I match his tone, going all sultry. “I know. I just want to keep running my hands over it all night long.”
“That might be the dirtiest thing ever said about the Lombardi Trophy,” he says with a chuckle.
I rest the base on my knee so we can both keep fondling it. “Oh, I doubt that.”
Maybe by accident, his forefinger brushes mine, skimming along it and slowing. As he slides past my second knuckle, a spark runs up my arm.
Oh.
Crosby’s touch kind of makes my skin sizzle.
Not just kind of, but definitely. Deliciously.
Inconveniently.
I hazard a glance at him out of the corner of my eye as we talk about the thrill of winning, trying to gauge whether he felt an answering spark when he touched me, or if he even realized he did it.
We’ve known each other since we were young, and this isn’t the first time I’ve felt a little chemistry between us. Like when we were home from college, and when we’ve run into each other in the time since.
Though “chemistry” implies a mutual reaction, and I’m not sure about that. Just because I get tingles doesn’t mean he does.
And so, I let the moment pass, nudging his elbow. “Why don’t you let me take you out for lunch?”
“Oh, a celebration. I approve.” He rubs his palms together. “Can we go to the fanciest restaurant on the Strip?”
“Obviously. My treat.” I stand and go to set the trophy on the shelf behind my desk, where it can awe visitors and intimidate rivals. When I turn back, Crosby is on his feet too, arms folded. Even in long sleeves, his biceps are impossible to ignore. So I don’t ignore. I ogle. Surreptitiously, of course.
“I wasn’t angling for a free lunch,” he tells me.
I arch a teasing brow. “No? I think you kind of were.” I walk over and link my hand through his arm. Because he may be my friend, but his flexed bicep is almost as impossible to resist as my trophy. “Just admit it, and I’ll let you pick the spot.”
He shrugs amiably. “I’m not going to argue with the woman who just let me fondle her silver football.”
That’s Crosby—easygoing and easy to talk to, and easy to fall back in step with no matter how long it’s been since I’ve last seen him.
Laughing, I tug him toward my office door, and we make our way out of the stadium together, where we slide into my limo and head across town and along the Strip.
“So, tell me how things are in San Francisco,” I say as I angle toward him in the back seat.
“San Francisco said to tell you she misses you. She wants you to come back,” he says, pouting.
“I miss San Francisco too,” I say, and I miss my father. He passed away recently, leaving his majority stake in the team to me. Funny that Crosby mentions bringing the team home – but I’ve had so much to do running it that moving it isn’t top of the list. “But you can’t fit a football team in a U-Haul.”
He chuckles at whatever image that brought to mind. “Okay. I admit you’d have more than the average person to pack up and move.”
“And that’s not even counting my shoes.”
“Come on.” He nudges my knee with his. “You don’t have to crush my dreams without even pricing moving companies.”
I furrow my brow. “You can’t be serious. Logistics aside, the Hawks are based here. I can’t just up and move the franchise, and San Francisco to Vegas is a hell of a commute.”
He leans forward and rests his hand on my leg as if to make sure he has my attention. “I maintain that Nadia Harlowe can do whatever she sets her mind to.” When he sits back, his hand slides away. My hand drifts down to my thigh and smooths over the cool spot where his warmth had been.
“I admit though,” Crosby continues, stretching his arm out along the back of the seat, “that’s a little more complicated than transferring to a branch office. I’m just a selfish bastard who thinks it would be fun if you were there.”
He shoots me a crooked grin. This man deals them out like they’re playing cards—all of them aces. His smile is winning. Magnetic. Irresistible.
But then, that’s kind of how I would describe Crosby. Blue eyes the color of the sea, dark hair, so soft and wavy, and a smile that absolutely makes your heart flip—he could make you say yes to nearly anything.
When we were growing up, he was my brother Eric’s friend, but Eric wasn’t always around, and Crosby liked to always stay busy.
He’d ask me to join him in a game of baseball. I’d pitch, and he’d catch.
He’d convince me to go skateboarding. I’d show up with my helmet and knee pads, ready to fly downhill.
But then I’d ask, “Do you want to go to a concert?” and he gave his yeses just as easily.
We’ve always enjoyed each other’s company, in sync somehow. It’s actually surprising that nothing romantic has ever happened between us.
But he’s a guy who attracts women easily, and is often seeing someone.
And I’m a woman with a lot of irons in the fire, and am often busy with work.
And as Crosby pointed out, we don’t live in the same city.
So I always make the best of our time when our paths cross.
As friends.
Only as friends.
We arrive at the restaurant and grab a table, discussing the menu (enticing), whether we should actually get the most expensive thing (we don’t), and save the serious catching up until the server has taken our orders.
“Forget how San Francisco is,” I say when we’ve given over our requests and our menus. “Tell me what’s up with Crosby Cash.”
“Well, spring training starts in a few more weeks,” Crosby says, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I have a good feeling about this year.”
“Then we should toast.” I
