“Twelve,” Anna said quickly. “Lucky number twelve.”
He smiled at that. A grin that totally lit up his eyes this time.
The wattage of that look…dear goodness, the wattage was something that she wanted to tuck in her clutch and remember forever.
Twelve was, of course, his player number.
Because of course it was.
Chapter 3
Drake
* * *
The fact that Anna was still into him meant something. Something he hoped he’d be able to turn into more. Now that he had his opening, he wasn’t about to step away again.
The conversation he needed to have with Medford could wait.
Despite what his fans might think, he wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. At least, that’s what his grandmother told him relentlessly when he showed up to visit her for Thanksgiving every other year. More recently, that’s what the owners of his pro football team told him when they handed him walking papers. Countless completed passes, hundreds of wins, four championship rings, and they were still pushing retirement. Early. Retirement.
That was the problem in his life. See, on the field, he knew where he was supposed to be and when. He was the best at his job and everyone in the football world knew it—until recently. Drake had an impressive accuracy that made commentators and other pros sit up and take notice.
Unfortunately, last season wasn’t his best. He’d been dealing with a rotator cuff that acted up and a hamstring that could’ve picked a better time to go to shit.
But it was one season out of a dozen. Another shot was all he needed to get back in the game, if he was going to be cliché about it.
“Thanks for this.” Anna handed over the now-sopping handkerchief.
“Sure.” He took the handkerchief, searching for a trash bin or someplace to drop the thing to be disposed of easily.
One of the waiters took pity on him and relieved him of the cloth.
Anna lifted her gaze to meet Drake’s and he took it like a hit in the gut. He’d missed her like hell since they’d had their argument. The argument that came two hours after Miami’s formal request that he retire.
He had been in a spiral, and clearly, Anna moving to Miami had not been the best option given that he wouldn’t be there.
But he’d handled her feelings like a rookie and hurt her.
That was unacceptable.
His chest went tight at the memory.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her expression earnest.
They’d dated for the past two months while he was home in Denver, after his hamstring got pissy.
“Fine.” He nodded, clearing his throat. God, he’d missed her.
He’d stopped by Anna’s flower shop in Castle Rock to buy his mom a bouquet of roses, and he and Anna had clicked immediately.
Then he had ended up stopping by her shop to buy every person he knew flowers.
They’d dated.
Then he’d gotten canned.
Now everything’s gone to shit.
“You don’t look fine,” Anna said, giving him a solid once-over.
What wasn’t there to be fine about? Well…everything, really.
“Too many people?” she asked.
Shaking his head, he said, “You’re here and you’re speaking to me, so I’d say the rest of the people don’t matter. And since I’m here and you’re here, things are better than fine. Being next to you is so far beyond fine.”
Her expression softened at his words.
Drake preferred quiet, and Anna knew that. He liked throwing around a pigskin. She knew that, too. She also understood what most of the world didn’t—Drake could live without the thousands of fans. They didn’t drive his need for success.
Fame wasn’t important to him. It was a byproduct of doing what he loved that he tolerated instead of embraced.
The game, though, was everything. It had become who he was. Without it, who was he? He’d have to figure that out. And soon. That scared the shit out of him.
“You look beautiful.” He wanted to resist the urge to touch her hand. Really touch her hand because he missed her.
He couldn’t force himself to deny the urge. His fingertips touched Anna’s for a breath of a second, and in that moment, he didn’t feel so alone anymore.
“Mr. Valsh.” An older woman with a thick Russian accent approached him. “I am looking forvard to buying you later.”
Sorry. What?
The elderly woman took a martini from a waiter and sipped. She pulled a face that was clearly not impressed and spit the mixture back into the cup in a slow stream. Carefully, she set it back on the tray.
“There is no vodka in this.” She waved a hand over the cup.
“It’s eggnog, ma’am,” the waiter said, eyebrow raised.
“Exactly.” The woman scowled. “Be a good boy and get me a proper eggnog vith vodka, yes?”
“Um. Of course.” The waiter looked like she’d asked him to bring her a narcoleptic skunk, but he headed back toward the bar area to get vodka’d eggnog.
“Now, about the auction. I look forvard to purchasing you for my favorite granddaughter.” The woman sidled closer to him.
“No, Babushka.” Anna shook her head furiously. “You and your methods are not needed here.”
“I am alvays needed.” Babushka linked her arm with Anna’s. Drake couldn’t be sure if it was because she needed Anna for support or because she didn’t want Anna to run. He had a hunch it was the latter.
“Drake, this is my babushka.” Anna made big eyes at him.
Right. The infamous Babushka.
“And you may call me Babushka, my grandson.” Babushka patted his cheeks with both of her palms.
Uh…
“Babushka.” He tested out her name.
She smiled like he’d told her that he has season passes with her name on them.
Anna had told him about her grandmother and her need to meddle in her grandchildren’s lives—especially when it came to relationships. That’s why he hadn’t met her yet. Anna had promised him it was for his own good.
He glanced at her for guidance.
“Ven the bidding begins, I vill be first and last,” Babushka assured.
Huh?
“No. You won’t.” Anna patted her grandmother’s arm.
Babushka harrumphed and said something in what must have been Russian.
Anna replied in Russian.
He tried to follow the conversation, but given that he didn’t speak Russian, he obviously failed.
“Babushka, leave Drake alone. He’s not for sale,” Anna finally said, speaking English again so he could understand.
But about the for-sale thing… Actually, according to his agent, he sort of was. Which was why he needed to catch Medford soon.
Anna looped her free arm through his and the world that had gone topsy-turvy righted itself with her touch.
Denver.
He’d stay in Denver.
Even if Jackson Medford offered him minimum wage or asked him to play strictly for charity, Drake would make it work.
Two more seasons—that’s what his agent insisted Drake had in him. Perhaps a few more if Drake could get his arm to cooperate and managed to pull out a championship in the upcoming season.