Admit You Want Me Page 7

  The vacant property that separated the apartment complex from the interstate was overgrown but did nothing to stop the deafening sound of semi-trucks going past at seventy miles per hour. I saw a few mangy feral cats hanging around on the dry grass. The parking lot was cracked and ruined, making half of it unusable as weeds took the area back for nature one pothole at a time. As for the complex itself, it had seen better days. I’d estimate that those days were probably well before Emma was born, sometime in the early eighties. Next door, a particularly sketchy looking bodega advertised cabrito tacos, and weirdly, haircuts. There was no way in hell that I’d let my sister live at a place like this, even if it meant her moving in with me.

  As I approached her apartment, Emma opened the door before I even knocked and immediately stepped out and locked it. She must have been waiting by the window, watching. I was almost touched until I saw her frowning face.

  “You can’t come inside,” she said by way of a greeting. “My roommate is sleeping.”

  It was past noon and an obvious snub, but I was too focused on her outfit to do much of anything but shrug and stare.

  Unlike her plain work outfits that were clearly designed to blend in— dark pants, solid color t-shirts— today Emma wasn’t dressed conservatively. Instead, she had chosen to stand out. She was wearing a short, strappy sundress that showcased every inch of her figure.

  Her delicate shoulders were covered with a light smattering of freckles, I noticed, and they extended down her collar bones and atop her exposed, impressive cleavage. Had she always had freckles? I didn’t remember. The amount of skin I now had to admire and appreciate was overwhelming. Like a starving man offered an all-you-can-eat buffet, I was overcome by the selection of long, slender limbs, full curves, and exposed neck, back, and shoulders.

  My fingers itched to count her freckles and find out just how far down her body they decorated. To find out if her skin was as velvety soft as it looked, and if her hair was as silky. Alarm bells started going off in the back of my brain, warning me that I was about to get myself into trouble. But even as my brain tried to talk sense into me, another organ had taken over doing the majority of the thinking.

  “Earth to Ward? See something you like?” Emma teased, echoing my comments from the day before. She spun around just to rub it in, revealing an extra inch of creamy white thighs. “You seem a bit distracted.”

  I wasn’t going to take her bait— she knew she looked amazing. The color of the sundress, burnt orange, made me instantly suspicious. “You talked to Kate about this, didn’t you?”

  Emma batted her long eyelashes at me. Beneath, her green eyes were mischievous. “No. What makes you say that? Afraid I’ll snitch on you?”

  “I’m just shocked you know the school’s color. Have you ever been to a football game before?” I asked, certain that the answer was no.

  “Me? No.” She looked unsurprised by my selection. “We’re going to one today though, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we sure are.” I looked down at her with as much of a frown as I could muster when her tits were so prominently on display. “And we’re staying for the entire thing. If you’d like to back out, this is your chance. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear any whining out of you.”

  She rolled her eyes at me as we walked down the stairs. “Oh please. Taking me to a football game is the worst you could come up with? I was worried it was going to be hillbilly hand fishing or something.”

  I made a mental note to look up ‘hillbilly hand fishing’ as I had no idea what that was. I was born in a sprawling suburb of Dallas. Plano was not exactly the backwoods. “We’re aiming for normal, not Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

  She was obviously fighting back a smile. “Glad to hear it, but normal is relative,” she said eventually.

  “I’m no math genius or anything, but I remember from middle school that a bell curve has a big hump in the middle. Given the number of people who like football, I’m pretty sure that I fall closer to the center of that hump than you.”

  “I’m no math genius either, but I do know that a normal distribution of preferences would all depend on the sampling,” she replied condescendingly. “I’m willing to bet you’ve got a bad case of post-hoc alteration of data inclusion based on arbitrary or subjective reasons.”

  Huh? Her face indicated that she’d just delivered a knockout punch in our argument. Clearly there was only one reply. “I know you are but what am I?”

  “You don’t know what that means, huh?”

