This is exactly why I need a gate, or a fucking moat… with crocodiles.
I lean against the porch post with my arms crossed. “You’re on my property.”
“Hi!” she chirps, perky as hell. “Zach. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Yeah, I bet. I can practically see the hashtags in her eyes. #QBcrush #WifeyMaterial #JustHappenedToBeInTheNeighborhood
I don’t move. Don’t smile. Just let the silence do the heavy lifting.
“You’re on my porch,” I repeat, slower this time, in case she’s hard of hearing or high on delusion.
She sucks in a breath, trying to collect herself. Her gaze flicks down my body shamelessly. I could be shirtless or wearing a trash bag and it wouldn’t matter; she’s already imagining the fantasy version of me she thinks she deserves.
“Right! Sorry,” she says with a nervous laugh, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. “I just… didn’t want to seem creepy by leaving this without saying hi first.”
Too late.
I glance at the ball, regretting ever signing that first ball left on my porch.
“I should’ve known you wouldn’t be home yet,” she continues, twirling the ball in her hands. “Your coaching session only ended an hour ago. You’ve got to shower, change, and probably do stuff on campus before you come back here.”
“You know my schedule?”
She throws me a bemused smile. “Notyourschedule, but I know the team schedule.”
“Okay.”
Stalker alert: Level Orange.
Her eyes flick down my body in a way that makes my stomach turn, not because I haven’t seen it before, but because I can already tell what she wants. Unlike the South Point girls who looked at me as a way to piss off their daddies, this one wantsbragging rights. Clout. A damn bite of the NFL, like I’m some endorsement deal she can fuck her way into.
She slowly turns the ball in her hand, edging toward me, and I instinctively step back.
“I was just hoping you'd sign this for me.” She lifts it, offering me a pleasant smile.
“Sure.” I reach for the football, assuming that the faster I sign this, the quicker she'll leave. “Have you got a pen?”
“Oh, yeah!” she says, perky enough to trigger a migraine. She arches, literally arches, to reach into her back pocket, her breasts doing the absolute most. The Sharpie she pulls out might as well be soaked in desperation.
I sign it fast, then toss the pen and ball back before she can lean in any closer.
She stares at the signature, brushing her thumb over it like she’s imagining it tattooed on her ass. “Your handwriting is so… manly,” she giggles. “Do you sign all your balls like this?”
Nope. Not reacting. The only person who gets to say vaguely sexual things about my balls is Honey. Preferably while she’s kneeling on the floor, massaging said balls. Either way, any hope of getting rid of her quickly flew out the window with her comment because she’s now watching me, expecting me to answer her.
I point to the door. “Is there anything else you need? I’ve got to go inside and call my coach.”
It’s a lie, but I’ll say anything to get her out of here.
Her smile falters. Did she think I was going to invite her inside?
She catches herself quickly and plasters on a wide smile again. “No problem. I know you're a busy guy, but before I go, I did also just want to give you something.”
Here it comes. The Hail Mary pass.
She slides a card out of her pocket and holds it out. Her fingers are manicured in nude gloss, and her hand shakes just enough to be noticeable.
I don’t want to take it, but I do. Out of habit. Out of fucking politeness, which I really need to work on killing.