The guys make sure to leave her room as she slips in, almost behind me.
“Nope, right by my side.” The moment our eyes meet I tell her, “You’re part of this team too.”
I extend my arm out and without any hesitation, she moves until my arm is draped over her shoulder. She helps make sure Oliver is seen as the photographer asks if we’re ready. He takes about a dozen photos, between each one we change our hats for a new sponsor. I make sure my hat is always in position, and then replace my arm around her shoulder. She never complains, just stands here, her arm snaked around my waist as I hold her close.
For the last photo, we all hold up our hands, a single pointer finger extended upward. On the count, we holler, “Number one,” as the photo is taken. The moment I put my hand down, I turn, pulling her into my side. She gazes up at me with so much emotion written on her face. Exhilaration. Pride. Even desire. I can see it as plain as day, so maybe that’s the reason I bend down, without giving it a single thought to right or wrong, and move toward her, my lips prepared to claim hers.
I fully expect her to pull back, to gasp in shock or outrage, but she doesn’t. She closes her eyes. We’re a mere breath apart and everything around us starts to fade. The only thing here is us. Me and Lena. Well, and my son. All I have to do move just the slightest and our lips will touch, but the second I go to make my move, a shadow falls over me and a throat clears.
“Uhhh, guys, I know you’re having a moment and all, but your moment is about to be photographed by dozens of cameras from all across the region who are more than willing to share your tonsil hockey practice with the world.” The voice is Fish. The sole voice of reason.
I pull back and blink. Lena has this unfocused look in her eyes, and it almost calls me right back to her. To kiss her. But realization sets in. I can’t kiss her on stage in front of the media. The fallout will be our photo splashed everywhere.
Clearing my throat, I look down at my son. He’s wide awake and watching Fish, who’s suddenly making goofy faces at him. “Thanks, man,” I say to my best friend, who was essentially blocking the press from any potential shot a few moments ago. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Fish snorts and glances at Lena. She’s doing everything she can to melt into the temporary flooring we’re standing on. “Right, that’s the problem. You weren’t thinking. At least not with the big brain,” he chides, followed by a big boisterous laugh at his own joke.
My eyes roll. Before I can smart off to my friend, Coop and Colton come over to offer more congratulations and to talk shop for a moment.
“Mack, Hicks has decided to stay in town for the evening and host a quick celebration for you,” Colton says, referring to my major sponsor. “Their team is already working on securing a location. Food, drinks, lots of photos, and some glad-handing of their corporate bigshots.”
I want to groan, but I keep it from slipping. As much as I’d much rather head home and watch a movie with Lena, I know that’s not going to happen. This is part of my contract, the fine print that says I’ll do whatever in the hell is needed to make my sponsors happy. And apparently, that means attending a dinner this evening in my honor. “That sounds great,” I find myself saying.
Colton grins. Apparently, he doesn’t quite buy my fake excitement either. “I’ll join you. Rylee wants to stay at the hotel with Ace.”
I glance down at my son and then to Lena. As if reading my mind, she offers me a smile. “We’ll be just fine in the motorhome. Go have dinner.”
“Instead of heading back home tonight, we’ll just leave in the morning. It’s a short drive, so if we take off at seven, we’ll be home shortly after eight, traffic pending,” Coop adds. I already know he’s not that thrilled to be staying. He’d much rather be home with his wife and kids than shaking hands with corporate sponsors.
“Sounds like a plan,” I reply, running my hand through my hair before repositioning the ball cap.
“Oh, and they’ve added a gala next Saturday night,” Colton adds as he turns away. “I know we all love those, so be on the lookout for an email from PR with the details.” He’s gone a moment later.
“Shit,” I mumble.
“What’s the matter?” she asks, stepping forward and slipping her finger into Oliver’s little hand.
“Everyone hates those fucking penguin suit galas. Our sponsors do them once or twice a year. Each one, they’ll pick a charity and raise money.”
She smiles. “I remember my dad going to those types of things a few times. I always begged him to take me with him,” she says, her eyes sparkling like emeralds under the bright sunlight.
“Well, you can be my date,” I say before I even put any thought into the words. But the moment they’re out there, I realize how much I’d really love for her to attend with me.
“Oh, I can’t,” she insists. “Someone has to watch Oliver.”
I nod, but not because I agree.
She’s right.
Someone has to watch my son.
That someone doesn’t have to be her.
***
I’m ready to leave.
Hell, I was ready to head out five minutes after we arrived, but I knew that wasn’t happening. No way would I disrespect my sponsors, my team owner, or my team like that. Doesn’t mean I didn’t think it though. When I left with my guys, Lena had Oliver in his baby bathtub on the floor of the shower.
