Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance Read online

  "Not often," I admit, with not often meaning not ever. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that even in regular social events I end up keeping the potted plants company while other people have fun. I could never imagine getting the guts worked up to actually go to a club with the sexy people.

  "Well then let's go. I can be your wingman."

  I laugh, I can't help it. "My wingman?"

  "Sure," Tyler continues, not getting that I know what a wingman is, but laughed because I've never seen myself in a situation like that. "I mean, it's gotta be the same here as it is in L.A. You go out to a club by yourself, and you look desperate, lonely. You go with a wingman though, especially one who is the opposite sex, and suddenly you look confident and attractive."

  “I… I guess," I say, looking down. "What's the club?"

  "Ace High, I read about it on the Internet and I double checked the address last night, it's close," Tyler says, and I nod. I've heard of it. At least Tyler didn't ask to go to a swinger's club like Double X or Hedonista. He's handsome enough that he could get in the door despite their usual rule of women or couples only. "What do you say?"

  I take a deep breath, and before I can answer, Tyler leans in, his shoulder pressing against mine. Chocolate and batteries . . . Jesus, I'm still so turned on by him. "I'm not ordering you as part of your work. I'm just asking if you’d like to go have some fun?”

  “O… okay," I stammer out. Keep him out of trouble, they said, and here I am taking him to a club. Or he's taking me. Or . . . ah to hell with it. "I'm going to need to change though."

  "Yeah," Tyler agrees. "We both do."

  "Well, first we need to get you some furniture, set up delivery for tomorrow, and then go to the Fighters' offices to get that check cut for the real estate company. I can do the check and stuff by myself, but it’s your place, you’ll need to be there for the furniture."

  Tyler grins and punches me in the shoulder lightly, just like he used to all those years ago. "Sounds great. Let's go."

  I feel frumpy. It's the only word to describe it, looking at all the hot girls in their skin tight dresses that show off every curve they've got, or nearly illegally short skirts that are even hotter. Meanwhile, I'm here in a knee length skirt and blouse that, while kinda see through, is nowhere near as sexy as what I see around me.

  Tyler though . . . just walking up, eyeballs clicked as he passes the line and heads toward the velvet rope of the VIP entrance. His muscles bulge under his shirt, still a Tommy Bahama but a tighter, more form fitting cut that showed off his biceps more, and black dress jeans that are probably a 'normal' fit, but with his muscled thighs and hips, look more like slim fit or skinny fit. I can't help but notice the curve of the bulge in between his legs, something that never crossed my mind all those year ago. I've got the hottest man in the club on my arm, and I can already feel the looks of the she-wolves in line.

  The doorman waves us through without even a second glance, and we're inside. The music is driving, with an undercurrent of sexuality that winds through every beat of the bass. "Whoa . . ."

  "It's nice," Tyler agrees, looking around. The music isn't so loud that he needs to shout, the club's set up so that the speakers are aimed toward the dance floor, leaving the bar area a little less deafening. "I've seen bigger, but this is good. Come on, let's get some drinks and then hit up the floor."

  I'm so surprised I can barely answer as Tyler leads me to the bar, where he orders a sangria for himself, and I decide on a Cosmo. I'm not into drinking normally, but maybe tonight, maybe I can use a little liquid courage. "Cosmo girl, huh?"

  "Not normally," I say, sipping at it. It's better than I thought it'd be, and I smile a little. "Just . . . it goes with your sangria."

  Tyler looks at his blood red drink, then at mine, and laughs in understanding. "A toast. To a good season, and a fun night."

  We clink glasses, and Tyler takes a drink, just measured enough to not be a sip, but not tossing it back like a party boy. I sip at mine, enjoying the feeling of the warmth spreading through my belly and helping me out. I know it's too early for the booze to be really affecting me, but it's the mental edge that counts.

  "Come on, let's dance," Tyler says when he's finished his drink. Taking my hand, we go out to the dance floor, where the DJ is remixing some Top 40 with a heavier bass beat. We find some space, and I try to dance, but I'm so nervous that I can't really get into it. Meanwhile, Tyler's like poetry in motion, with none of the weird jerkiness that so many guys seem to have when they dance. He's balanced, strong, powerful, and pure manly hotness that has me starting to sweat two minutes into the song.

