23. Fallon

We walk for several blocks before arriving at a Greek restaurant where twinkling lights along the awning welcome us inside. The lighting inside is muted, and the scents of garlic and lemon have my mouth watering and my stomach grumbling again.

We’re seated at a table that is even narrower than the one at the library, and our knees and feet both collide. We exchange quick apologies as I move to make myself smaller because touching

Corey feels like the best kind of wrong.

I turn my attention away from his amber-colored eyes and glance at the stone arches surrounding us, which make me feel like we’ve hopped continents.

“Have you been here?” Corey’s voice demands my full attention, as it has since the first time we ran into each other. And like then, I’m mesmerized by the curve of his rounded lips and how his gaze never wavers from me.

I shake my head and then clear my throat.

“I haven’t. But I have your first question: do you plan to work with your dad when you retire from the NFL?”

Corey winces and rubs a hand over his lightly stubbled jaw, revealing I’ve asked a question he either wasn’t expecting or didn’t want me to ask. It has me paying closer attention.

He clears his throat. “No. Even if I don’t get drafted, I don’t want to follow in his footsteps. We share too many of the same tendencies and traits, and I don’t want to become like him. I don’t want to distract myself with things I can control to numb my reality.”

It’s a sobering confession that I can tell he’s reflected on and reached a level of certainty that makes my heart ache because I doubt it was an easy truth.

I think of what Corey has told me and can’t help but wonder if his sister’s illness was one of the things outside of his control and what that time was like for him.

“How are things with soccer going?” Corey asks.

“I have four questions left.”

He smirks. “You have all night.”

I contemplate the best way to answer his question without bringing up the elephant in the room. Though maybe I should.

Maybe bringing Kelly up would remind us both that this isn’t a date—isn’t even on the same continent as a date.

“It’s all very… different.”

I swallow, hating how a ball wants to form in my throat. “I knew it wouldn’t be the same as playing at Westfield,” I admit, my voice louder and clearer. “I guess I just didn’t expect… So many differences.” I shake my head, not wanting to hash out my recent practice. This week has been even worse than last, thanks to that damn party, because Becca had noted how fast I left and has been accusing me of thinking I’m too good for the team all week. Talk about salt in the wound.

“You transferred from Westfield?” Corey leans back in his seat, brows arched.

I wasn’t planning to keep the detail a secret. I’m just exhausted by the same shocked reaction that paints me as a traitor each time someone learns my reality. “Before you ask, yes. I know Westfield and Camden are rivals, and yes, I really was naive enough to believe it wouldn’t be such a big deal.”

A server appears before Corey can respond. “Good evening. Can I get you something to drink?” His tone is clipped, and his brows are raised, revealing he’s in a rush as he looks at me.

“Water, please.”

The waiter nods and flicks his attention to Corey. “Water for me, too.”

“Have you had a chance to review the menu, or do you need a few more minutes?” The waiter’s tone verges on being curt, likely assuming we’ll leave a small tip due to our free drinks.

“A few more minutes would be great. Thanks.” Corey slides one of the two untouched menus in front of me, proving once again how distracted I am by his presence. I hadn’t even realized the menus were here.

With a single nod, our waiter leaves.

I turn my attention to Corey, waiting with bated breath to see if he’s bothered or offended by our waiter’s tone or actions. If I were sitting across from Tobias, he’d have demanded to speak with the manager or insisted we leave.

Corey’s warm caramel gaze meets mine, holding the same level of intensity present each time he looks at me. “They have a lot of vegetarian options here, and they’ll trade out chickpeas on any meat dish,” he tells me.

Thoughts of the waiter fade like mist into the morning of an early practice as the thoughtfulness behind Corey’s choice for bringing me here, and with them, so does the persistent and lasting reservation that his interest doesn’t extend beyond getting back into my pants. I’ve told him so many of my truths, details about my life, and to see him apply that knowledge makes my heart skip a beat and ache a little more with want.

I understand exactly why Kelly’s been hung up on him for the past three years.

“The stuffed grape leaves are delicious, and the crispy Kasseri cheese is ridiculous. I think I’ve dreamed about it,” he tells me.

Laughter bubbles out of me, and his gaze caresses me. It feels intimate.

Corey shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you’re sitting across from me.”

