Most Irresistible Guy

He bats his eyes. “Think you can fit me in?”

“It just so happens I had a cancellation, so I can give you a quickie.”

A laugh bursts from his mouth. “A quickie? Hell yeah.”

I swat his arm as I realize my faux pas. “A quickie cut.”

“Other quickies are fine with me, too,” he says, a little flirty, a little dirty.

“Get over to the sinks,” I say, trying my best to make light of the comment, so he won’t notice the fierce blush radiating over my cheeks.

Quickie.

What was my brain thinking, letting that word spill out?

He parks himself in a chair at a sink, and I partake of one of my favorite things—shampooing his hair. He shuts his eyes and sighs contentedly as I scrub in the shampoo, lathering it up.

I take my time, making sure I don’t miss a single strand, running my fingers through those lush locks, massaging his scalp.

I rinse his hair, my hands running through his hair one more time to get all the suds out.

Another soft sigh falls from his lips, and it makes my heart flutter.

If he were mine, I’d do this every few weeks, and then we’d kiss, and he’d bring me close, and we’d slink away for a little while.

I squeeze the brakes on the fantasy, shut off the water, and run a towel over his head. We head to my booth, and he sits in the black leather chair, where I cut his hair.

I have free rein to look at him, to study him, to touch the soft strands.

As I snip his locks, I pepper him with questions about how the news came down.

He tells me he heard from his agent, and tomorrow is his first press conference.

I rest my hand on his shoulder and meet his gaze in the mirror. “And you’re going to look so handsome.”

A grin crosses his lips. “Thank you.”

I run my hands over his hair, enjoying this opportunity to touch him more than I should.

Maybe that makes me a pervert. It’s only hair, really. But it’s great hair. I relish the chance to make him look his finest, to take care of him in this small way I can.

I move closer, trimming the ends. His gaze drifts up in the mirror, his brown eyes locking with mine.

He says nothing. He simply stares at my reflection. I could be wrong, I could be reading something into nothing, but I swear there’s heat in his eyes, maybe a little flicker of desire.

It makes my breath catch. My heart speeds up. My pulse hammers.

It’s the same look I saw at the wedding. It’s the look I see when our bodies move closer when we seem to connect in unexpected ways.

I stop snipping for a few seconds, trying to get my bearings. I want to know what’s going on in his head.

But soon enough, it’s time for him to go. As he leaves, I’m hit with the realization that I need to find a way to let go of this lifelong crush once and for all. I need to focus solely on the friendship, because that’s the only thing that lasts.

6

The start of the season

* * *

“Excuse me.”

A burly, bearded Renegades fan tucks himself into his seat and lets us pass by his knees.

“Thank you so much,” I say to him.

He nods and shouts, “Go Renegades!”

I pump a fist, and Holly and Trent behind me do the same thing.

The pre-game excitement hum is in the air, coursing throughout the stadium. The three of us make our way down the row and find our seats on the fifty-yard line next to Cooper’s mom and her boyfriend, Dan. Cooper’s mom gives me a big hug. She waves a foam finger and hollers, “Number Sixteen!”

A vendor tromps down the concrete steps, offering beer and pretzels. Another one from the next section over shouts out that he has sushi and wine.

That’s San Francisco for you, and our beautiful new stadium has a little bit of everything, including gorgeous September weather.

No jackets required today.

I opt for a pretzel and Holly grabs beers for my brother and her.

Trent raises his cup. “Here’s to pulling out a W.”

I tap my pretzel against my brother’s beer cup. “I’ll nosh to that.”

Cooper’s mom joins in the toast with her blue foam finger. “Go Coop! You can do it.”

The game hasn’t even begun, and we’re all a little overly enthusiastic today.

“Last week was only jitters,” she adds, as she should know. She knows her son as well as anyone, and she’s attended nearly every single game he’s ever played.

“It was absolutely only jitters,” I say, smoothing a hand over my Number Sixteen jersey. “He’ll be great today. He’s a star.”

The announcer’s voice booms throughout the stadium, like he’s using two hundred megaphones and each word has ten syllables. “Welcome to the Renegades stadium for the first home game of the year.”