Page 4 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“On one condition.”

Condition? Is he serious? I have no choice but to play along. “What’s that?”

“Stop pretending like you know what you’re doing when it comes to my arm.” He arches an eyebrow in challenge.

The surest way to piss a woman off is to question her abilities and yet he just did again. “Don’t be an ass. You’re irritating me. And wasting my time.” I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t like my time wasted.”

“Isn’t the customer always supposed to be right?”

“Sit. Down.”

“What the lady wants, the lady gets.” Resigned, but with a lopsided smirk that says somehow he’s getting what he wants anyway, he scoots his ass onto the padded table behind him, eyes still locked on mine. “One more condition?”

“No more conditions.” The man is positively frustrating.

“What’s your name?”

“Scout,” I answer, already exhausted from this game I’m a player in but don’t quite understand.

“Scout?”

“Yes. Scout.” I opt to leave out my last name. There’s no need for him to question my abilities any further.

“That’s not exactly the type of originality I was expecting. What happened to Star or Trixie or Kitty? Were those all taken?”

What in the hell is he talking about?

“Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s just Scout.”

“Damn. My bet was on Kitty.”

“Nope.”

“Scout. Hmm.” He nods his head, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to figure something out. “I was wrong. It wasn’t Tino. It was Drew. He’s the one who hired you, coached you on what to say, and told you what to do, right?” He swings his legs up onto the table, and I swear he says something about there being no Velcro but when he props himself up on his elbow and meets my puzzled gaze, all he does is give me a perfectly innocent, choir-boy smile.

“I’m sorry, am I missing something?” I’m so confused.

“Don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours,” he says with a smirk. “You’re not missing a thing.”

I hear him—the mockery in his tone, the alarm bells telling me something’s going on that I don’t quite understand—but I’m momentarily distracted by our proximity. By the scent of the shampoo in his hair. By the sight of faded scars on his body, more visible now that I’m closer to him. By the unique color of his eyes, which are a mixture of brown and gray with a ring of blue around the iris.

But it’s his wince that pulls me from la-la land. It’s a simple motion, the lift of his arm behind his head, but I catch the grimace on his face. My eyes home in on his shoulder. On the vibration of his muscles as he shifts and adjusts to get comfortable and the mask now in place trying to pretend it didn’t hurt.

My training kicks in. Takes over. Throws that unwelcome pang of insta-lust I was momentarily mesmerized by out the window. I itch to put my hands on him so I can knead and stretch and try to give him relief from his nagging pain.

But right as I’m about to touch his shoulder, he shifts to look at me and asks, “Don’t you need music or something?”

My hands freeze as his words break through my concentration. They hit my ears, and my synapses fire for what feels like the first time since he stepped in here. Everything clicks into place. The hints that have been niggling in the back of my mind suddenly link together and make sense.

The throwback baller.

The All-American do-gooder.

And the notorious prankster.

How could I not have connected the dots earlier? That the man who is known in locker rooms around the country for pranking his teammates—like the ones he named moments ago, Tino and Drew—thinks they are pranking him. Getting him back for the legendary stunts he’s done to them.

And he thinks I’m in on it.