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And I think it might be anger.
I need to talk to her. I need to get her alone. I need to find out why she bolted without so much as a goodbye. It’s preyed on my confidence for months now, making me feel completely out of my usual zone. It’s consumed me in a way that doesn’t make any fucking sense, but now it does. It makessomuch sense.
It’s the universe fucking with me.
I try to focus on conversation with the men at my table, but it’s useless. How can I focus when she’s here, and I need answers?
“Dude, why’d you bother coming out if you’re just going to sit there brooding?” Chase asks.
I’m sitting with the two tight ends who aren’t total assholes, obviously not including Austin Graham, and a few guys from our O-line.
They’re celebrating our win, and I should be, too.
I drain the tequila left in my glass, and my eyes have been on Des since she walked in the place. She ordered a drink. It’s almost gone now.
I watch her walk across the bar and down the little hallway leading to the bathroom.
It’s quiet there.
Private.
I’ve been down that hallway enough times to be quite familiar with it, and I’m not missing my chance to get her alone and ask the one question I need to ask.
“Fuck if I know,” I admit to Chase. “Excuse me.” I nod toward the end of the booth since I’m situated on the inside, and the two men beside me get up so I can get out.
When I walk into the hallway, I’m surprised to see her standing outside the ladies’ room, leaning on the wall next to the door that leads into the break room.
Her head is tilted back as she looks up at the ceiling, and it’s as if she’s drawing in a deep breath.
Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful with her long legs and her red hair, and the connection feels like it’s still very much there. I didn’t imagine it.
Her tits heave with her deep breath. She’s sodifferentfrom the women I’ve been with. She’s a wild card, I think, and it feels as if I’ve met my match.
She senses motion by the doorway, and her head tilts down as her eyes fall to me. Her breath hitches as I take a step toward her.
“So you’re Coach Dixon’s daughter,” I say flatly.
“And you’re a player on his team.”
I press my lips together and nod, and for the first time, I wonder if she knew that all along. We face off for a few intense seconds, and then I take a step toward her. She looks almost…scared.
“Why’d you leave?” I demand.
She looks confused. “Leave what?”
“The night of the charity ball. You left. You didn’t say goodbye.”
A light seems to snap into her eyes. “I tried to wake you. You wouldn’t move.”
“So you just left?”
She lifts a shoulder. “My mom texted me that my dad needed meds. She asked me to bring some home. I left my number.”
Right. Her mom. Herdad.
My coach.
I push that aside for the moment as my brows pinch together. “You…left your number?”