  "Relax!" Tyler says with a laugh as we continue. "You're moving like you've got two left feet!"

  "I do!" I call back, and Tyler laughs again. We finish the dance, and head back up to the bar, where I take a seat. "Sorry, I guess I'm not that great of a dancer."

  “You’re fine, it'll come in time and we've got all night," Tyler answers. He's smiling, and I wonder what he has planned. There's a sparkle in his eye, and I don’t know whether to be excited, or terrified. I can’t go start something with Tyler Paulson — I’m supposed to be his assistant, not his booty call. "I think you just need to relax. Dancing, it's not about steps or anything, but just feeling the flow, and getting out of your own way. Think about it, I'm going to go get some more drinks."

  While I'm waiting, I look over to see two of the she-wolves in the club go up to Tyler. One of them is cute with a skin tight dress and curves that belong on a porn star, while the other has more of a ballet dancer body, but just as pretty. I've got nothing on them, and as they chat up Tyler, the three of them share a drink before he's easily pulled away back to the dance floor. In a few minutes he's grinding with the one while the other is all over his back. I'm jealous, because I saw it in his eyes . . . he's up for some action tonight. While I'm not normally the type of girl to go hot and heavy so soon, for Tyler . . . my panties are fucking soaked, and it's not just from the exercise. I know I shouldn’t, but if he put the moves on me, I don’t know if I could turn him down. The way he looked at me, on the floor and just a few minutes ago, I felt like maybe it was coming.

  Sadly, arousal turns to disappointment as I watch Tyler keep dancing. They're all over him, and by the end of the second song one of them leans into his ear, whispering something. Tyler's slightly glazed look tells me exactly what he's been asked, and he nods a second later, a shark grin on his face. They leave without Tyler even checking in with me, and I go up to the bar, ordering another Cosmo.

  "Hey baby, wanna dance?"

  I turn to see a guy, not ugly by any means. He's a little taller than me, and while not super ripped, he’s cute. But I came in with Tyler, and the sight of him dancing on the floor with me is still stuck in my head. I shake my head, and toss back the rest of my drink. "Sorry, no. I think I've had enough for tonight."

  I leave Ace High, and I feel like every girl in the club sees the way that I'm walking, my head down, trying not to run out but not really walking either. Outside, I grab a cab, glad that I had kept my emergency forty dollars inside my bra. "Where to?"

  "Cabbagetown," I say with a sigh. "I'll give you directions when we get closer."

  The drive's not too long, and by the time I get back to my place, my depression has changed into anger. I know I’m supposed to just show him a good time, and I know I'm shy, but that's no reason to treat me like that. Stewing, I change into my nightclothes and go to bed, promising myself that tomorrow, I'm going to give Tyler Paulson a piece of my mind.

  Chapter 5

  Tyler

  I wake up Sunday morning with a huge headache in my bed at the hotel. Damn, that sangria must have been stronger than I thought.

  I remember picking up April from her apartment, and thinking that while she looked cute, she wasn’t exactly sporting normal club wear. We parked at the hotel, because I figured that I was going to get my drink on, and I’m not stupid — I don't drink and drive.

&nbs
p; I shake my head, as the night was a bit more hazy after the two girls showed up. I just know that I'm waking up alone in my hotel room, naked, and that my head feels a lot like when I did keg stands at Theta Kai Psi's spring bash as a junior. I roll up to a sitting position and rub my eyes, wondering what time it is.

  A knock on my hotel door is steel darts through my temples and I stagger to my feet, my eyes mostly slitted closed as I make my way toward the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming . . . fuck . . ." I groan, finding the door and opening it.

  April's there, and by the look on her face, I'm reminded that I'm naked. She turns a dusky, dark red and turns around after her eyes go wide, and I cup my cock and balls. "Sorry."

  "Just . . . please go put some clothes on," she says, pissed off. I did just greet her with my birthday suit on, but hey, a lot of girls would love to see that. It's not the first time it's happened in my life, but usually I'm not doing it with a headache that threatens to split my skull in half.