  I bit back a laugh. “Obviously it means you accidentally ate a thesaurus for breakfast.” My curiosity quickly got the best of me. “Ok, what does it mean?”

  “It means your friends probably suck too.”

  Damn. That was a legitimately sick burn. And I walked right into it, too.

  “You’re being awfully mean today.”

  “Turnabout is fair play,” she told me.

  Any guilt I felt for talking her into this faded as we walked. A woman this stubborn couldn’t be forced into doing anything. Perhaps she was as genuinely curious about me as I was about her. Or maybe she really hated me and was just going along with my plan to make today miserable for both of us.

  11

  Ward

  If there is one thing I could get all soppy and poetic over, it would be the joy of going to a football game. Seeing it all through someone else’s fresh eyes should have been even better. Unfortunately, Emma did not approach this experience with the childlike glee and an open mind. Her mind went straight to the gutter.

  “So, tell me the truth Ward, what is it with the players slapping each other on the butt all the time?” Emma asked as we followed the herd of people into the stadium.

  I looked down at her in disbelief, and a couple of heads turned our way, hiding smiles. “That’s seriously your first question? Butt slapping?”

  She returned my gaze with obvious amusement. “Yes, it is. Are you dodging it?”

  Yeah Ward. Are you dodging the question like a pussy?

  “No.” I shook my head at her defensively. “It’s just a really silly question.”

  Grow up Emma.

  “Inquiring minds want to know. I’ve always been super curious about this. Come on. Tell me. Why slap one another on the butt? It’s really weird!” She did look honestly interested.

  Thinking up an answer that didn’t sound stupid or weirdly sexual was a bit harder than I thought it would be, but it came to me after a moment. “It’s a playful, harmless way to cheer somebody on. It has nothing to do with anything but the game.” Emma looked totally fascinated, so I continued. “There are actually unspoken rules, too. Time and place are obviously limited to the actual game. No staring, no squeezing, no lingering. Never bring the slapping to the lockers or the showers. Unless the two dudes are both into that, I suppose.”

  “It’s about camaraderie,” a random guy in the crowd added.

  “Yeah, it’s just, like, a team building thing,” his buddy agreed.

  Emma looked at me, then at the men who’d chimed in, and then back at me. “But why the butt? Why not the shoulder? Or the arm.”

  “Why not the butt? If everyone is cool with it, why is that weird? You’re the one making it weird,” I said, shrugging. “It’s just another body part if you think about it.” The differences between a friendly butt slap and Carl grabbing Emma’s ass in the bar were huge.

  She blinked. “I guess you have a point. There doesn’t have to be anything weird about it.”

  “I’m not saying it can’t be weird. It for sure can get weird. Very quickly. Obviously if some guy was just going around butt slapping all the time, or doing it inappropriately, that would become a big problem.”

  “So, it’s just like cheering then? You don’t cheer constantly right? It’s only at, you know, the appointed intervals.”

  The ridiculous idea of a giant sign illuminating above the field after a touchdown that said ‘the appropriate cheering interval has commenced’ flashed thr
ough me.

  Emma looked happy with herself for figuring it out, and I didn’t want to ruin it. “Yeah, just like that,” I replied.

  “Wait, you have tickets, right?” she asked as we approached the ticket taker.

  I dragged them out of my pocket and looked at her with disappointment. “I may not eat a thesaurus each day for breakfast, but I’m not a complete idiot.”

  Emma looked at me seriously. “Ward, I don’t think you’re an idiot.” Oddly, I actually believed her, at least in the moment. Still, I handed the tickets over without comment and led her silently toward the elevators. Maybe Emma didn’t think I was an idiot, but she definitely didn’t think I was on her level. About anything.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, gesturing behind us. “Aren’t the seats out there?”

  “We’ve got box seats,” I explained. “There are a few benefits to being the former quarterback. One of them is access to the best seats in the house.”

