His jaw clenched, but those dark eyes never strayed. Not even an inch. “Is that what he was trying to find?”
“Among other things.”
Mr. Mysterious let out a low, amused laugh. His eyes left my face, trained over my shoulder at a softly lit dance floor. “If I ask you to dance, will you promise to leave it sheathed?”
My surprised smile was slow, and it stayed small. But I nodded, giving him a wordless answer because I wasn’t sure I was capable of more.
Very little threw me off-kilter in life.
Everything that I could plan out, I did. In neat little bullet points in my planner, I had almost every minute accounted for.
Because it was my job to keep all those details straight and make sure everyone was taken care of.
But for some reason, this man asking me to dance caused a hairline crack in the foundation under my feet. And I felt the rumble of it, all the way up my spine.
It was easy—despite that ominous rumble that something big was about to happen—to take the hand he offered me and follow him to the dance floor.
As his warm, strong fingers curled around mine, I felt the butterflies again. And this time, they were everywhere.
Emmett
The day of my first game in the NFL was the most nervous I’d been in my entire life. Any unspoken fear that had lain dormant came scratching and clawing into the forefront of my mind, mulling over the enormity of what I was about to do.
I was raised in the shadow of my dad’s football legacy.
He was the first person who taught me how to throw. How to block. How to read a defense. Because those were all the things he knew best.
He won a trophy as a defensive captain for the Washington Wolves, retired a legend, and spent the next twenty years solidifying himself as one of the best defensive coaches in the league. Logan Ward was a name that needed no introduction, and before I took a single snap on a professional field, I knew that I’d have to prove myself outside of that shadow if I had any hope of achieving what I wanted.
Those nerves sent all sorts of messages through me. Questions I hadn’t wanted to ask myself.
Can I do this?
Am I with the right team?
Will I find what I’m looking for?
But the fears faded as soon as I got out of bed, and by the time I strapped on the pads, slipped the jersey over my head, took the field to screaming fans and blaring music and deafening fireworks, I was as ready as I’d ever been.
After that first morning of my first game, I never felt the nerves again.
Until I was leading Adaline Wilder to the dance floor, and she had no fucking idea who I was.
This was exactly the kind of offensive adjustment that separated a good quarterback from a great one.
Had I planned on finding her off in a quiet hallway where I could ask her to dance, explain why I was there? Yes.
Had I planned on walking in on her being assaulted? Definitely no.
Had I planned on her not recognizing me? Absolutely not.
But something happened when there wasn’t a single flicker of recognition in her eyes. A shift in the game plan and a whole new strategy.
The music was quiet and romantic, and I led Adaline to the farthest corner of the dance floor that fell just outside of the soft, pastel-colored lights. Turning toward her, I slid my hand along her waist and tucked our joined hands against my chest. Her eyes briefly locked onto mine, and I saw clear confusion in her features. Her mask was delicate, more of her face showed, and I liked that I could tell what she was thinking.
We didn’t speak, and that was how I knew she was feeling the same vibrating tension strung tight between us. She let out an unsteady breath as her chest brushed mine.