That secret?
Oh, just that I have the unhealthiest crush on the men’s team captain, one hunky Irish ginger named Conor. With me as the captain of the women’s team. Yeah, yeah, cliché. I get that. It’s just painful. And downright pitiful. Sometimes I’m sick of myself, because I’ve had it bad for him ever since the women’s team was formed. He walks onto our practice field in those short Irish shorts, thigh muscles bunching and flexing during the drills, and I swear to God my back straightens, my heart beats in a giddy rhythm, and I’m super aware of where he is at all times. And so I’m acutely conscious of where his attention is not directed.
I’m the tough jock captain of the women’s team in all her unfeminine glory, with grass stains on my knees instead of the latest fashionable stain on pouty lips. Which doesn’t do it for him. Which is fine. Sort of. But I refuse to change to appeal to him, so if it’s just lusting after him from afar, then so be it.
Ages later, the Lyft driver drops me at Departures. With no bag to check, I head straight to security, and after getting the pat-down, I hustle to the people mover. Alternating between watching the minutes tick by on my phone and the sign indicators on the mover, the doors finally swish open onto C Terminal, and I jog through the crowd to the Up escalators. All but one is packed, so I dash to the one where people are standing along the side. My flight’s boarding, and despite being in great shape, my calves are burning as I power up the moving steps. Also, the exhibition games yesterday did a number on my ankles, and there might possibly be a blister forming on the ball of my foot. Dammit.
I ignore my body’s complaints, and when I get to the top of the escalator, of course the airport is following the rules by having anyone in a hurry assigned to the last gate. I swerve and dodge, my rolling suitcase bobbing and weaving with me on its little wheels. I’m the only one running, and navigating through the crowd—anticipating their trajectories and adjusting my path—is kinda like how it is on a long run down the field when you’ve got the sliotar and are aiming for the goal.
Finally, I reach the end. My gate doesn’t have a long line. In fact, no one is in line to board. Shit.
I collapse my upper body against the check-in gate’s countertop. “Have you closed off boarding?” I get out between gasps.
“No, ma’am.”
Ma’am? I’m only friggin’ twenty-six.
The overly made-up woman smiles. “Your flight’s been delayed forty-five minutes. Weather in Savannah is holding up the plane. The hurricane’s weather system is affecting a lot of flights on the Eastern Seaboard.”
“Oh good. Okay.”
Now I can catch up with myself. I’d forgotten about the hurricane, though. Which, ha-ha, is named Claire.
I limp off. Damn. I really need to tape my ankles. I stroll down the concourse, searching for a nook, corner, unused room, anything to give me the space and relative privacy to shuck off my socks and shoes.
While I don’t care what people think of me, I don’t want to be rude, and I guarantee you no one wants to see the blisters or what could possibly be a blackened toenail, courtesy of a particularly nasty play yesterday.
Up ahead is a snack vendor, and a banana nut muffin catches my eye. I get in line.
While there, I see the perfect spot for the foot inspection. Some might just use a bathroom, but I make it a point to only use a bathroom for, well, going to the bathroom. Nothing else. Not anymore anyway. It’s also why I’m getting the muffin—as a former bulimic, I’ve learned to listen to my body. When it wants something, I get it. With no judgment.
I hand over my money, nab my muffin, and scoot around the partial wall. The closest people are enough of a distance away, and in front of me is a floor-to-ceiling glass wall with a lovely view of asphalt and planes and clear blue skies.
I plop down on the carpeted floor, set my muffin to the side, zip open my carry-on, and fish around for my tape. The first couple of away games, I didn’t bring anything other than the standard travel supplies—clothes, shoes, toiletries. Now I pack a small sports first-aid kit, with tape, Bengay, and other items I, or my teammates, might need.
I yank my shoes and socks off. The nail on my big toe glares back at me, black and purple.
I find the end of the tape and pull, winding it round and round both ankles to support them better. Okay, next—blister investigation. I pull my left foot up to my face. Yep, a blister’s forming but hasn’t popped. No need for Neosporin. Which, of course, I have too. Just a Band-Aid then.
A startled noise has me looking up, my foot still right up in my face as if I’m smelling it. The one with the black toe. And my heart does a weird squeeze-drop.
Yeah, I said I didn’t care what people thought of me or what I was doing. And I don’t.
Except for him.
Because standing right there with his duffel and a computer bag slung over his shoulder is Conor.
A full body flush of embarrassment and desire washes over my skin.
Which I quickly tamp, because WTF? So what if I look like an unfeminine lump with ugly feet. One of which—dammit—I’m still holding right up in my face.
I let my foot drop with a clunk.
Conor, Conor, Conor. He was supposed to be on the earlier flight with the rest of the team.
He looks baffled for a second, rooted to the ground, staring at me and my legs sprawled out on the carpeted floor. I suppress a sigh because he’s the unattainable one. Over six feet of muscle, broad shoulders, and dark red hair against his pale skin, complete with a sprinkling of friggin’ freckles. His hair is sticking up in curly waves, and just like the first time I ever saw him, I want to run my fingers through them. His delicious red hair can’t be contained on the top of his head, though—Conor has a nice trim beard. Not one of those hipster beards—just full enough to be manly but soft, and not all mountain-man-I-can-hide-a-squirrel-in-here.
Straight nose, strong jaw. Aaaaand that nose and part of his lip just wrinkled. Yep, just caught sight of my feet. Lovely.
“What’s news?” he asks. Oh, and I mentioned he’s Irish, right? Cuz, yeah, his accent doesn’t do it for me at all.
Ugh. It totally does. Lilts right up to my lady parts and gives ’em a little tingle.
“Taping my ankles, what does it look like?” Okay. That came out more harshly than I’d have liked, but c’mon.
He puts his hands up in a whoa-Nelly move, his gaze darting to my legs and away. And back. And away—like a car wreck he knows he shouldn’t gawk at but can’t help it. He backs up. Leaving me alone with my ugly feet.
Chapter 2
Conor
“Delta flight 4815 to Sarasota has been canceled,” a feminine voice squawks over the speaker.