  Before we could make to the elevator, Emma drew us both to a stop in front of a huge mural that happened to have me in it. “This is getting weird,” she said, pulling out her phone to snap a picture. Another picture to her left caught her interest. I was in that one too. “Really weird.”

  I looked at the mural uncomfortably. Whoever painted it made me look sort-of puffy and unusually pink. My head was also attached to my body at a strange angle. “Yeah, it’s definitely weird to walk past giant pictures of yourself,” I admitted. I touched Emma’s elbow to get her moving again toward our seats, and for once, she didn’t jump or scowl. She just followed behind me as we entered the more exclusive area of the stadium. She stared around herself with wide eyes, taking it all in.

  “Ok, so are you going to explain the rules to me?” Emma asked eventually. “I really don’t know a thing about football other than the thing about the butt slapping.”

  “Of course,” I replied, shaking my head at her strange fixation. “But first, beer and food. The refreshments are an important part of the football experience.”

  Emma bit her lip and turned pink. “I don’t like beer, wine, or soda. Or fried food most of the time. Also, I’m a pescatarian.”

  Was that like a Pentecostal combined with a Lutheran or something? I hadn’t figured Emma for the religious type, and I didn’t know what kind of dietary rules that might bring. I knew she drank liquor. “And I’m a Methodist,” I replied carefully. “Do you have a lot of food rules in your church?”

  Emma eyes went wide, and she giggled at me. “No. I—” she giggled some more, and I frowned, feeling like I was missing something. “It means the only animals I eat are fish… no mammals or birds or anything. I’m an almost-vegetarian.”

  Why didn’t she just say that? I raised my eyebrows. Somehow, I was not surprised that Emma would be a fussy eater. It could have been a lot worse though. She could have been a vegan. Or she could have been one of those girls that only ate tossed salads and raw juice. I went out with a girl like that once. Once.

  “That’s fine,” I told Emma confidently, “we can still find stuff you can eat. They have practically everything here.”

  It took some hunting around the food options in the club area, but we eventually settled on beer and chicken wings for me and a mixed drink and cheese pizza for Emma. She nibbled on a slice of her pizza as we settled into our seats.

  “This isn’t too bad so far,” she admitted, looking around at the plush seats. “What happens now?”

  What was she expecting? Strippers and monster trucks?

  “Now we watch football. Actually, we eat, drink, talk, and watch football. What exactly did you think would happen at a football game?”

  “I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I guess I thought it would be dirtier or louder. I thought it would involve more testosterone-laden nonsense.”

  I’d be more than happy to show you something loud, dirty, testosterone-laden later tonight. I pushed the thought away. Focus, Ward.

  “That’s all coming. It is going to get quite a bit louder,” I warned her. “There will be cheering. And singing. And maybe also screaming and swearing depending on how the game goes. But it’s fun.”

  “You’re going to sing?” She looked more excited about this than she should about the prospect of me singing.

  “We’re both going to sing,” I corrected.

  She shook her head. “No way. I don’t sing. You don’t want to hear me sing.” She seemed sure about this.

  “It’s not American Idol,” I told her. “I won’t judge you, even if you’re totally tone deaf. Trust me, I don’t sing well either. It’s really more like cheering anyway.”

  She still looked skeptical but took another deep drink of her vodka tonic as if she needed it to work up her courage for her upcoming solo. “When in Rome,” she replied after swallowing it down. She made the little hand signal that University of Texas students used to represent the school mascot, a longhorn steer, and grinned. “Go team go!”

  “That’s the spirit. Now you’re catching on.”

  * * *

  “…and that means the game is officially now half over. It’s called ‘half time’. Now they’re going to take a short break to rest and figure out the strategy for the second half,” I told Emma, sitting back in my chair as she watched curiously while the players departed the field and the marching band got ready to do their thing.

