograph.

Luckily, they were just kids asking. Last thing I need when I’m out with Eden is for one of those crazy letter-writing chicks to come up and ask for my hand in marriage…or worse.

Once we’re seated in a booth, I say to Eden, “I think we’ll be safe from interruptions now.”

She looks around and nods. “I’d say so. We’re the only ones back here. But really, Graham, I don’t mind fans asking for your autograph.”

I blush a little. “Thanks. Still, I know it can be annoying.”

“Nah.” She waves her hand. “You love it. I can see that.”

“Ah hell, I kind of do,” I admit, chuckling. “I guess it’s because it’s been so long. I don’t know.” I shrug. “All I know is it feels good to be recognized again.”

Smiling demurely, she says, “You deserve the attention, especially after the way you played tonight.”

Wow, her praise warms my heart, and maybe some other parts of my body as well.

Raising a brow, I ask, “So you watched the whole game?”

“I sure did.”

“Then I have to ask… Did you see the play where we were at the goal line and I ran the ball in for a touchdown?”

For some weird reason, she starts blushing. Yep, her beautiful cheeks are definitely turning pink.

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs. “I mean, I saw most of it. I sort of missed when you actually ran the ball in.”

“Wait. That was the best part.” I pretend to be horrified. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Um, I’m kind of not.”

“What were you doing that made you miss my best play of the game?”

Her cheeks go from pink to bright red. She’s not only exceptionally pretty, she’s adorable.

“I, um, uh,” she stammers. “I was just kind of daydreaming. That’s all.”

This is too good to let go.

Arching a brow, I ask, “Care to share?”

Her big green eyes widen, and she shakes her head adamantly. “No!”

“Hmm, it must’ve been some daydream.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” she murmurs.

I let it drop, but I make a vow to myself that I’ll get it out of her one of these days. For now, though, I just want to keep getting to know her.

There was a lot of info in the packets Jock gave to us, but it’s an impersonal way to learn about someone. I’d rather hear Eden’s answers to my questions, so I can watch her expressions as she talks about her life.

But what does it matter if this is all ending eventually? a little voice inside my head asks.

I silence it right away.

I just want to know, okay?

Our pizzas arrive—yeah, I’m so hungry that I ordered a whole pie just for myself—and we dig in.

Well, I dig in. Eden is more of a dainty eater. She even cuts her pizza with a fork and a knife.

That makes me laugh out loud.

Chuckling, I pick up one of the New York-style slices and curl it longways. “This is the proper way to eat pizza, Eden,” I tell her. “Like this, see?”

“Oh, Mr. Pizza Etiquette Expert, is that so?”

I lift the slice to my mouth and take a big bite, mumbling a barely comprehendible, “Yep.”

A couple of black olives then slide off, and I add, “Crap. I think those just went under the table.”

“See,” Eden says, preening, “that’s why I use a fork and a knife. There’s less likelihood of topping loss.”

“Hmm, you may have a point. But using a fork and knife is not nearly as much fun.”

Playfully, she chides, “I bet if you tried it, you’d like it.”

Hmm, there are many things I’d like to try with her.

And I bet I’d like them all.

Softly, I tell her, “Sure. I’m game.”

“Cool.”

She gets me to eat a slice her way, and I, of course, talk her into trying my method.

“No, you aren’t getting the curl right,” I announce when she tries my technique and fails, meaning she loses pretty much all of her olives.

“What am I doing wrong, Graham? I swear I curled it the exact same way you did.”

“Nah, you have to get the grip just right.” I reach over and still my hand above one of her slices. “Is it okay if I show you what I mean?”

“Sure.”

I pick up a slice and curl it just perfectly. I think about transferring it to her hand like that, but instead lift it to her mouth. It feels natural and right to feed her.

Softly, I ask, “Is this all right?”

She nods, taking a tiny bite.

No toppings are lost, and I call my curling technique a victory.

“See. Now there’s much less mess.”

“Yeah,” she snorts. “Kind of like when you use a fork and a knife.”

My gaze meets hers. “It’s funny how that packet of info neglected to mention how stubborn you are, Eden Vetterly.”

“Ha!” She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s funny too how it didn’t offer any information on how I’m fake relationship-ing with a professional pizza eater.”

I shake my head. “Such a shame, the things they missed.”

“For sure.”

We share a chuckle, and I decide to ask her something I’ve been curious about for a while.

“Speaking of the things they missed, I noticed there wasn’t any mention of a guy in your life.”

Eden levels me with an are-you-serious-right-now look.

When I shrug, she says, “Do you think if I were dating someone, I’d be okay with an arrangement like ours? Hell, do you think he would?”

I chuff, “I know I sure wouldn’t. That is, if you were really my girl.”

Picking up another slice of pizza—and curling it the way I taught her—Eden murmurs, “Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t.”

I should drop this subject, but I really want to know why someone as stunning and sweet as her doesn’t have a man in her life.

“There was also no mention of any recent boyfriends,” I go on.

“Did you say boyfriends, as in plural?” She laughs. “That’s probably because I like to date just one guy at a time, Graham.”

“Ha-ha, funny girl. But seriously, what’s up with that?”

“My, my, Mr. Tettersaw, you sure are nosy.”

Raising a brow, I volley back, “Just trying to get to know my pretend girlfriend.”

“Touché, Graham touché.”

I figure she’s not going to tell me, which is fine. I really have no right to even be asking.

But to my surprise, she leans back in the booth and says, “It’s all right, I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Making me work for it, huh?”

“Something like that.” She blows out a breath. And then, in a much more serious tone, she says, “There’ve been a couple of guys over the past few years, one even a few months ago. They were boyfriends, yes, but not really serious ones.”

“Hmm, interesting,” I murmur.

Sighing, she says, “I think my life is not all that much fun for someone in their early twenties. I mean, I have my brother to worry about. And before that, it was my dad.”

“Was he sick?” I ask. “I thought it said so in the info packet.”

“Yeah, he was, It was pretty tough the last year he was alive.”

“Eden, I’m so sorry.”

She looks sad and all I want to do is scoot over and give her a hug.

But that would be weird, right?

Shit, I don’t know.

I never have the chance, anyway. The waiter returns to see if we need anything, and the moment is lost.

Since we’re done eating, I sigh and just say, “Can we have the check, please.”