to stare at the entrance. He’d selected this place because it was dimly lit and intimate, a speakeasy tucked inside an unassuming restaurant. He’d chosen a booth in the corner. It was still early enough that not many people were drinking at the bar. He and Rhiannon could talk here.
If she showed up. He checked his watch again. She could easily vanish on him, he told himself, trying to manage his expectations.
Samson internally grimaced at the memory of her expression when he’d said he’d be interested in something personal developing between them again. That Night, when he’d asked to see her again, she hadn’t looked that conflicted. Her agreement had been hesitant, but it had come. He truly hated that she’d taken a chance on him, on doing something she didn’t normally do, and he’d let her down.
His mother had been a gentle soul, and she’d been the one he’d gone to for dating advice, from the time he was old enough to understand why he felt some kind of way about a girl. Especially once he hit his late teens and his father’s personality had undergone a drastic reversal.
He remembered one epic lecture when he’d come home and told Lulu his ninth-grade crush had reacted in what he thought was an unreasonable way to something he’d said and started crying. First Lulu had dissected exactly all the way his words had been harmful, and then really lit into him.
Every time you hurt someone, you break off a little piece of them. Not only do they have to live with that broken piece, then the next person who comes along has to figure out a way to spackle that spot. Your behavior has ripple effects.
He owed Rhi for the piece he’d broken off her. This campaign might possibly make up for some of that. It would help her and Crush, which she seemed to love above all else.
Yes, he wanted her. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he wasn’t going to pressure her for anything more than a business relationship. If she decided that she couldn’t stand being around him without them both getting naked, well . . .
He snorted to himself. Fat chance of that happening, but it was a nice fantasy. His phone vibrated, and he pulled it out, frowning at the unfamiliar New York City area code on the screen. He had it set to Do Not Disturb for unknown callers, so it had gone straight to voice mail.
It wasn’t particularly loud in the bar, but his hearing wasn’t the best—another souvenir of his former profession—so he pressed one finger in one ear to hear the message. “Hey, Samson. This is Trevor. Trevor Sanders? I’m sorry to cold-call you like this, but I saw that you were back in the public eye and I was hoping to speak with you about this exciting new organization I’m starting. I’m going to be in L.A. soon and would love to sit down with you and talk. Or you can text me. Whatever works for you. Looking forward to hearing from you.”
His phone creaked under his tight grip and he eased up. This fucking asshole. Trevor. Trevor Sanders?
Like he wouldn’t know who Trevor was. Former star quarterback of the Brewers. Blond haired, handsome, that stupid Colgate smile. The most expensive caps money could buy.
He sent a group text to Dean and Harris. Did one of you give my number to Trevor?
The denials were instant.
Nope.
Nah, man.
He rubbed his finger over his lips. Okay, thanks. He called me. I have nothing to say to him. Don’t give him any info about me, and tell anyone else the same thing.
The bubble popped up under Harris’s name. I didn’t give him your number, but I have talked to him recently. He didn’t give me all the details, but I guess he’s setting up some kind of nonprofit to help retired players.
Dean’s reply came before Samson could finish his text. Don’t care what he’s doing, he’s a dick for what he’s done. S, next time he calls, forward it to me.
Harris answered. Oh yeah. Not saying he’s not a dick for the past.
Warmth ran through Samson. He didn’t need protection, but it was nice to feel the brotherly camaraderie from men he’d known for forever.
Samson tapped back his reply. I’ll be fine. Let’s meet up for lunch soon.
“Is this seat taken?”
He jerked, his phone slipping away from him. “You’re quite the butterfingers, aren’t you?” Rhi remarked and bent over to scoop his phone up