Blindsided (23 page)

My stomach sinks. They’re so close to being perfect. Quinn has done them fabulously, but they’re not mine. I’d tie the necktie a little tighter, lift the hem another half inch on the skirt, do up another button on the jacket.

This is it, and it hurts.

“They’re amazing,” I say softly when the camera clicks back. My phone rings and I ignore it. “Thank you. For bringing them to life.”

“You brought them to life, Leah darling. I just gave them breath.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. My phone shrills again and Mom passes it to me. Corey’s name appears on screen. “Can I have a minute?” I ask Quinn. He nods and I get up. “Hello?”

“Hey. Are you busy?”

“Er, kind of.”

“Will you be in around ten minutes?”

“Not really.”

“Good.” There’s shuffling. “I called Coach—do you wanna come watch practice today?”

“Are you serious?” I shriek a little.

“Hot football fan girl,” Corey sighs. “Yes. I told him you were my good-luck charm. I fucked everything up yesterday.”

“That’s why they call it practice.” I laugh. “I’m in my pajamas.”

“So get dressed. I’m leaving in a few minutes and I’m already running late. All right?”

“I guess. Do you still have the stupid wig?”

“Fuck the wig,” he hisses. “The guys won’t say a thing. Just put sunglasses or something on.”

I swallow. “Okay. See you in a few minutes.” Then I hang up and go back to the island. “Hey,” I say to Quinn. “Is that all you needed me for?”

“Who was that?” he asks. “And where are you running off to?”

“No one, and nowhere.”

“Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not. Oh my God!”

He grins. “That’s all I needed you for, darling. Go have fun on your date with Corey Jackson.”

I walk backward, pointing my finger at the screen. “Not. A. Date.”

“So, how’s this for a date?” Corey asks as I climb into his Range Rover.

“This isn’t a date.”

“Shit. I was hoping for brownie points.”

My lips twitch. “You get brownie points, cowboy, but it’s not a date.”

“Is it a date if I do this?” He leans forward, grabbing my neck and kissing me firmly.

“No,” I mumble against his mouth.

“Is it a date if there’s a guaranteed orgasm at the end of it?”

“No.” I sit back and look at him. “That’s extra brownie points. And I thought you were late.”

He laughs and puts his foot down. “I am. Some chick kept me up late last night.”

“Oh? Who is the poor girl?”

His eyes flit to me. “You’re hilarious, babe. Really.”

“There’s a spot of dirt on your car, by the way. Right under the hood.” I stroke the leather seat.

“How the fuck did you see it there?”

“It’s bird shit.” I smile widely.

He turns to me, his lips twisted in annoyance. “If you’re fucking with me, I’m gonna slap your ass, ‘cause I know you hate that.”

“I don’t hate it. And I’m just saying that she’s dirty.”

“Darlin’, you’re here so I can concentrate, not to piss me off.”

“Then we probably shouldn’t mention my underwear.”

His fingers flex against the steering wheel. “You’re right. Or I’ll have ideas of your pretty little ass hugged by those lace panties you like to wear.”

“I’m wearing pink today,” I say casually.

“What kind?”

“Of panties? Lace ones.”

“Shit. But no. What kind of pink.”

“That would be telling, and since you’re going to do your best to find out later, I don’t want to spoil your fun.”

“Shame. I like you in white.” He shoots me a heated look.

I grin. I’m not wearing pink at all. I’m wearing white, but he doesn’t need to know that. And hey. I did warn him that I wouldn’t make it easy for him.

“Wait. What if I don’t like pink?” he asks, parking in the Vipers’ stadium parking lot.

“Then your practice is about to get a whole lot more productive, isn’t it?” I grin, pushing my door open. “I have to admit, my ass looks way better in white than pink.”

“You’re wearing white, aren’t you?”

“No.”

He grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I can see your bra strap, and I bet you’re the kind of girl who always wears matching underwear.”

“What gives you that idea?”

He slips his arm around my waist and leans in. “Because you’ve got class, Leah Veronica, and classy girls wear matching sets.”

“Come across many of them, have you?”

“None. Until you.”

“Sweet-talker.”

“I warned you about my charm.” He winks and kisses the side of my head. “You know how to get to the field, right? I’ve gotta go get ready to practice.”

“Practice what? Throwing an interception?”

His hand connects with my ass. Sharply.

I squeak.

“Watch your mouth. I can think of several ways to silence it.”

“Hey. I’ve seen you throw enough interceptions.”

“You wanna get on the field and do a better job?”

“Nah. I don’t wanna show you up. That would be embarrassing.”

He catches me in his arms. “You’d show me up everywhere if only you’d go out in public with me. I guarantee that, when you do, everyone will look at you before they look at me.”

I mock gasp. “Oh no. How will your ego cope?”

“It knows I’m the one who’ll get to fuck you,” he murmurs, closing the distance between our lips. “Again and again. That’s all it needs to know.”

