Better than Perfect (28 page)

“You smell like a guy,” I mumble into the crook of his neck.

“You don't,” he says back. “You smell like flowers.”

“I think it's the soap your grandmother had in the shower. It was pink, with little pieces of flowers in it. It was like bathing in a bouquet of roses.”

I don't know how he manages to carry me up the entire staircase without stumbling or stalling, but he does it. Is he aware that everyone is pointing at us? If he is, he obviously doesn't care.

We reach the huge master bedroom, and he nudges open the door with his foot. The place is huge, with a sitting room next to the bedroom and a bathroom beyond that. Expensive paintings are scattered on the walls and the carpeting looks plush, like you can sink your toes into it. Derek sets me down in the bathroom and rummages through his grandmother's medicine cabinet.

“Stop scratchin',” he orders, taking my hand and holding it at my side.

“I can't help it. I swear that's the last time I eat a cookie.”

“You should have gone for the fruit.” He finds the Benadryl box and hands me two pills. “Here, take these.” After I down the
pills with water from the sink, Derek crosses his arms on his chest. “If your condition doesn't improve within a half hour, I'm takin' you to the hospital.”

“I'll be fine.”

“That's what you said the night we hooked up, and look at where we are now.”

I glance at the walls. “We're in your grandmother's bathroom.”

“I'm not being literal. Stop scratchin', Ashtyn. You're makin' marks all over your body.”

I try my hardest to ignore the itching sensation, but that's like trying to ignore the boy standing in front of me—practically impossible.

My breath hitches when he takes my hands and holds them behind my back. “Stop! You'll make yourself bleed.”

He's keeping a small distance between us, but why? Did all his feelings for me fade once he dropped me off at Elite? I need to fight to get those feelings to the surface, to remind him how amazing it was when we were in the tent.

My thoughts are all confused, and the itching doesn't help matters. I'm supposed to be mad at Derek for lying to me about his football experience and at the same time I'm determined to make him fall for me in an attempt to make him play football again. My real feelings are pushed aside right now, because if I acknowledge them, it'll break me apart inside.

I know Derek likes me, but just how much? He's desperate to keep his distance and doesn't want to admit that we had
something more than just a casual hookup—something that I know can grow to be more than that.

I squirm in his grasp. “I'm still itchy.”

He glances down at my neck and chest. “Be patient and let the Benadryl work,” he says.

“I'm not a patient person.” I moan in frustration.

“I know.” He releases my hands. “Here, let me help. You've already done enough damage . . . there's scratch marks all over your neck. People are gonna think someone assaulted you.”

“The only thing to alleviate an itch is to scratch it.”

“Yeah, and the only thing to make your skin more irritated is to rake it with your damn nails. If you promise to stay still, I'll help you.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Keep your hands to your side and trust me.”

Trust. There's that ugly word again. “Seriously, my skin itches. You wouldn't understand because you're not having an allergic reaction to purple frosting.”

“Shh. You talk too much. Close your eyes.”

“No.”

“You're stubborn.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn't meant to be a compliment.”

I stare him down, but then as the itching gets worse I give in and wait patiently for his remedy.

I suck in a breath when he traces my neck in slow, rhythmic circles with the tips of his fingers, making my skin tingle instead
of itch. I throw my head back and keep my eyes closed, giving him full access. “You remind me of a cat right now,” he says in a low voice.

He traces my jawline, the outline of my neck, my chest . . . dipping lightly inside the top of my cleavage peeking out of the dress before venturing back up again. His fingers are like a caress and I'm getting light-headed and dizzy, so I reach out and grab on to him.

The sensual touch of his fingers is sending little jolts of electricity through my veins.

“Mmm . . .,” I moan.

His fingers linger over my shoulders before repeating the process all over again. “You're enjoyin' this too much, Sugar Pie.”

“That's right, so keep doing it, Cowboy.”

