Page 4 of Set Play

“On the small chance I ever see you around, I owe you a beer. I think I’ve had all the excitement I can handle tonight though, so I’m going to head out.” With one last appreciative look, she turns toward the exit.

My stomach drops as I scramble for something that’ll convince her to stay a bit longer. I don’t want to seem like I don’t know the meaning of ‘no,’ but I’m not ready for her to walk away yet.

Fuck, I don’t even know her name!

My heart lurches, and I gently wrap my hand around her wrist. She looks down at said hand then up to my face, a single eyebrow quirked.

At least she's not shoving me off. That’s a good sign.

I stumble over my words, trying to reconcile my desire for her to stay with the need to not disrespect her. “I-I know you want to leave, and I won’t stop you,” I rush out. “But please, let me walk you out to your car?”

Not waiting for her agreement, I turn back to where I left Lane and lift my chin toward him. His eyes flash with mirth as they dart from me to the woman whose wrist I’m still holding. Whoops. I ease my hold just as Lane raises his beer toward us.

“Woah, is that your boyfriend? Seems a little too…corporate for you.” The brunette beside me teases when she follows my line of sight.

I gape at her in shock for a second before a bark of laughter bursts from my chest. “Holy shit! Lane’s going to love that. The guys will have a field day with that if they ever find out.”

I wipe a stray tear from my eye as I step up beside her, sliding my right hand up to the nape of her neck and teasing my fingers through her gorgeous hair. I stare at my arm in bewilderment.

What the hell has gotten into me?

Trying not to freak her out, I admit, “I need to make sure you make it out safely, Chispita. Y mi mamá? Que en paz descanse.1 She would tear me a new one if she knew I allowed a woman to escort herself out to her car. So please, just let me have this.”

Whether she understands Spanish or not, it is clear that she got my general meaning, either by context or tone because she doesn’t comment on the possessive move, just nods.

As we maneuver silently through the crowd, I delight in the moment she leans into me. I’m so entranced by the feel of her pressed against me that her voice startles me when we reach the exit. “The guys?”

For a moment, I stare at her, trying to figure out what on Earth she means. She must see my confusion because she answers my unspoken question. “You said the guys would have a field day making fun of Lane if they found out. What guys?”

Ohhh.

I contemplate how to respond without breaking the promise I made to Lane when he first signed with the guys. “He’s a band manager and is on good terms with the members. They all like to joke with one another. And please don’t ask which band. I promised years ago that I’d never tell. There’s a reason Lane is the manager and not in the band itself, and it’s not a lack of talent.”

Her silence, paired with her inspecting gaze, unsettles me, but I refuse to compromise when it comes to protecting my people. If she doesn’t like it, she’s welcome to give my owed beer to someone else.

After another second, she nods, accepting my answer even if she still looks skeptical. “I respect that, Reyes. Not a lot of people would stay true to their word. Especially ones who don’t see the spotlight as an abnormality,” she admits begrudgingly like she hates that she has any respect for me. Or like she’s speaking from experience but from Lane’s side of it, not mine.

Weird.

“So, Chispita…would you be kind enough to tell me your name? It seems only fair since you clearly know mine.”

As she walks out the door, I reposition my grip, draping my arm over her shoulders to tuck her into my body. For warmth, of course. After all, these late January nights are brutal. Hell, it’s only thirty-four degrees outside.

Whether in response to the question or gesture, an adorable snort escapes her, making her slap a hand over her lower face. Despite the dimly lit parking lot, I can still make out the telltale signs of a blush on her cheeks as I gaze down at her. She narrows her eyes at me when she realizes that I’m watching, but I can’t help it.

Even in the flickering streetlights, she’s breathtaking.

Without the neon, her features are much clearer. Turns out her eyes aren’t hazel green at all but look strikingly similar to emeralds.

And her hair, the feature that first caught my attention, is actually closer to caramel brown with streaks of honey scattered throughout.

“You’re a literal celebrity, Big Shot. People are going to know who you are. It kind of comes with the whole professional athlete deal.” She lets silence blanket us again as we trek through the gravel lot. Eventually she takes pity on me, finally whispering the words I’ve been desperate to hear, “But since you want to know so bad, my name is Élise.”

Élise.

Her name burrows into my mind, making a home. I notice she pronounces it with a slight accent, emphasizing a ‘z’ rather than an ‘s’ sound at the end. She is probably used to people saying it wrong. Well, not me. I practice in my head, mimicking her pronunciation before trying out loud.

“Élise,” I say, loving the way it feels on my tongue and the flash of admiration on her face when I say it correctly. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”