Wincing, I brace myself just before I splash cold water on my cheeks, then reach blindly for a paper towel. I pat my face dry, careful not to smudge mascara beneath my eyes, and blink once, twice, staring at my reflection in the mirror in the suite bathroom, where I made my escape a few minutes ago.
I look awful. There’s no mascara smudges because it’s all gone. There’s not a lick of makeup left on my face. My skin is pale, though the icy water brought a little color to my cheeks. There are dark circles under my eyes and my hair is a total disaster. I drop the paper towel into the trash and then finger comb the messy strands, trying to calm them down, make them look better, but it’s hopeless.
I am hopeless.
Knowing I can open the bathroom door and Jordan will be in the next room makes my heart want to gallop straight out of my chest. It was downright exhilarating to see him again after so long. Despite what happened to us in our past, despite my breaking up with him like the stupid teenaged girl I was, he’s perfectly polite. Sweet, even.
Okay, fine, I can’t exactly call our encounter sweet. Hugging him had been like that first snort of cocaine after being clean and sober for years. An addict finding her long-lost fix. I might’ve held him too long, though at least I was the one who shoved away first.
He had been a little growly, a little moody. I know it’s because he didn’t feel good about that game. Throwing that interception must’ve infuriated him.
And then there’s the fact I tried to shake his hand like a dork.
I mean, seriously. I’ve had sex with him. Multiple times. He was my first. I was his first. I see him six years later and the first thing I want to do is shake his hand? What the hell was I thinking?
Dumb. He makes me dumb. Staring into his blue eyes and seeing him like that, all big and gorgeous and masculine and beautiful and handsome and oh my God, I sound like an idiot even in my thoughts.
With fumbling fingers, I find my favorite pinky-nude lipstick in my tiny purse and slick it on my lips, rubbing them together, pleased with the results. That’s about as pulled together as I’m going to get, and yet again I hate that I’m wearing my work polo. I don’t look half as beautiful as the women who are still hanging out in the suite. Their eyes lit up when Jordan and Cannon first entered the room. I just knew they all wanted a piece of them, and seeing the women’s reactions filled me with an old, familiar and ugly emotion.
Jealousy.
Lame. I’m also super-duper lame.
Resting my hands on either side of the sink, I look myself in the eyes and tell my reflection, “Don’t be stupid.”
I drop the lipstick back in my purse and go to the door, throwing it open with firm determination.
Only to find Jordan standing there in the tiny hall, like he was—oh, I don’t know—waiting for me?
No. Way. Just a coincidence. It has to be.
“Hi.” I come to a stop, the bathroom door almost hitting me in the backside.
“Hey.” He sounds grim. Looks uncomfortable. He hasn’t smiled, not once since we locked eyes, and I remember how stingy he used to be with those smiles. How I felt like I unlocked a treasure chest of unlimited riches when he started smiling more. Only for me.
There were a lot of things he did only for me.
“Are you mad?” When he frowns, I further explain myself. “About the game. About the interception.”
He nods, his perfect lips twisting to the side. “It wasn’t a good game for me.”
“I thought you looked great.”
“I played like shit. Disappointed my team.”
So typical for him to beat himself up over it. “You guys still won.”
“By the skin of our teeth.”
I tilt my head. “I’ve never understood that saying. Our teeth aren’t made of skin. Like, where did that saying even come from? It doesn’t make sense.” I’m making no sense. Why am I talking about this when I really want to ask the important questions? Like:
How are you?
Are you happy?
Are you sad?
Is your life fulfilling?
Are you dating someone?
Do you miss me?
His lips curl the faintest bit. An almost smile. “Only you would overthink a cliché.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m vaguely offended.
“It’s what you do, Mandy. You’ve always overthought a lot of things.” The meaningful look he sends me is full of all sorts of unspoken messages.
Ones I don’t want to confront right now.
“You’ve done it, though,” I tell him, trying to change the subject. “You’re a big deal, Jordan. You’re one of the most respected quarterbacks in the NFL.”
“I don’t know about that.” He shrugs. Always modest. Like everything he does is no big deal, when it’s a huge deal.
“Please.” I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t laugh or smile.
“It’s only the start of my third season,” he points out. “We’ve had some good luck and a great team, including our coaches. They’re all waiting for me to screw up.”
“Who’s waiting for you to screw up? Your team?” I don’t believe it.
“No. Just—everyone. The media. The other teams. Their coaches. People who hate me.” He rubs his hand against his jaw. “There are a lot of people who hate me.”
“It comes with the territory.” I wish I could tell him that I would never hate him. But maybe he wouldn’t listen. Or worse?
Maybe he doesn’t even care.
“You’re right.” He stands up straighter, glances around. Appears pleased that no one notices us. “How are you, Amanda? How’s work?”
His quick change of subject doesn’t faze me. “It was busy today.” I wave a hand at myself. “I had to come straight to the game. That’s why I’m still in my Atlas polo.”