His laugh is deep and hearty, just like him. “Yes, ma'am,” he says in a heavy southern accent. After a while I can feel the soft sensation of his fingers being replaced by his soft, warm lips. His breath soothes my skin as the itching subsides.

My insides turn into liquid fire as I pull him closer.

“What are you two doing?” his grandmother's voice booms from the doorway.

I whip my head up and lose my balance, but Derek catches me solidly in his arms. How are we going to explain this one? It's not like the woman is blind. I had my eyes closed, but his grandmother didn't. There's no escaping the fact that Derek's lips were on my neck and I was urging him closer.

“I was helpin' her,” Derek explains.

“Uh-huh,” his grandmother replies unconvincingly. She narrows her eyes as she holds out her finger. She wags it at both of us. “I wasn't born yesterday. I know there's some hanky-panky goin' on between you two. Come now, Derek. A bunch of guests are fixin' to leave. You're the guest of honor and need to say your good-byes. You can finish
helping
Ashtyn later.”

Derek checks the blotches on my arms and chest to make sure they're fading. “You want to join me downstairs or stay up here?”

The itching subsides some. I look in the mirror and cringe. My skin is still all blotchy. This night isn't how I imagined it going down. I was ready to play dirty, but I didn't imagine it would be like this. “Maybe I should just go back to the dorm.”

“No.” Derek shakes his head. “You'll stay here tonight. I'll drive you back to Elite in the mornin'. Okay?”

I walk to my designated room while Derek and his grandmother spend the next hour saying good-bye to the guests. My hockey jersey and shorts have been cleaned and are lying on my bed. I hang up the dress, then put on my jersey and slip under the down comforter. I feel like I'm sleeping on a marshmallow mattress, it's so soft. It cocoons me as I sink into it and turn on the TV.

Derek's grandmother is the first one to knock. She walks in the room looking elegant and totally put-together even after hosting a party with at least seventy-five to a hundred people. Not a hair is out of place.

I must look like a mess. “Thank you for letting me borrow the dress. It's beautiful.”

“Don't thank me. It's yours to keep.”

“I couldn't.”

“Yes, you can and yes, you will. Don't argue with an old, stubborn lady like me. You won't win.” She leans over me to check my neck. “How's the itching?”

“I think it's all better,” I tell her.

Satisfied that I'm not still having a reaction to the purple cookie frosting, she sits in a chair next to the bed. She puts her hands in her lap and looks at me with those Derek-lookalike eyes. “So . . . I know something is going on between you and my grandson. Care to tell me what it is?”

I turn off the TV and give her my full attention. “Umm . . . I'm not sure, actually. Maybe you should ask Derek.”

“I did.”

“What did he say?”

“My grandson is not cooperative when it comes to sharing details about his life, bless his heart.”

“That's because you'll use it against me,” Derek chimes in as he appears in the room. His suit is gone and is replaced with sweatpants and a T-shirt, looking more like the Derek I know.

He walks to the foot of the bed and gestures to my neck. “How you doin'?”

I lift my head up to show him my chest. “Better. It's gone except for a few scratch marks.”

“Good.”

It's too easy to get lost in the way he looks at me, those eyes that say so much more than any words can.

“I need to go check on the staff and make sure all the food is packed up,” his grandmother says, getting up from the chair and walking out of the room. “Leave this door open.”

When his grandmother leaves us alone, Derek lifts the covers and says, “Scootch over so I can sit next to you.”

“Your grandmother said you need—”

“I know what she said. Move over.”

I do. It feels good to have him here with me now, but even though physically we're close, mentally we're worlds apart.

I turn the TV on again and try to lighten the mood. “I need a TV in my room back home. This is awesome.”

We don't say anything else for a long time. Some movie is playing, but I'm not paying attention to it because I'm too aware of Derek sitting next to me.

“I didn't hook up with that girl you saw me with tonight,” he says. “She wanted me to take her upstairs and ditch the party, but I didn't.”

“Why?”

