Rate a Date by Monica Murphy Page 0,27
work. You mentioned fitness, but that’s kind of a vague answer.” Her determined gaze meets mine, and I’m mesmerized for a hot second as her face fills the screen. Her blonde hair tumbles past her shoulders in pretty waves. Her skin is clear, downright glowing, and her cheeks have this peachy tint to them. And her lips…her lips have that same peachy color, but deeper.
I’m starting to sweat.
“Yeah, I deal with—athletes.” That’s not a lie.
“Okay.” She nods, her brows lowering. She has really great eyebrows. They’re darker than her hair color and they have this perfect arch to them—I’ve never noticed a woman’s brows before, but staring at Eleanor’s right now, I can’t help but appreciate them. “So you’re like what? A trainer?”
“Sure.” I nod enthusiastically. That’s one way to put it. “Yes. I train athletes.”
“Are you like a teacher or something? A gym coach?”
“Not quite,” I hedge. The more I lie, the deeper in the hole I’m gonna get.
“Oh, I know! You train professional athletes, don’t you?” She’s the one nodding enthusiastically now. “That’s why you don’t want to reveal too much, am I right? You’re trying to protect your clients?”
“Um, sort of?” This is getting complicated, when it doesn’t need to be. And I feel like a complete shit for not telling her the truth.
But my entire plan in meeting Eleanor is to see if she can fall for me without the trappings of being a professional football player. No matter how much I want to confess and get it off my chest, telling her the truth could fuck everything up.
“Which sport?” she asks.
A big, ragged sigh escapes me and I hang my head for a moment, closing my eyes. Eleanor has gone quiet and I can practically feel her worry and confusion radiating toward me through the phone screen. “I have a little confession,” I say softly.
“What is it? Oh my God, are you all right?”
Lifting my head, I meet her gaze. See all the concern swirling in her blue eyes, and in that moment, I silently freak out. I can’t tell her. Not yet. I don’t know her that well. And I can’t tell her over FaceTime. This is something major, something you should share when you’re in the same room together.
I can tell her later. For now, I’ll keep my secret. If we make it, if we turn into an actual, real relationship, I’ll come clean. And she’ll understand.
I know she will.
“I’ve signed an NDA.” She’s still frowning, so I explain. “A non-disclosure agreement. I can’t talk about my clients.”
“Ohhh.” She nods, all the concern vanishing from her eyes. “I get it. You’re protecting their identity.”
“It’s more that they protect themselves so I can’t go blab to a tabloid or TMZ or whatever,” I explain. I know guys on the team who have employees sign NDAs, and I guess I can’t blame them.
I’ve always felt like I have no secrets to hide. Everything I am is out there on the internet. It’ll take just a couple of clicks to find it all. And honestly, I’m pretty low key. I don’t go around cheating on girlfriends or getting women pregnant. I don’t do drugs or drink too much, or get into fights. I like women. I like to party. I like to spend money.
Is that against the law?
No.
“Can I admit something to you?”
I blink Eleanor back into focus. “Sure.”
“I was talking about you to my friends today at lunch, and they were thinking that maybe you’re a…” Her voice drifts and she covers her mouth with her fingers, stifling a giggle.
“They think I’m a what?” I ask.
She’s still giggling. Actually, it’s turned into full-blown laughter now. “They thought you were a probably a stripper.”
I can’t help but start laughing as well. “I would be the worst stripper ever.”
Her laughter dies and a sexy glow lights up her eyes. “You look like you have the body for it.”
Well damn. There goes my dick again, twitching like crazy. “I can’t dance.”
“It doesn’t take much dancing skill,” she teases. “You know how to roll your hips?”
I could sure as hell show you how I roll my hips—as I’m driving my cock deep inside your body.
No way can I say that to her. I’m not that much of a dick. Instead I just smile mysteriously and stroke my chin like I see all those fuckboy assholes do on that damn Tik Tok. Yes, I have a Tik Tok account, don’t judge me.
“I might know how to do that,” I tell