I can’t either, and a part of me—albeit small—yearns to turn back time when I was curled up in my bed at my apartment so we could have this conversation through text. Perhaps it was the anonymity that made rejection seem less agonizing or because it already feels like I’ve amassed a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t be interested in him, ranging from Kelly having feelings for him to the fact that I don’t want to date someone in the spotlight again.

“I know. I got so used to texting you instead of...” I wave a hand between us, “This.”

His eyes are silk running across my skin. “It’s still me, Fallon.”

The waiter returns with our waters, and I could kiss him. I am a tangle of nerves and conflicting wants. “Have you had enough time to decide?”

“Do you want another minute?” Corey asks, his voice low and smooth, confident and injected with consideration, just like it was that night at the hotel when he told me we could slow down.

I glance down at my menu, feeling a quick rush of panic because the waiter’s annoyance seems to increase with every tap of his shoe. “I’m…” My eyes jump between prices and dishes, trying to find the ones Corey mentioned. I shake my head. “What had you suggested, again? The stuffed grape leaves and…”

“Crispy Kasseri cheese,” Corey offers, the patient tone of his voice grounding me.

I nod. “I’ll have those, please.”

The waiter turns to Corey who orders a host of dishes that has the waiter leaving with a renewed spring in his step.

“So you dated a football player at Westfield,” Corey says, weaving his fingers together in front of him. It isn’t a question but an opening for me to tell him more.

I nod. “And I swore I’d never date another football player,” I admit, my tone light and teasing but still managing to hold sincerity.

“Because all football players cheat and look down on vegetarians?”

I cringe. I forgot I’d also mentioned how hard of a time Tobias used to give me for my diet choices.

“Was your ex an athlete?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Imagine trying to find time with someone whose schedule is as insanely busy as yours with travel, practices, classes, meetings, and expectations. Then add in the exhaustion, the losses, the wins, the fact your game schedules constantly conflict with your rest days…”

“The losses and wins?” His caramel eyes are swimming with questions that have me realizing I might be projecting far more than intended. Tobias lost two games last year, and his anger and resentment stretched into weeks on both accounts, bleeding into our relationship. He didn’t watch my games most weeks, regardless of them usually being on Sundays—the one day he didn’t have practice or a game. They were his rest days, and I tried to respect that, but eventually, it became a point of contention because he wouldn’t even care enough to look at the scores or stats. It was all about him. It had been from the beginning, and I was just too naive and wrapped up in him wanting me to notice or care that he only wanted me when it was convenient.

“Fallon?”

I startle, realizing I’m staring at the empty seat beside Corey, the one where Tobias’s shadow looms, uninvited. I blink away thoughts of last year and meet Corey’s inquiring gaze as I shake my head and grab my water, needing another second before returning to reality.

“I just mean that dating a fellow athlete comes with a lot of complications.”

His eyes shift between mine. The intensity in his gaze makes me want to look away again, but I force myself to remain still and act unfazed.

“Or maybe it’s easier because they understand the pressure, the dream, the commitment—they get it. All of it.”

Initially, that had been my thought, too.

“Is there really a rivalry between the football team and the men’s soccer team?” I ask, changing the subject before I’m forced to point out the wounds from my past relationship.

Corey’s jaw sharpens as he clamps his teeth, and I find myself wishing I could read his thoughts. He clears his throat and slowly shakes his head. “It’s exaggerated most of the time.”

“But not fictitious?”

He takes a drink of his water. “Not entirely. What have you heard?”

“That soccer players don’t associate with football players and vice versa, with the exception of Aiko and Pops. Is that his real name, by the way?”

Corey shakes his head, mood lightening. “The contention between our teams exists between a few players.”

“It doesn’t sound that isolated.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you think Kelly hasn’t asked you out yet? You know our captain dates the captain of the men’s soccer team, right?”

He stares at me through those perceptive eyes and then quietly swears.

I nod.

“The feud has nothing to do with you and me. It shouldn’t impact us.” He leans forward, and his knees brush mine. I don’t move away this time—don’t even try.

Us.

Two letters that create an entire universe.

Butterflies rise from my stomach and swarm my lungs. I can’t breathe.

Our waiter arrives, followed by a second, delivering platters of food that clutter our table so full that our plates and cups have no room to shift.

