“Yes.” I shake my head a little. “Boring, but true.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I like true.”
“It was the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done.” I feel compelled to admit in the name of truth. Most people assume wildly colored hair and tattoos mean you’re a wild child or frivolous, when sometimes it’s just a simple act of self-expression. The tattoo had happened on a day I’d been too shocked to plan out exactly what I wanted in advance.
Finn’s expression turns thoughtful, as if he’s reading my face like a book. Silence rises between us and, for a moment, I wonder if he’ll refuse to tell me about his tattoo. But then he speaks. “Went to Stanford for college. Before my first game, I drove into San Francisco and took a walk over it the Golden Gate Bridge. Thought about all I wanted to accomplish, all I wanted to be. Got the tattoo that weekend.”
I snap another shot. “And have you accomplished everything?”
A secretive light comes into his eyes. “Almost.”
“Hmmm. What about the roses?” He has two vibrant red roses inked on the top and bottom of the state.
The corners of his eyes crinkle. “When I won my first and second Rose Bowl.”
Such pride in his look. I capture it.
“And the diamond?” I nod toward the stylized diamond at the bottom of California.
“Freshman year, Coach told me I was a diamond in the rough. And if I ever made it to the pros, he’d consider me polished.” His lips quirk. “Got that added the day after I was drafted.”
“You love your job.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a cheeky look.
“What goes through your mind just before a play?” I ask, snapping away.
“You want me to walk you through it?” He seems more than willing tell me, but also curious, as if he can’t figure out if I really want to know or am just humoring him.
“No. I want you to picture the process.”
Silently, Finn drops his head and his eyes close.
And my breath catches. Because he is stunning.
Stretched out on the floor, his intensity should be diminished, but it isn’t. His body remains tight, his muscles almost quivering, as if ready to spring into action. But his expression is a different story. A look of peace falls over him, his lips soft, almost parting, the clean line of his jaw relaxed, and his brow smooth.
He is utterly at home within his skin, within his mind. It’s as if I’m witnessing a man at prayer. A true believer.
And I feel transformed right along with him. Pure and revitalized instead of simply going through the motions. Again that feeling of knowing hits me. Only this time it isn’t terrifying, but a warm balm that makes me aware of my own skin, of each breath I draw in and let out.
I almost forget to take the shot. But when I do, I know that this will be the cover. A part of me resents that. That covetous part of me feels as though this moment is private, something Finn Mannus has allowed only me to see.
But then I remember myself. It’s just a job. And the job is now officially done.
Chapter Three
Finn
* * *
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Jake says, after taking a long pull on his beer. “Baby oil is great for my skin. I should have slathered myself in it long before today.”
I have to laugh. “I was going to mention the way your face resembles a baby’s ass.”
“This face,” he says, “is going to get me laid after I finish my beer.”
I just shake my head and relax into the booth were sitting at. “Good thing you rubbed baby oil on it, then.” Personally, I hate the lingering feeling of the damn oil. I’d just as soon forget the whole day.
But even as I have the thought, I know it’s a lie. Once the photoshoot got going, when it had been just me and Chess, it had been… I don’t even know how to explain it. Different.
For a small while, I’d stopped thinking about my job, about the various aches and pains plaguing my body, about the press, the team’s record, winning, losing. I’d stopped thinking about anything, really. Somehow, Chess had done what I’ve only been able to accomplish on the field; she got me to focus solely on the moment.
Now it’s over. My time with the combative Ms. Chester Copper is done. I’m used to people drifting in and out of my world. I meet new faces almost on a daily basis. So I shouldn’t feel any sense of loss.
I do, though. But why do I?
I’d blame it on attraction. But I’m attracted to women on a daily basis too. Truth is, I’ve felt off and alone since the thing with Britt. Which is something I really don’t want to think about. Ever.
I’m frowning when the waitress sets a heaping platter of smoked oysters on the table. “Here you boys go.” She adds a basket of hush puppies and another basket of fried shrimp to the mix. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
Her smile is wide and accommodating, and it pisses me off that I instantly wonder if she’s flirting, that I’ve trained myself to immediately second-guess everyone’s motives.
“We’re good,” I tell the woman.
Her smile fades a bit then comes back brighter. “Well, holler if you need me. For anything at all.”
Jake tucks into the food as she walks away.
“Was she flirting?” I ask him, as soon as she’s out of hearing range.
“Why?” He sucks down an oyster. “Did you want her to be?”
“No.” I run a hand over my hair. “I just can’t tell anymore.”
Hunched over his food, Jake looks up at me. “Messes with your head, doesn’t it?”
Relief that I don’t sound like a pompous asshole floods me. “Yeah, it does.”
“Well, for the record…” Jake points his beer in the waitress’s direction. “She was flirting.”
“Maybe you’re imagining things too.” I pop a shrimp into my mouth.
“Finn,” he says with exaggerated patience. “You’re a starting pro quarterback in a town that loves its team. You can safely assume that even the dogs on the street are flirting with you.”