There’s a flare of relief in his eyes, but it’s cut with something innately sexual. As though he can’t help it. “Thank you.”
He offers me his hand.
I study it for a moment, the strength and character of it, before slipping my fingers in between each of his, letting him fold me into his grip, and we walk through the entrance together, only stopping to have our tickets scanned by a smiling senior citizen. “Wow,” I murmur when the field comes into view. “I haven’t been to a sporting event since I was a kid. I forgot what the grand entrance is like.”
“Never gets old, does it?” Briefly, he looks down at the tickets, then at the numbers posted on the pillars, leading me in the appropriate direction. “I still remember my first Liverpool game. My parents weren’t much for a day out, but I tagged along with a friend’s family. I couldn’t believe the players I’d been watching all my life on the telly were right there in front of me. I still try and make it to a match whenever I’m home.” A line of tension rides through his back, which I am apparently watching very, very closely. “It has been quite a while.”
We turn down some concrete stairs, toward the field. Most of the seats in this section are occupied, spectators holding signs and wearing jerseys. Three seats remain open at the very front and somehow, before Tobias even leads me there, I know two of them belong to us. We take our seats and I can’t help but continue to study his chiseled profile. “How long has it been since you went home, exactly?”
“Five years.” He hesitates, stares out at the field where the players are still warming up and stretching, but I suspect he isn’t really seeing it. “Logically, I know London is a vast goddamn place and my former manager isn’t going to be lurking around every corner. But just the thought of running into him…” He coughs into a fist. “I’d prefer to avoid feeling that used and helpless again. That…small.”
This is not an appropriate time for a joke, but I sense he needs it. Badly. He’s still holding my hand and his knuckles are pale. “Must be unusual for you to feel small.”
“It is,” he laughs, appreciating me with a look. “I don’t like it. I’m supposed to feel big and girthy and virile—”
“Too far.”
“Sorry, love.” He swallows a lazy grin and we stare at each other for an extra-long moment that tugs every single string below my waist, pulling so taut that I have to tear my gaze away. Especially because his jaw is growing tighter and I know what that means.
Because I think of nothing but ripping your fucking panties off.
I release an uneven breath, ordering myself to focus on what’s happening in front of me. The referees are bending and stretching, congregating in the center of the field. The players are huddled together on the sidelines. And there is Banks.
In a charcoal colored suit.
Clean cut and absorbed by whatever he’s telling his team. When he sends them off to the field with a final barked command, he crosses his arms and begins to pace the sideline, intelligent eyes scanning the pitch, shouting changes and reminders as he goes. In the deep, smoky voice that has me removing my jacket due to excess heat.
Tobias watches me take off the garment, his eyes all-knowing. He’s aware that I’m turned on by Banks and him at the same time. It’s understood. And there really are no words in the English language to describe how freeing that is. Tobias likes me in need no matter who is responsible for it. I can also tell by the way he fists his hands in his lap that he’d love to be the one who fulfills that need.
Good God. I think I actually need her to like me first.
I watch him remind himself of this, without words, physically drawing back from me slightly, regrouping with his eyes closed. “What was your first sporting event?” he asks.
“Football.” I smile. “My father is a marine and his regiment was invited to a Chargers game to present the flag during the national anthem. I got to be on the field.”
“Damn.” He shifts to face me slightly. “That’s incredible.”
“I was seven. It was kind of overwhelming,” I say. “But I was proud of my dad. I saw how proud my mom was of him, too. It was…I just remember this big rush of hope that they would look at me the same way someday.”
“They must, Elise. They must be proud.”
I nod. Keep right on nodding, but I don’t respond.
Tobias slides his arm along the back of my chair and when I get the courage to look up at him, he’s studying me with a rare mar between his brows. He gives me a gentle, “What?”