Chapter 9: Chapter 9

I sit in the driveway, my thumbs tapping against my steering wheel as my agent’s voice trails from the speaker of my phone.

“Everyone in the front office is wanting an answer, Preston,” Ryan says, his voice tight. I know I’m making his life far more complicated than necessary right now, but it’s my right to do so. I’ve given my all to football for years. My heart isn’t in it anymore. I don’t want to completely trash my body, and as I get older, I realize that I want to be known for things other than my stats as a quarterback.

“If the front office wants an answer today, then I don’t think they’ll like the one I give them,” I answer angrily, knowing it’s not fair to take out my frustration on Ryan.

He sighs, staying quiet on the other end of the line for a moment while he gathers his thoughts. “I’ll tell them you haven’t decided, then.” It isn’t hard to hear the disappointment laced in every single one of his words.

“Ryan, I really think this is going to be my last year.” I look at the house in front of me, trying not to let the rush of sadness completely envelop me. There’s a part of me that wants to keep playing for another five years, but the larger part of me is tired.

Football was never my biggest dream—it was just something I was good at. The closer we get to the next season, the more I believe I want one final year to say goodbye to the sport I’ve played for as long as I can remember. And then I want to be done—for good. It’s time for me to move on and enjoy life outside of football. I want to invest in more companies and actually have time to have a say in the inner workings of those businesses. I want to take a vacation and not worry about what I can and can’t do according to my contract.

I’m just ready for the football phase of my life to be complete.

“You’re saying that because last year was hard. That was a tough loss in the Super Bowl. What if you get back out this year and realize you still have more years left in you?”

“Even if we won last year—or we win this year—I think I’m done, Ryan. You can keep putting off telling them that, but I don’t see my decision changing.”

I can feel him rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. I’ve had so many tough conversations with him over the years that I’ve memorized the way he reacts when he doesn’t like my answer. I’m sure he’s sitting in his office, facing the windows with his knuckles pressed to his lips.

Finally, he speaks up again. “Okay. I’ll tell them you need more time. Have you made new arrangements for a place to stay this week? Somewhere more private—and secure,” he adds at the end. “I don’t need Savannah calling me worrying about a PR nightmare.”

I’d called both Ryan and Savannah, my publicist, first thing this morning to tell them I’d be staying somewhere different. The small bed-and-breakfast my family rented out for the wedding party was too public. Before things got out of control and too many people were told where I’m staying, I opted to find somewhere a bit more private. I didn’t want people trying to get to me to overshadow Peyton’s big day.

“Preston?” Ryan pushes.

“Yes,” I answer, sitting up in the driver’s seat. I lean forward, looking at the large, pristine house in front of me. “I’ve found somewhere far more private.”

“And secure?” Ryan prods.

I laugh. I don’t know if the house would necessarily count as secure, but no one will find me here. So in that case, I guess we could call it secure. “Yes, Ryan. I’ll be fine.”

“Call me if you need anything,” he tells me before hanging up the phone.

I slide it into my pocket before getting out of the car. My bags are stuffed in the trunk, but I want to check out the place before bringing them in. I tell myself the reason I’m hurriedly walking to the front door of the main house has nothing to do with Emma and everything to do with me wanting to make sure she’s okay with me staying in the guesthouse.

I knock, my hands finding my pockets as I wait for her to answer. I stare at the wood door that seems to be freshly painted a deep navy blue. Music pours from inside the house, making me wonder if Emma would even hear me knocking. I knock again, this time louder in hopes that she’ll hear me.

The music doesn’t stop. I’m about to knock for a third time when the door swings open. Emma stands in the opening, a T-shirt way too big for her hanging down to her thighs as she stares at me with a small wrinkle across her forehead.

“If you’re here to take me to some kind of wedding event, I need at least an hour to get ready. I’m still recovering from last night.”

I lift a shoulder. “I did try and get you to drink water. You kept telling me you didn’t need it.”

She groans, her fingers clutching the door to keep her upright. “It’s all your fault. You could’ve pushed a little harder for your girlfriend to drink water.” The way she says the word girlfriend makes my pulse spike.

I swallow. “I did push for you to drink water. You called me the hydration police.”

She nods in understanding. “Because of your delivery. You shoved water in my face and basically growled the word drink.”

I don’t argue with her, knowing it’ll get me nowhere. Instead, I opt to straighten my spine a little and look into the house behind her. “You going to let me in?”

Her face scrunches up. “No. You can come in when you pick me up for our fake date of the day. What time do we need to be there?”

“In about an hour,” I answer, taking one small step closer.

“A simple text or phone call to give me more of a heads-up would’ve been nice.”

“I didn’t get your number.” If I wanted to get it from Archer, I probably could have. But that takes the fun out of it. If—or more like when—I get her number, I want it to be because she decided to give it to me. Besides, if Archer finds out about us, it wouldn’t make sense for me not to have my girlfriend’s phone number.

“So you showed up where I’m staying? Very old-school of you.”

“How are you feeling today?” I ask, counting the number of drinks she had last night in my head. Maybe I should’ve tried a little harder to get her to drink water and eat something.

“I feel hungover. But I’ll be fine. Come back in an hour, and I’ll be ready for…” She pauses, her gaze traveling to the sky in thought. “Could you remind me what we’re doing today?”

“We’ve got a garden party,” I inform her.

She purses her lips as she nods in understanding. It’s quiet for a moment as she repeats the movement over and over until eventually her eyes meet mine. “And what exactly is a garden party?”

We both burst out in laughter. I can’t help it. Not many people have made me clutch my stomach with laughter, but she’s managed to do it.

“Ugh,” Emma says, pressing her palm to her forehead. “Don’t make me laugh. My head hurts.”

I take a breath, trying to wipe the smile from my face. “I’m sorry,” I apologize, my hand wiping over my mouth. “I just realized how ridiculous a garden party sounded once you asked what it was.”

Emma leans against the door, a hint of a smile still on her full lips. I focus on keeping my eyes on hers so I’m not tempted to sneak a glimpse at the bare skin of the tops of her thighs. “What is one supposed to wear to a garden party?”

My resolve breaks for a fraction of a second as my eyes roam her body. “Something with pants.”

Emma gasps, looking down. The fabric bunches in her hand as she lifts it up, showing off a pair of small boxer shorts. “I am wearing pants, thank you very much,” she informs me, rolling her eyes as if the fact I thought she wasn’t wearing pants was the most ridiculous idea ever.

I lift my hands in surrender. “Excuse me for thinking otherwise.”

She keeps her eyes trained on me for a minute. I want to ask what’s running through her head as she watches me closely, but I don’t. It doesn’t really matter what she thinks of me—at least, I tell myself that.

“Is that what you’re wearing to a nice, ritzy garden party?” She lifts an eyebrow as her eyes travel over my collared T-shirt and khaki shorts.

“No,” I answer, looking at the outfit I’d quickly thrown on early this morning before breakfast with my family. “I’m going to change at my place into something a bit nicer.”

She nods, straightening her spine and taking a step back. “Then I’ll get back inside and get ready for our day, and you can go back to your place and change. Meet me back here in two hours?”

“I’ll see you in one hour,” I correct, sliding my sunglasses from my forehead and over my eyes. “And I am at my place.” I point in the direction of the guesthouse. “Or at least close to it.”

“Shut up,” Emma hurriedly says, her jaw hanging open. “You’re the NFL player?”