  I was breathless from explaining every play to her in as much detail as I possibly could. The people seated within earshot probably hated us both, but I didn’t care. Emma had questions about everything. It was a bit exhausting, but also quite cute that she was so eager to figure out what was going on and learn all the little details.

  “Do you want to go grab another drink?” I asked. She nodded.

  “I actually don’t mind this,” she said as we made our way back to the bar, shocking me speechless. “I certainly didn’t think that I would, but this watching football thing is sort-of fun.”

  Given the type of reaction I’d been preparing for, a lukewarm response was far beyond my expectations for this afternoon. I found myself smiling.

  “I’m glad you aren’t having too terrible of a time,” I said. My voice might have been dry, but I meant it. I didn’t want to make Emma completely miserable, even if I’d told myself that was the initial plan. At my sarcastic tone, Emma looked at me and turned pink. She looked more than a bit embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry Ward. I didn’t mean—” she started to say, only to be interrupted.

  “Ward!” A familiar voice called—yelled actually—from behind us. We both twisted around to see the speaker rapidly approaching us.

  “Cole?” I asked in surprise. “I’ll be goddamned.”

  “Hey man,” he said, hugging me hello and reminding me that in the world of football I was actually on the smaller side. “I thought I might find you here!”

  Cole, my former teammate and old friend, had the life I might have had if my body and shitty luck hadn’t ended my career prematurely. He was currently playing for the Packers.

  “What are you doing in Austin?” I asked. “And why didn’t you call?”

  Cole shrugged. “I’m just in town today. I had an early meeting and then I figured I’d catch the game.” He looked at Emma curiously. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend or do I need to do it myself?”

  Emma was watching our exchange with interest and seemed to be asking me the same question with her big green eyes. Suddenly, I found myself not wanting to share her with Cole, but to not introducing them would be plain rude.

  “Of course,” I replied as smoothly as I could. “Emma, this is Cole Rylander. He and I played for the longhorns at the same time. Cole, this is Emma Greene.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Emma,” Cole said, shaking her hand. He looked at me for further explanation of our relationship, but I really had no idea how to define Emma and me at that moment. We weren’t quite friends, we weren’t just coworkers, and we weren’t on a date. We
also weren’t enemies, at least not exactly. So, I just smiled possessively down at her and he nodded slightly in acknowledgment, a barely there widening of his eyes indicating my good taste.

  “Likewise,” Emma was replying, oblivious to our subtle bro code. She was smiling her customer service smile and I wondered if she’d ever heard of Cole before (he was fairly famous). I felt surprisingly proud that not only had I figured out when her smiles were real and when they weren’t, but that Cole didn’t earn a real one. But I did. In fact, I’d received a number of real smiles today.

  “This is Emma’s first football game ever,” I told Cole. He gasped in mock horror and grabbed at his heart dramatically like he was having a heart attack.

  “Tell me you’re kidding,” he pleaded.

  Emma giggled as I shook my head solemnly.

  “I know, I know,” Emma said in an exaggerated tone. “It’s heresy.”

  “Well if you’re going to get your football cherry popped,” he remarked dryly, “I suppose you could do worse than Ward.”

  Emma’s jaw dropped open at his crudeness. She turned bright pink. I couldn’t stop my laugh. After a second, Emma shook her head and laughed too. Cole didn’t mean to be gross, it was just his personality. She was really trying not to be uptight.

  “Gee thanks,” I said to Cole, raising my eyebrows at his poor word choice. “You’re such a true friend to talk me up in front of a lady like that.”

  “Hey now, I’m an excellent wingman,” Cole argued. He looked like he was about to bring up his past assistance, probably the story from freshman year about that exchange student from Sweden again, but thought better of it. “Although, if you piss me off I could tell her stories from when we lived together that would probably make her run for the hills.”

  “You two were roommates?” Emma asked, now looking doubly interested. I nodded warily. I knew Cole wouldn’t say anything too terrible, but he seemed to have a broken social filter. He might screw me over entirely by accident.