Page 90 of Forever Offsides

He would have fucked me upstairs if this were only about that. That’s what this dinner is. It’s him showing me that I mean more to him than just sex. That he wants everything he said to me after his postgame conference.

He wants time with me.

Time with potential.

It’s honest. It’s not rose-tinted or manufactured.

It’s insanely refreshing, and it relaxes me.

Because it’s what I want with him too. Time to see if he’s the real deal. If this could be worth everything we’re up against. If he’s worth upending my life and becoming what Crew said. A balance.

“Come on, Coach. I’m sitting here on my ass. Give me some direction here. What else can I do to help?”

The meat is sizzling in the pan, the air filled with the most incredible aroma, and he walks over to me and pulls me to the edge of the counter so he can kiss me. His hands meet my hips, and he kisses me so deeply I feel it in my toenails. Our tongues swirl, but all too soon, he pulls back.

“You don’t always have to do something. You can just be.”

“I’ve never done that. Not ever. I’m always moving. Always the one doing.”

His fingers trickle along my cheek. “Then enjoy the opportunity to have someone do it for you.” Another kiss, this one soft, and he’s back to cooking.

For the next three days, I’m at the hospital for no less than twelve-hour shifts each day. No football. Only regular Quinn work. Next Saturday, I have a baby shower for Skylar at her grandparents’ compound, and Sunday, the Rebels have a home game.

Time. It’s such a funny thing. There’s never enough of it to go around.

So we’ll take it one moment at a time. I smile. I already know I’ll be borrowing minutes whenever I can.

“Alexa, play alternative radio.”

“Alternative radio?” he questions as she complies.

I shrug. “Welcome to Boston.”

28

QUINN

“No country then? I’m a country boy at heart.” Rhett is a little crestfallen.

“Can we negotiate the music? I’m just not a full-on twangy country girl.”

“Classic rock?” he proposes as he puts the lamb in the oven now that it’s seared and checks on the broccoli and potatoes. I’m simply here on his counter, drinking wine and loving the show.

I smirk. “That may mean something different to you than it does to me.”

He narrows his eyes as he closes the oven door and folds his arms over his chest as if this were nonnegotiable. “The sixties and seventies are classic rock.”

I shake my head. “Eighties is. Possibly even nineties at this point.” I’m playing with him. My father would kick my ass for saying that, and he’d be right.

He looks like he’s about to throw up, and I laugh.

“Alexa,” he calls out, raising a challenging eyebrow, “play classic rock.”

Led Zeppelin’s “Fool in the Rain” comes on, and I get an I told you so grin.

I roll my eyes, but I doubt I’m selling it. “This is at least better than the twang, though there is something to be said for that “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” one.”

He stands before me, his hands on my thighs. “I’m not a cowboy. I’m a country boy. There’s a difference.”