Page 215 of The Sweetest Return

My stomach tightened.

Week Eleven.

Practices. Film. Staff meetings. Road games. Late nights. Early mornings.

Dre’s thumb moved once over the back of my hand.

“I hear you,” he said.

“I’m not pressuring you.”

“You are absolutely pressuring me.”

“I am professionally encouraging a client to make a timely decision.”

“That sounds like pressure with invoicing.”

Marcus laughed. “It is. But I also know you. If you didn’t want this, you would have said no already.”

Dre looked toward the ring case.

He did not answer.

That silence told me enough.

Marcus softened. “Take the few days. But not too many. Price needs an answer before they finalize Week Eleven prep.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“All right. And Dre?”

“Yeah?”

“You were built for more than playing.”

The room went still.

Marcus hung up before Dre had to answer.

For a few seconds, neither one of us spoke.

Dre set the phone facedown on the desk and stared at it like the call had left something behind. I stood against him, feeling the tension in his body and the want he was not ready to name.

I looked around the office again at the trophies, the photographs, the ring, then back at the man.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He turned toward me fully and pulled me into him. Not playfully. Not with that easy confidence that usually made my body forget I had sense. His arms came around my waist, and his face lowered toward my neck for one breath.

Then another.

I held him.

After a while, he lifted his head.

“Coach offered me the running backs job.”

“I gathered that.”