“It looks good on you.” His eyes are locked on my boobs, and I almost want to thrust my chest out.
I restrain myself. Barely.
In high school, I was flat chested. They grew a little bit over the years, but I can never say I have big breasts. Because I don’t. I have nice little 34B-sized boobs that don’t quite fill up the cup size; they look extra good in a padded, lifted bra, and that’s about it. My legs are better. They’re long and lean and I’m tall, which I used to hate, but I can now deal with it. Most guys I’ve gone out with have been the same height or a little taller. There had been that one blind date with the guy who was five-foot-four and wore lifts in his cowboy boots.
I’m not into cowboys. Or short men. This probably makes me prejudiced. Or sexist. I’m not sure which.
Jordan is taller than me. He’s six-foot-three, I think.
Oh please, I know he’s six-foot-three. I read his stats online. He weights 225 pounds. He could crush me.
I find that unnaturally arousing.
“Thanks,” I finally say when I realize he’s still staring at my chest. He lifts his head, our gazes clashing, and all we can do is look at each other, all those unspoken questions floating between us. My skin is tingling, my blood flowing hot through my veins, making me vitally aware of my existence. It feels like I stuck my finger into an electrical socket and shocked myself.
“You’re welcome.” His voice is a deep rumble, and he clears his throat, looks to the side, rubs his jaw again, suddenly appearing anxious. Twitchy. “I need to go. Talk to the sponsors.”
No! Don’t go! Not yet!
My brain is an overdramatic lover of exclamation points.
“Sponsors for what?” I ask casually, trying to stall him. Keep him with me, if only for a few more minutes.
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Marketing reps from a huge sportswear chain. They like to stop by and schmooze us. Take us for drinks or dinner, when they should just email our agents and put something together for us to consider. They all say they can offer the personal touch.” I can tell he wants to roll his eyes.
“They’re talking to just you?”
“And Cannon. Marketing people love our high school connection.” His smile is rueful.
All those old insecurities come rolling back, forcing me to remember how different we are. His world is nothing like mine. He’s making million-dollar-plus endorsements and I’m working at Atlas Wellness Center. He’s worth millions on his own and comes from a wealthy family, and I almost live paycheck to paycheck.
“It is pretty neat, how you two are playing together again.” I want to punch myself in the face the moment the words leave my lips. Neat? How lame can I get?
“We don’t even play together that much, at least not on the field. He’s defense, I’m offense.” His gaze lingers on mine. “But you already know that.”
He’s always respected my football knowledge. Sometimes I think I even impressed him. Taking a deep breath, I part my lips, ready to say something, but we’re interrupted.
“Hey.” We both turn to see Cannon headed toward us, his expression urgent.
“What’s up?” Jordan asks coolly.
“We need to go. They want to take us to dinner.” He jerks his thumb toward the two men in suits who stand nearby, covertly watching us.
“You get to see your aunt and uncle?” Jordan asks.
“Yeah.” Cannon smiles. “They’re so excited. Came all the way from Ohio to watch the game. I’m going to take them to Fisherman’s Wharf tomorrow.”
“Good idea.” Jordan claps him on the shoulder, his expression grave, his voice going deliciously low. “Give us one more minute, okay?”
“Take your time.” Cannon smiles in my direction. “Good to see you again, Amanda. Let’s get together soon, okay? Go out to dinner or something?”
I would love, love, love to go out to dinner with Cannon. I’ve always had a soft spot for him. And maybe I could ask him questions about Jordan. Ones I would never actually say to Jordan’s face, because I’m a complete chicken. “Sounds good.”
He walks away and Jordan remains silent. As do I. I don’t know what to say next. I feel like he’s going to bust out something momentous on me, but what? A declaration of love? That he’s never stopped caring about me, thinking about me, wanting me? Please.
That’s wishful thinking on my part.
“I’m really glad you came to the game,” Jordan finally says, his voice so low I have to step closer to hear him. “I wish I had played better.”
“You did fantastic,” I say softly, tempted to reach out and touch him, brush his hair away from his forehead, touch his arm, his chest. But I don’t. I need to keep my impulses under control.
He’s not mine anymore to touch.
“It’s good to see you. In person.” He offers up one of those barely there smiles again. Here and gone in a flash, no teeth revealed. “I’m glad we were able to reconnect.”
Does he still want to stay connected? Yes? Maybe?
Probably not.
“I’m glad we reconnected too.” My cheeks are flushed. I can feel the heat in my face and I’m now smiling so hard, it hurts. “I’ve—missed you.”
The confession is out there. The truth, baldly stated and hanging between us like the crackling chemistry that’s been on low boil since we first laid eyes on each other.
Yet his expression remains stoic. No flicker in his beautiful blue gaze, nothing. No I miss you too.
My smile falls and I know he sees it. He takes a few steps closer, definitely within touching distance, more like in kissing distance, and he reaches out. Settles one of those big, magical hands on my shoulder, gives it a light squeeze.
And then he’s gone.