I smile against his mouth. “Are you practicing? You know making out with me won’t win you the Super Bowl, don’t you?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Reid opens the door behind us. “Corey, Coach said to get your ass on that field if you want to play any games this season.”

Corey laughs. “Because he’s gonna play Anderson over me.”

“He’s thrown less interceptions than you.” I whistle as I link arms with Reid.

He laughs and tugs me toward the field.

Corey shoots me a look. “Get your hands off my girl, North!” he yells at Reid, disappearing into the locker rooms.

“His girl, huh?” Reid looks down at me.

“It’s easier to let him think what he wants.” I shrug.

“True that. Ever been here before?”

“In the stadium? Sure. I’ve held a season ticket since I was seven. Cole’s dad used to bring us.” I look around the majestic building, at the large, green field, and the endless seats.

“Cole? Dalton?”

“Yep.”

“You know”—Corey steps between me and Reid—“Anderson spent less time on the field than I did last season.”

I roll my eyes. “I know, but look at your ratios. He has the better track record, s’all I’m saying. You need to figure your shit out, cowboy.”

“Oh, man.” Reid laughs loudly. “Coach, can we get this chick on our sideline on game days this season? She’s brilliant.” Reid cocks his thumb back to me.

“What is it with you and my interceptions?” Corey stares me down.

I shrug a shoulder. “You gotta work on it, okay? I’m bored of seeing you throw points away. Keep doing it and you’ll probably find you’ll be getting yourself off a lot over the next few months.”

“She’s hired,” a graying man I recognize as Lincoln Sparks, the L.A. Vipers’ coach, laughs. “Lincoln Sparks. And you must be Leah, the girl who drove my quarterback halfway to insanity yesterday.”

I shake his hand. “I assure you, sir, he makes me far crazier.”

“I can believe it.” He turns to Corey. “Well? Get your ass on the field, Jackson.”

I smile at Corey and he wraps an arm around my neck, pulling me into him. His lips brush my temple.

“It’s a good fuckin’ thing you’re my favorite girl in the world, Leah Veronica.” The words are whispered in my ear seconds before he runs onto the field to practice.

I can’t help the smile that curls my lips as I watch him go.

He knows what to say and when to say it. Maybe he does have some kind of charm after all. It sure as hell isn’t flawless, but it’s there. And those words are tingling through me right now.

I put my purse on the bottom row of seats and sit down. I can’t believe I’m actually watching them practice. It’s kind of surreal, something I’ve wanted to do for years. How many people can say that they’ve done this?

I watch them run through several basic plays without contact. If any of them got injured this season… It doesn’t bear thinking about. Last year, we were close—so damn close—to lifting the trophy, to being the champions. Then we watched our chance shatter right before our very eyes.

Of course, there are the backup players, but if they were that good, they wouldn’t be backup.

Lincoln moves backward and leans against the wall separating me and the field. “What are they doing wrong?”

“Excuse me?” I look at him.

“What are they doing wrong?” he repeats. “Every time Corey throws to Trent, they fuck up. You look like a girl who knows her stuff.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You know exactly what they’re doing wrong.”

“I know. I just want to see the look on Corey’s face when he gets his play instructions from a female.”

My lips curve. “I wasn’t paying that much attention, to be honest.”

“Again,” he says into his mic then turns to me. “Watch now.”

I turn my attention to the field and watch as Corey throws to Trent. Sure enough, the ball goes sailing past him and he kicks the field. Corey’s arms go in the air, and I hear a faint “What the fuck, man?” sail across to us.

“Trent isn’t turning soon enough, and he isn’t getting into enough space. It doesn’t matter how the defense lines up—he has a crap-ton of space on either side.” I shrug my shoulders. “And it wouldn’t kill Corey to keep the ball in his hand for longer than two seconds. He has legs to move.”

Lincoln smiles widely and relays that into Corey’s earpiece. He nods. “Oh, and your girlfriend said you can move your ass before you throw.” Lincoln winks at me.

“I’m not his girlfriend,” I mutter.

Corey turns, and I grin.

“Right.” His coach laughs next to me. “He said he’ll try to remember that from the girl with a fashion degree.”

I need you. Now.

I look up from Cole’s text to Corey. “Take me home. I have to go to Cole’s.”

“What?”

“Just…hang on and take me home.” I hit reply.
What’s up?

Check Google alerts. Your mom will have pinged.

Wait, what? I bring up my browser, sign into Google, and bring up the alerts. Sure as hell, there’s a whole list of them—all within the last half an hour.

“What’s she done now?” I mutter, clicking on the top link.

HACKER TARGETS HOLLYWOOD.

“What the…” I scroll down and read the article. Pictures, documents, e-mails—all exposed. All spread across the Internet, hacked from the backup cloud of people’s phones. My mom is threatened, my best friend is exposed… “Shit. Shit!”

“What is it?”