Hell yes, I do.
“South Bay Animal Shelter, this is Emma.” Her sweet voice greets me.
“Hey, Emma, it’s Landon.”
“I’m sorry, who?” I can hear the confusion in her voice, which is like a kick in the balls.
“Landon Barker.” I wait, letting my name sink in.
“Number eighteen?” she questions.
“Yeah. How have you been?”
“I’m sorry, were you calling in regard to the shelter?”
“No. I called for you. To talk to you.”
“I’m afraid I’m on company time. Thanks for calling,” she says, and the line goes dead.
I stare at the screen of my phone with the message telling me the call was ended. What the actual fuck was that? She hung up on me. Hitting the green Call Back button, the line rings twice before she picks up.
“South Bay Animal Shelter, this is Emma.”
“Did you really just hang up on me?” I ask.
“Landon.” She sighs, and the sound, although not meant to be sexual, goes straight to my dick.
“Give me two minutes.”
“Fine. What can I do for you, Number Eighteen?”
Normally, a woman calling me by my number is a turnoff. That’s what the cleat chasers do. They just want to bag a player, and hopefully be the one who gets to ride along on their coattails. However, Emma, I don’t get that vibe from her. In fact, she’s irritated as hell right now. “Have dinner with me.” It’s more of a demand than a question.
“No.”
No hesitation in her voice. “One dinner. We can get to know each other.” That’s what women like her want, right? The good girls who you would take home to your mother. They want to be wined and dined. That’s not my MO, but there’s a first time for everything. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had dinner with women, but it’s usually at a charity event or is team sponsored. I’ve not been keen on the actual act of dating. Or the calling and asking thing. I think the last time that happened, it was senior prom. Great, now I’m my seventeen-year-old self.
“Look, Landon, I’m sure you’re a great guy, but I’m just not interested.”
“Emma—” I start, and she cuts me off.
“I really need to go.” With that, the line goes dead.
“Well, shit.” I huff, letting the phone drop to the bed next to me. What’s it going to take to get to this girl? I’m tempted to call her back, but I already know what the outcome is going to be. She’s going to hang up on me for the third time today. No thanks. I need to regroup and decide what my next step is going to be.
My phone rings, and I sit up, slapping the bed looking for it, a strange feeling filling my chest. The feeling that maybe it’s her. I frown when I see Case’s name on the screen.
“What’s up, Riley?”
“Harvey’s at eight.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. See you.” He ends the call. Short and to the point, but really what else is there to say? We just spent three solid weeks together.
Looking at the clock, I have three hours before I have to meet Case. A nap is in order. Kicking off my shoes, I swing around on the bed, resting my head on the pillow, and close my eyes. As soon as I do, she’s who I see. The fire in those green eyes as she shot me down. I can only imagine that same fire is in her eyes right now. I smile at that. She’s not going to know what hit her.
Game on, sweetheart.
Game on.
* * *
At ten minutes till eight, I’m typing in the code to the back entrance of Harvey’s bar. The room is quiet, except for old man Harvey himself wiping down the bar.
“Landon,” he greets.
“Hey, Harv, how’s it going?” Harvey is in his late sixties. He opened this bar over thirty years ago and has gained the trust and respect of the Trojans during that time.
“I’m this side of the sod, so I can’t complain.” He chuckles. “How was training camp?”
“Team’s looking good this year.”
“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
Harvey knows me well. “Yeah, Case talked me into a drink.”
“How are your folks?” he asks, wiping down the bar that I’m sure doesn’t need to be wiped down at all. A habit he’s picked up over the years.
“Good. Loving retired life.”
“You’re a good son,” he tells me. “I’m sure they appreciate all that you’ve done for them.”
“They sacrificed a lot for me growing up. It’s the least I could do. And keep that on the DL. You’re going to ruin my street cred.” I grin at him.
He throws his head back in laughter. His deep, husky voice from one too many cigarettes is comforting. Familiar. “Like you’ve got street cred,” he counters.
“Damn, cuts like a knife,” I say, holding my hand to my chest as we both laugh.
“What else is going on with you?”
“First night of freedom.” I don’t mention Emma or how she continues to shoot my ass down. I need to wrap my head around it before I start getting any kind of outside influences.
He studies me. “And?”
“And nothing.” I shake my head. Harvey is like a damn therapist, always wanting to pull the juicy details out of you. Only he pries your soul open with booze, and before you know it, you’ve spilled your guts to him in the span of a couple of hours. I’m convinced he has some kind of bartender superpower or some shit.
“There he is.” Harvey looks over my shoulder to where Case saunters into the room.
When I say saunters, it’s more of a glide, which is odd for a man his size. As the team’s center, Case Riley stands at six foot five and weighs in at two hundred and ninety-five pounds. He’s a big man, and the fact he can stroll anywhere is a surprise to everyone. He’s damn good on his feet despite his size.
“You missing me, Barker?” he asks, sliding into the seat next to me
