Chapter 22 Asher Nash

Can’t Miss it When She Literally Places it in My Palm

We win out of town against the Cardinals, and the next weekend, we’re back at home facing the Broncos.

Jack Dalton played for the Broncos for a number of years, so our coaching staff has pressed into us how very important this game is.

Every game is important, but our team owner has his pride on the line against the team that traded him to the Vegas Aces. Considering he owns the team now, it sounds like he made out okay in the end, but I’d still venture to guess he holds a bit of a grudge against them.

I’ve kept my head down and focused even more since I saw her at the Gridiron.

And still, she sneaks her way into my thoughts nearly constantly.

I haven’t heard from her, though why would I? We still didn’t exchange numbers. Instead, hers is on a piece of paper in a hotel suite that I never got. I wonder if whoever cleaned the room after we left it saw it. I wonder if it was thrown away. I wonder if the next guy got it and kept it.

I guess I left more than just her phone number in that room.

My sanity, for one thing.

I blow out a breath as I pump the power bar upward. Paul, one of our strength and conditioning coaches, is spotting me, and he pulls it back onto the rack. “Nice, Nash. Head over to squats.”

I hate squats, but they’re a vital part of the workout routine, and honestly, the burn I feel from doing them is a welcome reprieve from the burning that’s been constant in my chest for the last week and a half.

I saw her. I kissed her. I let her go.

I walked away.

What a fucking idiot.

What fucking idiot just walks away?

I had to. I told Coach Dixon that I’d keep my hands off of her. Granted, that was long before I knew who the fuck she was, but I still said those words. I made that promise.

And as a man currently trying to live up to his promises…that one’s a tough one to keep.

Thankfully, I haven’t seen her since, though I know I’m not immune to seeing her. I likely didn’t see her because we were on the road last week, but I’m willing to wager she’ll be at our home game this weekend.

And then what?

It took every single ounce of my willpower to stay away the first time. I don’t know if I can do that a second time.

I’ve jerked off about a hundred times, and none of it has been enough to alleviate the need I feel when I think of her.

That connection was still there, but I’m not sure knowing who she is made things any better. I think I was better off chasing a ghost than knowing the truth and being unable to do anything about it.

I finish my workouts and head home. I avoid alcohol, instead opting for water, but a beer to take the edge off doesn’t sound horrible.

Sunday comes, and I have that same sensation like she’s in the building.

I run out onto the field before the game for warm-ups, and as I’m stretching, I glance toward the seats I now know belong to Sue Dixon for the season.

And sure enough, she’s sitting there next to her mom. She’s holding a beer in her hand as she laughs at something her mom says, and when she pushes to a stand, I see the jersey she’s wearing this week.

It isn’t Nash 85.

Instead, it’s Morgan 89.

I choke on something in the back of my throat. Is she fucking serious?

Rage colors my vision with a color redder than her goddamn hair.

I realize I have no ownership over her whatsoever. She can wear whoever’s jersey she wants to. But she has to be doing this on purpose. To wear the number of a man who isn’t even a starter but plays the same position I do…it’s bullshit. It’s acknowledging my rejection and making a move against me.

Well…check-fucking-mate.

I can sit back and pretend like it doesn’t bother me, or I can…

I can…

What?

What the mother fuck am I going to do?

Walk up to the snack bar and buy her a beer before the game? I can’t. I still don’t even have her goddamn number to communicate to her that she shouldn’t be wearing someone else’s number when she’s supposed to be wearing mine.

But I’m the one who closed that door. I’m the one who walked away.

And maybe I’m the one who can fix it.

“Nice stretch, Nash,” Coach Dixon says as he walks by me. “Listen, I’ve made a few tweaks to our game plan, and we’re going to start a two-tight-end formation, okay? Morgan will do the blocking, you’ll do the receiving. Get your ass out there and catch some balls.”

Fuck.

I nod my agreement, but it’s a cold, hard reminder that I can’t fuck this man’s daughter. Not when he’s giving me chances to show what I’m made of. Not when he’s giving me chances to catch that goddamn ball when he knows that’s my favorite part of this position. Not when he’s opening the door for me to be the hero today.

Even though she’s wearing Morgan’s fucking jersey.

She’ll live to regret that when I’m the one carrying the ball into the end zone.

She’s on my mind the entire game, though I don’t make eye contact with her. I do covertly sneak looks for her red hair, and she’s watching the game intently every time—as she drinks her beer. What’s so goddamn sexy about a woman with a beer in her hand?

I’m not sure, but when it’s Desiree Dixon, I can’t get enough.

I score in the first half, and I score again in the second.

Both times, after I celebrate with my team, I glance over at her. She’s clapping and screaming and going wild as she hugs her mom.

I glance over at her when we score on the defensive side of the ball, too, and while there’s similar clapping and jumping, the excitement was definitely more pronounced when it was me who scored.

Or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see.

After the game, I rush to get through my press conference. I don’t want to miss seeing her again even if there’s nothing I can do about it.

I head out into the family waiting room, and she’s talking to Victoria Woods, Travis’s wife. I walk by her on my way to see my mom, who’s currently holding my niece, Josephine, and I accidentally-on-purpose bump into her shoulder.

She turns toward me with a glare as she grabs her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I murmur. I’m not sorry.

The small bump of shoulder to shoulder caused an electrical current as strong as ever. I move to steady her, and as if she were waiting for me, she slips a piece of paper into my palm.

My brows knit together as my questioning eyes meet hers, and she nods a little. She averts her gaze toward the locker room door, and I hear Sue say, “Oh, there’s Dad.”

I glance down at the paper in my palm, and it has a phone number written on it.

I guess this time she isn’t letting me walk away without her number.

I can’t miss it when she literally places it in my palm.

But the question is…am I going to use it?

I don’t know what the plan is for after the game, and I don’t know if she’s going out this time. We won again, and I should make an appearance to celebrate with my teammates. But I’m tired, and now I have her number, and I want to use it, but I still know I can’t.

I glance back up at her, and when her eyes meet mine, I see the pleading there in them. She wants me to use that number.

I want to use it.

But I’m not sure if I can.

“Hey, man, you coming out with us?” Tristan asks me, slapping me on the shoulder.

While I don’t feel like I’ve bonded with most of my teammates, there are a solid handful who have always made me feel included, and it’s the true team leaders like Tristan and Travis and Jaxon. They’ve been around for a long time, and they’re in the sort of leadership positions I aspire to be in.

But Travis wasn’t always a starter for the Aces. He worked his ass off to get to where he is.

The same could be said for everyone in that locker room, I suppose. And yet I still have the stigma attached to me that I’m only here because of my last name.

I’m not sure how to break out of that, but fucking the OC’s daughter probably isn’t the way to do it.

I slip her number into my pocket as she takes off to greet her dad, and I tell Tristan I’ll come out for a drink or two.

I’m sure she hears me. I hope she hears me. I hope we can find a quiet hallway to share another kiss in. But I also know that’s all it can be.

I can’t betray my coach like that…even if I want to rip that Morgan 89 jersey right off her shoulders, toss it to the floor, and run my tongue along her tits for the rest of the fucking night.