  "Yeah," I grumble, turning and walking away, forgetting until I hear a gasp behind me that again, my ass is literally in the breeze. "Sorry."

  I retreat into the bed area of the room and pull on some Western workout shorts, the kind we'd wear for weightlifting, figuring that I'd get some underpants later. "Okay, I'm covered. Kind of."

  April's footsteps are enormous in the hallway coming toward me, and as she emerges to my sight again, she's pissed. Major league pissed. "Well, looks like you had a good night."

  "Not so loud," I groan, rubbing at my temples. "What time is it anyway?"

  "Twelve thirty. We were going to meet a half hour ago downstairs, but I finally came up instead," she says, slinging her bag onto the chair. At least her voice is at a reasonably tolerable level, or maybe I'm just waking up more. "You could have at least set an alarm, you know."

  "I . . . I don't remember what happened," I finally say, still rubbing my forehead. "What were we meeting for?"

  "Your car?" April reminds me, and I nod painfully. Right, switch out the rented Mustang for the one I'm going to lease through the end of the season.

  "Oh yeah . . . okay, give me twenty minutes, get a shower and some clothes on. Can you . . . well, can you get me something to eat? It'll help, maybe some juice too?"

  April's glower is deeper than some of the 'war faces' I've seen on charging linebackers, but she nods. "Yes sir, Mr. Paulson. I'll be happy to get you a muffin and some orange juice."

  She grabs her bag and storms off, slamming my hotel room door behind her, the boom causing me to whimper in pain. And I thought that the headache was bad before.

  "Just remember what Xavier told you," I whisper to myself, thinking back to one of the guys who'd passed along some wisdom back when I was a freshman at Western. Most hangovers are because your body is partially poisoned, and mostly dehydrated. Water does wonders when trying to recover.

  So I take a shower, long and warm, the heat helping to open the circulation to my head as I soak my hair in the warm spray and swallow mouthful after mouthful of the water until my belly is sloshy and full.

  I shut off the water and step out, hearing the door to the hotel room open again, this time with two voices as the desk manager comes in with April. "Mr. Paulson, Miss Gray says that she's your PA?"

  "Yeah," I call from the bath area. "Thanks, sorry. I locked the door."

  The manager leaves, and I come out of the bath, pulling a robe around my shoulders. "Here's your muffin and juice."

  April's on it, with a huge cranberry muffin that's got enough frosting along with other carbs to get my blood sugar up, and a whole liter carton of apple juice. While I pull some boxers on underneath my robe, she opens the package and puts it on the plate that's by the coffee maker, and pours me a large glass of the juice, dropping in some ice cubes from the bucket as well.

  "Thanks," I say as she sets it on the table. I find some track pants from Western and pull them on, still leaving my robe on until the pants are pulled all the way up. "That was fast."

  "There's a mini-market on the corner," April says quietly. She's still pissed off though, I can see it in her eyes, and I know I should apologize.

  "Really, I'm sorry," I say, taking a seat and picking up the muffin. "I should have pulled a robe or something on before opening the door."

  "It's not that," April says, and I see that she's genuinely hurt. Jesus, what the hell did I do? I couldn't have been that much of an asshole in one night, could I?

  “Was I that much of an asshole last night?"

  "You left me high and dry, Tyler," April says, looking up for the first time. "You may not understand it, you're Mr. Hot Shot Quarterback, but to see your so-called wingman ditch you with two sluts less than a half hour after you arrive is not exactly a good fucking time!"

  Her voice rises as she continues, her face animating and for the first time I think, I'm seeing the real April Gray, and I'm surprised at how pretty she really is. She's one of those women who is super cute when she's pissed off.

  "Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking? I mean, I didn't expect to end up back here or anything, but to just ditch me? And you didn't even have the courtesy to say that you were doing it! I was just lucky that the club was empty enough that I could see you down there grinding like the luckiest son of a bitch in the club between Miss Chocolate and Miss Vanilla Surprise. You could have at least come up and said you were leaving. Instead you just trotted out the door like Leo DiCaprio in a Miami club or some shit!"