For a long time he doesn't answer. But then he takes the remote and presses the mute button. He rakes a hand through his hair, and I hold my breath for his response. He turns to me, those piercing eyes of his capturing mine, and he says, “Because of you.”

The number-one rule in football is to not let your opponent know what your game plan is. I just revealed mine.

Just because I can't stop thinking about the girl doesn't mean I'm the guy who's gonna make everything right in her life. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“Everybody I care about hurts me,” she says. “I've become used to it.”

“I didn't intend to join the list.”

“Because you don't want to care about anyone who might actually have real feelings for you?” She gives me a small, vulnerable smile.

“Listen, shit happened in my past that I just can't let go of . . . not yet, at least.”

“I've been through shit, too, Derek. Most of my life is spent trying to wade through it.” She holds her hands up in frustration. “I'm fighting all the time for
everything
and I don't see you
fighting for
anything
. It's like you want to keep punishing yourself for some unknown reason.”

“You're right.” This independent girl, who plays football and has a thicker skin than most guys I know, makes me want to share stuff with her that I've never shared with anyone else. I take a deep breath and let out what I've been holding inside for so long. “The day my mom died I got a call after school from one of the nurses at the hospital. She said my mom had been askin' for me all day.” I throw my head back and wince, because the memory still fucking hurts. I'd do anything to turn back time and do that day over again. “I went to practice first, Ashtyn. I put football before my mom . . . I put it before everythin' else. When I finally got to the hospital, she was already gone.”

Two days later I stood there watching as they lowered my mom's casket into the ground. I failed her. Her death was so permanent, so final. I'd never get a second chance to make it up to her. “I vowed I'd never play again after she died.”

“It's not your fault she died, Derek.” Ashtyn places her hand on my arm, her long feminine fingers warm and comforting. I wish she'd been standing next to me at the gravesite so I wouldn't have felt so alone that day. Instead, I figured if I stopped caring about anything and everyone, I'd eventually stop feeling anything at all. It worked.

Until I met Ashtyn Parker.

“It'll be okay,” she says. “One day.” She slips farther under the covers and lays her head on one of the oversize pillows, facing me. She reaches out and grabs my hand.

“You're tired. Want me to leave?”

“No.” She's still got a grip on my hand. As her eyes close and she drifts off, she doesn't let go of my hand.

“Just so you know,” she mumbles as she drifts off to sleep. “I did really crappy at football camp this week. Landon convinced the guys to sabotage me, but your words stuck in my head.”

“What words?”

“You can do it.”

I'm sitting on the bleachers watching Ashtyn do drills in the combine and play during the Friday scrimmage. She has no clue I'm here and I'm trying to stay invisible so none of the guys recognize me—I'm wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap while sitting behind a bunch of parents and scouts.

She's stretching on the sidelines, completely focused. In the first quarter of the game, Ashtyn missed two field goals. I watched the ball holders closely. They tilted the ball when she approached so she'd kick it at an awkward angle. More than a couple of parents in the bleachers laughed at her, and others complained that this is why a girl doesn't belong playing football.

The more the guys sabotage her, the more I have the urge to run on the field and replace the holder so Ashtyn can show everyone watching that she deserves to be here. But she wouldn't want that. She wants to fight her own battles.

I lean forward on my elbows as I watch the game. The guys are working hard, every one of them trying to get noticed by the scouts in the stands. McKnight is the quarterback on Ashtyn's
team. He's a solid player and I can see why Ashtyn would want him on her team. But he's got an ego and taunts the opposing players when his team scores instead of focusing on the next play.

“Derek! Derek!” a woman's shrieking voice echoes loudly from the sidelines.

Oh, no. Please, no.

My grandmother is causing a huge scene, holding a bright purple sun umbrella and waving her hand like crazy to get my attention. She's wearing a big purple pantsuit that matches the umbrella. At first I ignore her, hoping she'll go away when I don't respond. Fat chance of that. She's got the attention of everyone in the stands and on the field.