Page 51 of Her Game Plan

He takes my hand again as he puts the car into park at the airport before turning to look me in the eye. “I haven’t ever had a night like the last night.” Holding my gaze for a beat longer, he finally nods once and drops my hand, like his confession isn’t causing a wave of emotions to flow through my body, freezing me in place. He grabs both our bags out of the back seat before opening my door. He holds his hand out, waiting for me to take it.

I roll my eyes, but entwine my fingers with his, stepping out of the car. Ever since Jace, I’ve realized I’m not the type of person who wants a husband or someone I’m building a life with. I can build my own damn life, thank you very much. But there is something calming about being connected to another person that makes my heart rate slow, my mind realize it’s all going to be okay.

And Callan makes it easy to be connected to him.

We make the walk to the airplane, and the two representatives from the social media team snap photos of us together. I’m sure the comments will be popping off if they choose to post that one. The PR team has been surprisingly nonchalant about Callan and me. Since I learned many years ago to avoid knowing what people are saying about me online, I’m not entirely sure why.

We quickly pass through the checkpoint, and I’m grateful the team gets to go through a private security screening area.

When we reach the stairs onto the 747 the team has leased for this game, Callan steps to the side, letting me climb first.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I start up.

“Better view when I go second,” he teases, and I roll my eyes despite the warmth it sends throughout my body.

I may also shake my hips slightly more than necessary.

As I move past the flight attendant welcoming us, I realize I’m unprepared for this. The plane is completely reconfigured, with wider seats, more legroom, and an open area, where it looks like an entire training room can be pulled out. People are already in seats. The players in front of us are moving with a certainty that suggests they already know where they’re going.

I pause. “Are there assigned seats?” I whisper, hoping no one sees the panic in my eyes. I have convinced everyone, for the most part, that I can do this. That I know what’s going on. But I was unprepared for this—probably because Chris always flew private to the games with Dad and the family, rather than riding with the team.

Warmth spreads through me, calming my nerves, as Callan gently nudges me forward, his hand on my lower back. “Keep going, Princess. You can sit next to me.”

Scanning the area as I walk, I realize we’re moving past the coaches and other team personnel who are all congregated at the front of the plane. “Are you sure I’m not supposed to be up there?” I hiss.

“Nope. You’re here.” His head dips as he indicates row eleven. The quarterback coach, Adam, is in the aisle seat on the other side of the row, with Jerrod Jackson, the backup quarterback, in the seat next to him.

I shuffle in before stopping. “Do you want the window or the aisle?” I ask timidly. I don’t belong here.

“I’ll take the aisle, so I can talk to Adam. Plus, that way you can sleep some more.” His lips pull into a grin as he says the last piece, no doubt remembering how slow I was to get up this morning.

“I want to tell you I don’t need sleep, but I’m exhausted.” I settle in, stowing my workbag with my laptop in it under the seat, and Callan lifts both our bags into the overhead compartments as if they weigh nothing. My gaze settles on the line of exposed stomach. Unabashedly, I take in the shadows from his abs and the line of body hair that points directly down—I whip my gaze to his face as his shirt drops, startling me back into reality.

As Callan sits and starts to fasten his seat belt, he jokes, “Exhausted, huh? I’ve been known to have that effect on women.”

His whole body rocks as the back of his seat is shoved. “Keep it in your fucking pants up there.” Brian Nabers’ voice comes from the row behind us. “Some of us don’t get to fly with our sidepieces.”

“Hey!” I gasp as Callan whips around in his seat, his body rigid. Brian Nabers is a fucking asshole. I’ve had enough unfortunate run-ins with him at team events and parties that I’ve learned to avoid him when at all possible. But he’s a receiver that Callan throws to almost as often as Pitt, so I thought they were friends.

Nabers looks at Callan’s face and laughs before turning his attention to me. “When you get done with Callan, feel free to hit me up. I don’t mind sloppy seconds when they hold Daddy’s purse strings and barely know what a first down is, let alone how to lead a team. Speaking of which, what are the odds I can get a few more million in my contract next time, Ms. Acting Owner? Surely, the fact that we’ve both seen the same dick gets me a little something extra.”

Callan has risen from his seat, his eyes burning as they stare the man down. “You can’t fucking say things like that.”

“I also didn’t think I could date the owner’s daughter, but that turned out to be untrue. Figured I gotta shoot my shot. That child support isn’t going to pay itself, even if I told that bitch to take care of it.”

Holding back my gag reflex, I say, “Have your agent contact the office, Nabers. I don’t discuss contracts on the plane.” I pull my earbuds out of their case and shove them into my ears. I don’t start my music right away, slowly breathing through the onslaught of anger, disgust, and self-doubt that his comments caused to rise up in me. The anger only made worse by the fact that Nabers, one of the most disgusting men on this planet, made me question my position here.

“Fuck you, Nabers.” Callan is still standing, his broad chest rising and falling quickly as he glares at his wide receiver.

Fuck. The last thing I need is for our offense to be fighting because of me.

“It’s okay, Callan.” I reach out to touch his arm. Is it, though? I highly doubt anyone ever negotiated contracts with Chris out in the wild like this, and definitely not in the same demeaning way. “Want to listen to some music?” I pull my right headphone out and extend it to him.

With one final “don’t ever fucking say something like that to her again” to Nabers, he gently takes it from my hand, our fingers brushing lightly as he does. “What are we listening to?” He sits, buckling again, and I catch the wide eyes of both Adam and Jerrod before they hastily turn back to their screens.

I show him the playlist. “‘Gentle Gentlemen.’”

He shakes his head at the ridiculousness of the name, or maybe the pick overall, following the interaction with Nabers, but I press play, anyway, Max McNown’s voice helping soothe the anxiety spreading through my veins like a quick-acting drug since I stepped onto the plane. The unease was only ratcheted up by my interaction with Nabers. Because maybe I’m not doing as good a job as I thought.