  I sip my juice, giving her a chance to calm down, then reply. I'm not trying to be angry myself, but I can feel my voice rising too, probably because of how much my head still hurts. "You know what? You're right. I don't remember it, so I’m not even going to try to make up an excuse. I remember the two girls coming up to me at the bar, offering to buy me a drink, but after that, it's all a haze. I woke up this morning with a splitting headache, naked, and you banging on the room door. I've got a headache about the size of the Grand Canyon going on, and I swear Dragonforce has set up shop between my ears and is doing a giant guitar solo, it hurts so damn bad!"

  April stares at me for a moment, then her throat works, she's looking for more to say. I take another bite of muffin, and then finish my first glass of juice. "Tyler, just because you claim to not remember doesn’t make it all right."

  "I know," I reply, calmer and more in control. I sigh, and look at the remains of the muffin on the plate. "I know. And I am sorry. Last night when I asked you, I certainly didn’t intend to ditch you, I wanted us to have a good time. Hell, I just wanted to get you out of your shell for a little bit."

  "Why?" April asks, her face openly hurt.

  "Because in the two days we've worked together, I see a woman who's smart and pretty, but is so caught up in some self-made cloak of shyness that she can't do anything about it. You seem to know a lot about me, and I get that it’s part of your job, but it’s more than that. I want you to feel comfortable, and to be straight with me. That's what I need, not a gofer girl."

  April considers me for a moment, then speaks up. "All right," she says, her voice gaining strength. "I'll do my best. But Tyler . . . I know I'm supposed to be your assistant, but maybe, well, maybe you could help me too?"

  I know what she's asking for, and to me, that's no problem at all. "Deal. Now, what about the car?"

  April's smile is charming and cute, and again I get the feeling she's like someone I know. Actually, looking at her smile, I get the feeling of ocean breezes and pine trees. I've always been someone who connects memories to smells. Like for me, football is the smell of leather, grass, and the distinct funk of shoulder pads. Thanksgiving, I smell turkey and pumpkin pie. Birthdays are about candles, and Christmas is about the tree. With April, for some strange reason, I'm thinking ocean salt and pine trees.

  "I called the dealer, they're fine with you picking it up later, and the rental guy said he'd be happy to pick it up from the dealer later, the car's due for an oil change or something. Still, if we're going to
get that done, your furniture arranged, and your stuff packed up for moving tomorrow, we need to get a move on."

  "Wait, tomorrow?" I ask, confused. "I have practice tomorrow. How am I going to move my stuff?"

  "You're not," April says with a little smile. "Remember, personal assistant? You have your bags packed, and I'll get them from you at the stadium tomorrow, and spend the rest of the day setting up your place. You've still got a lot of little things to get, you know. Tableware, electronics, stuff like that. We can talk about it on the way."

  I laugh and shake my head, coming over and offering my hand to April to shake. She does, and I can see feel a little spark jump between us, maybe. "I don't know if you know it, but you're doing an awesome job. All right, let me find a shirt instead of this robe, and we can go."

  "Socks, too. You're not wearing any socks."

  "Right . . . socks."

  We drive the rental car over to the Ford dealership, where my new leased Mustang is waiting for me. It's still an Eco Drive model, but what the hell, at least the color's right. I sign the papers, and we head over to the apartment, where my furniture has already been delivered. Unfortunately, most of it is in boxes. "How'd I end up with the Ikea catalog?"

  "I'll get a tool box from the super," April says, dashing off. She comes back a few minutes later while I'm looking at the tied up bundle of boxes that is supposed to become my kitchen table, totally confused already. "How is it?"

  "I think the instructions are in French," I say, handing her the one piece of paper I'm able to figure out isn't just a packing list. "I don't know French."

  "Thankfully, monsieur, I do," April says with a chuckle. "At least, enough schoolgirl French to help figure this out . . . yeah, these are the instructions. I say we just open the boxes and start sticking stuff together though — it can't be that hard, can it?"

  "Okay, why not?" We get to work, and as we quickly find out, it's not quite as easy as we'd hoped. The table goes together just fine, but my TV center is a total pile of flat boards that seem to make no damn sense at all. After an hour, I toss my screwdriver down, frustrated. "All right, fuck this, let's just go buy some cinder blocks and stack the boards in between. Worked for my room at college."