“Hungry?” I ask.

Corey grins. “I wanted to make sure you had the full experience. It’s best to eat family style.” He points to each dish, telling me the names and what’s in them. They’re all vegetarian.

I fill my plate with small portions of each, and he does the same.

My first bite is of the crispy cheese. Upon initial inspection, they look like the small macaroni and cheese balls my Aunt Janice fries every year for Thanksgiving, but there are no noodles in these. A burst of flavors and textures explodes in my mouth: herbs, basil, and something sweet, along with the creamy texture of the cheese. I hum my appreciation, but it sounds like a moan, and I can’t even bother to be embarrassed over the reaction because it’s that good.

Corey grins knowingly. “Some people like to squeeze fresh lemon juice on them.”

“Why mess with perfection?” I pop the other half of it into my mouth and shake my head.

While we eat, he tells me more about Anna, her pets, and growing up with his best friend, Diego. I tell him about my brothers and how, despite being family, Lexie has always been my best friend.

The familiarity we’ve created through texting bleeds into our conversation as we laugh and share inside jokes we’ve made over the past several weeks. All the while, his knees and feet remain securely pressed against mine.

“How long have you played soccer?” he asks.

“Forever. My mom jokes that I learned to kick a soccer ball before I could walk.”

He chuckles, and I stop breathing so I can hear every note, wanting to memorize the sound.

It’s already nine-thirty when the waiter comes by with our check. Corey waves my card away and hands the waiter his own credit card without looking at the bill. “I invited you,” he tells me.

“Because my stomach kept interrupting us.”

He flashes another grin and tries to rest his elbows on the table, but the plates clank together, protesting giving even an inch.

“Let me get a couple of these.” The waiter takes his empty plate and then mine. “Would you like the rest to go?”

Corey nods. “That would be great.”

“Let me at least leave the tip,” I say, digging for some cash.

He shakes his head. “I would have ordered all this food even if it was just me. It’s been too long since I’ve eaten here. I should be thanking your aggressively loud stomach.”

My cheeks heat as I slowly and reluctantly lower my wallet back into my purse and lean back. I’ve exceeded the five questions he allotted me, but the silence feels strained as his gaze slips over me again, noting my nerves and likely how I can’t steal my attention away from him.

“What’s your favorite way to spend a day off?” I ask because it’s a benign, easy question, making it the right way to end tonight.

Corey quirks a single brow. It’s an expression I’ve tried dozens of times since meeting him and can’t master. My brow muscles seem to be fused, raising both brows or neither. “We both know there are no days off as athletes. Is this a trick question?”

“We get a few.”

“When was the last time you took a full day off?”

Aside from the outlier days while I was at the beach to celebrate Adelaide’s bridal shower/bachelorette party, it’s been months.

“Okay, assuming you had a day off,” I concede, “how would you spend it?”

His smile is a secret that makes my heart race and my blood heat. I don’t know if I’m misreading his silent intentions or just desperately want to.

“You better ask me something else, Fallon.”

My eyes track and memorize his expression. “Why?”

His gaze darkens, and my stomach tightens as everything in me clenches. He leans closer. “Because I promised to always be honest with you.”

I smirk and then laugh, realizing my idiocy. “I knew you had an embarrassing inner-nerd-worthy secret. Tell me.”

His eyes remain intense, pupils blown out. “No, because my imaginary day off would be spent setting a record of how many times I could make you scream, beg, and sigh my name while getting you off, and you’ve spent the past three days trying to convince yourself to put up boundaries and force us into friend roles we both know don’t fit us.”

My mouth goes dry, and an ache forms between my legs as his words play in my thoughts with too much accuracy and detail.

“I’ll have you know, I’m a great friend.” My voice isn’t as light or as playful as intended.

Nonetheless, he grins. “I have no doubt.”

“Look,” I say, pushing my fingers into my hair. “That girl you met at the beach, that’s not me. I’m not… I don’t… That was a one-off. I don’t even know what got into me.”

He arches that brow again. “Do you want a play-by-play? Because that was me inside of you.”

The casual way he announces this has my cheeks burning, but I can’t manage to look away from him.

“I’m under your skin, Fallon. It’s why you messaged me and why your eyes dilate when you look at me.” He stares at me, daring me to object.

But I can’t. He has my number.