Page 32 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“No. Never. It’s my personal rule.” And even though I said it myself, I know I’m already justifying in my head why I might make an exception for him.

“It’s arrogant to brush your opinion in broad strokes across all of us players.” The dark night prevents me from seeing what else his eyes are saying.

“True,” I muse, “but I’ve heard enough locker room talk to know the truth.”

“So you think that’s how I am, too, then?”

“No. Yes.” I tighten my ponytail and tuck the loosened strands behind my ears. “It’s just . . . they leave. Night after night. Day after day. Game after game. And when the season is over and the limelight is gone, they seek the attention of someone new, someone who gives them that adrenaline rush. That thrill of finding someone new, or the high that comes with the risk of being caught cheating.”

“Scout—”

“I’ve had enough people in my life leave me, Easton. I’m not walking willingly into a situation that sets me up for that hurt.” And I hate that I just gave him that part of me. That glimpse into my past. I blame the alcohol for lowering my guard, but I fear it’s so much more than that.

I fear it’s because of him and how he makes me feel.

“You’re wrong.” He steps into me and out of the street’s light. The shadows on his face give him an edge that’s sexy, reckless, and daring. “I’ve played on grass my whole life, Scout. There’s no need for me to see what’s out there when it’s green beneath my feet.”

“There’s turf nowadays. Everything is green,” I fight back.

“If there’s turf, then there’s no point to your argument. No one’s going to be looking for greener pastures when they’re all the same color.” He lowers his head so our eyes are on the same level, to reinforce what he’s said.

They’re just words, Scout. Declarations that have no basis. He’s just a man trying to defend his own gender. His own ego.

Yet, I want to believe him.

I want to think he’s not like those guys.

And God, how I want him to kiss me. Call my bluff. Because with the alcohol in my blood and the memory of his body against mine in my brain, it’s all I can think about.

I spring off the wall and away from the slowly closing gap between us. “Is there a bathroom around here?” I ask the first thing that comes to mind to give me an escape, hands gesticulating animatedly, and nerves humming recklessly. “All of those drinks are catching up to me.”

He steps forward under the light of the building and just stares at me. He can see through me right now—my nerves, my fear, my confused desire—and so I hold his gaze, pretend to be unaffected by him, and wait to see if he’s going to let me off the hook or push the issue.

“My place is just around the corner,” he says, giving me a pass, but with a look telling me we’ll be revisiting this discussion where I called his character into question. “I’ll take you there.”

I should say no.

I should reject the offer and walk away from everything that he represents for me.

But I don’t speak. Instead I fall into step next to him.

We walk through the newly revamped downtown area, past couples holding hands and hordes of college kids making their way from one bar to the next, the night still young. Our silence only feeds my insecurity and the knowledge that he’s mad at me because I insulted his character. I know I should apologize, tell him that based on his actions today I can tell he doesn’t fit my generalization, but I don’t say a word. I can’t. Because, deep down, I have a feeling that it’s probably best if he stays mad at me.

It’s safer.

By the time we enter the lobby of a glossy high-rise, I really do have to use the restroom. Easton laughs at me as I dance from foot to foot during the long elevator ride to the penthouse. The doors open to the foyer of his home, where a lone lamp lights the space as he ushers me to a door to my immediate left.

I take a few minutes after I use the facilities to check my mess of a reflection—hair falling from my ponytail, lipstick long gone, and eye shadow all collected in the crease of my lid. There’s no way I can fix this. Not here. But I try.

I pull my ponytail out, let my dark brown hair fall, and fluff it with my fingers. And now I look like I just woke up. Shit. Is it so bad to want to look like I didn’t just wake up?

I spend a few more minutes trying to look a bit more presentable, but when I check my reflection one last time—hair fluffed and cheeks pinched pink—I immediately grab my hair tie and pull my hair back up into a messy bun. This is how Easton knows me—in work mode—with my basic makeup and my hair thrown back. Anything else comes off like I’m trying too hard.

And I’m not trying too hard.

Keep telling yourself that, Scout, and maybe you’ll start believing it.

When I exit the bathroom, Easton is nowhere to be found. Hesitant to overstep, but wondering where he is, I walk past the foyer and start making my way through the vast and still darkened condo. It’s all hardwood floors and slate grays and blues. Or I think it is from what I can see as I move through its spacious layout. I only see that much because there is a wall of windows straight ahead of me, where I’m met with Easton’s silhouette, highlighted by bright lights beyond.