Chapter 24 Asher Nash

Or I’ll Take It Off Myself

I stare at the number as I hold it in my hand and lean against my headboard later that same night.

What the fuck would I even say?

You got me all riled up and hot and horny and I need you to take care of it because jerking off in the shower isn’t nearly enough to erase the memory of your sweet, tight cunt and gorgeous tits?

That seems somehow…aggressive.

Maybe she likes aggressive. Who knows? I don’t because I haven’t taken the time to get to know a damn thing about her.

But I have her number.

I could use it. I could get to know her. I could do that and still keep my promise to Coach. I think back to our conversation. All he said is she doesn’t date football players, so I shouldn’t get any ideas.

He never said we couldn’t be friends.

You know…with or without benefits. Preferably with.

I don’t know how much longer I can resist the temptation she keeps laying in front of me. She may only be twenty-five, but fuck if she doesn’t know exactly what the hell she’s doing. Showing up in a different jersey twice in a row?

Fuck that.

She better be wearing eighty-five the next time I see her in a jersey, or…

Or what?

She made a great point when she asked that very same question as she got into the car. What am I going to do about it if she shows up again, representing yet another one of my teammates?

As long as it isn’t Graham, I can probably let it go.

Nah, fuck that. It better not be anyone.

As for what I’m going to do about it…I’m not sure yet.

I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but it does. My number is part of my identity. It has been since peewee league. It doesn’t have any special significance other than that was the jersey tossed to me when I was a kid, and like all three of my brothers, I held onto that number through my entire football career—with the exception of my freshman year of high school when eighty-five was taken by a senior.

It was my worst season to date even though I made varsity, so when he graduated and the number was free again, I took it back.

Is it sending the entirely wrong message to text her tonight after I saw her less than an hour ago?

Definitely, yes.

Do I care?

Nope. Not even a little.

So back to the question at hand—that little or what thing she brought up.

I type her number into a new message and draft a text.

Me: Or I’ll take it off myself.

It’s stupid, but before I can convince myself of that, I click the send button.

Her reply comes quickly.

Desiree: Is that a threat or a promise?

Jesus, I have my hands full with this one.

I have no idea when I’ll see her again, but I hope to God it’s soon.

Me: Both.

She doesn’t reply, and I stare at my phone, willing the little text bubble to appear.

Eventually, I give up, tossing my phone beside me on the bed as I turn off the light.

I close my eyes as I wait for sleep to fall over me, but it’s eluding me.

Can I go back on my promise to Coach now that I know she’s his daughter? It’s all kinds of wrong, but I’m not sure I can force myself to stay away…not when she keeps showing up. Not when she keeps tempting me with those eyes, that knowing smile, that sweet, sweet body.

And I have no idea when I’ll see her again.

I blow out a breath and check my phone, and there’s still no reply. It’s also only been ten minutes since I last texted her.

I haven’t tried very hard, but sleep seems pretty useless at this point. I head out to the kitchen to grab a beer and sit in front of the television to catch today’s highlights on ESPN, but my plan is ruined when I see my dad already sitting on the couch watching some old western.

He barely acknowledges me when I walk into the room, and I really need to find a new living situation.

I have a hard time standing up to my dad, and it’s probably because as much as he’s been a dick to my brothers and me, he’s also been a protector for the majority of my life.

He’s the one who told me to do it for Fitz when Jacob Fitzgerald overdosed. He’s the one who forced me up out of bed on the dark days and drove me to practice. He’s the only one who was there. My brothers were grown and gone by then.

Plus, there’s the fact that I get my athleticism from him—or the him of twenty years ago, anyway.

“What are you doing up?” he grunts when his show cuts to a commercial.

“Can’t sleep,” I admit.

“Why not? You thinking about something?” He doesn’t mute the television, instead letting some infomercial about a medication blare all the possible side effects at us.

“Not the fumble from last week if that’s what you’re getting at,” I say dryly.

He holds both hands up innocently. “You’re the one bringing it up. Must be weighing on your mind if you’re still thinking about it.”

I roll my eyes and tip the bottle of beer to my lips, and he narrows his eyes at me.

“It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

I huff out a mirthless chuckle. “So what if it is?”

“I remember being twenty-eight and stupid,” he admits. “Or younger and dumber, anyway.”

My brows dip. Twenty-eight and stupid? I actually have two issues with that.

For one thing, he was married to my mom for nearly a decade back when he was twenty-eight. He better not have been doing stupid things by that point.

And for another…is he insinuating that I’m stupid?

Maybe my obsession with the coach’s daughter is stupid. But I’m actively trying not to act on it.

I shouldn’t have sent that text, and I regret it. Now she has my number, and who knows what she’ll do with it.

I could block her…but I don’t want to.

I want my phone to buzz with her reply.

I want to see her again.

I want to torture myself with her temptation because this is the strongest I’ve ever felt about a woman, and I’d rather live with the torture than never see her again.

I clear my throat. “Are you calling me stupid?”

“I’m saying it’s best not to let a woman fuck up your future. You know that.”

I press my lips together. “Yeah. You’ve made that clear our entire lives, but have you ever thought about what those words might mean to us beneath the surface?”

“You know I don’t go much deeper than the surface, kid,” he says, elbowing me in the ribs.

“Saying a woman will fuck up my future sounds the same as saying you regret having kids.” I say the words point-blank, calling him out on his shit and standing up to him even though it’s not in my nature to do so.

He’s quiet, but he’s the guy who always has a retort ready, and he’s the guy who always gets the last word. “Regret is a funny thing, Asher, and the four of you turned out fine. I made sacrifices to ensure that would be the case.”

He didn’t deny it, and that hurts more than it should. I’m sure there’s more to it than that. I have no idea what sacrifices he’s talking about.

And I’m not sure I really care at this point, either.

I drain the rest of my beer and push to a stand as I make a vow to myself that I’ll figure out some other living situation sooner rather than later. “Well, goodnight.”

He grunts out some reply, but his show is back on, and I just chugged a beer, so it’s not like I’m going to lay in bed and go right to sleep since I’ll have to get up and piss in twenty minutes.

So instead of trying to sleep, I open up a browser and start to search for homes for sale nearby.

I save a few that look nice, though I’m not entirely sure I want to buy or rent. I’ll probably finish my career out here in Vegas, and I love it here. Compared to Indy, the weather is gorgeous most of the year except for the hot months, and the scenery and nightlife are both incredible.

Most of my family is here, too, though I’m not sure that’s a mark in the pro column.

It’s just as I settle into bed for the second time that another text comes through.

Desiree: Just wanted to let you know I’m no longer wearing number eighty-nine.

Me: What are you wearing?

Desiree: Nothing.

I groan.

Me: Prove it.

Desiree: I don’t think so. What if I want to run for office someday? Can’t have pics of my tits floating around.

Me: That’s why you keep your face out of the shot.

Desiree: [smirk emoji] Sorry. In person only.

Me: The temptation is strong.

Desiree: Here’s to hoping you give in next time.

As it turns out, next time is sooner than I thought it would be.

We don’t have practice Monday since we won, but I still stop by the practice facility for a workout, and it’s as I’m working the ropes that she walks in with her dad, who appears to be giving her a tour of the Complex.

She’s wearing fucking Austin Graham’s number.

It’s a dare.

And I never back down from a dare.