Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance (3 page)

I stop, embarrassed. So much of being a personal assistant is knowing what sort of things a player likes, and here I am, having not even picked him up, and I'm already forgetting parts of my job! Shit!

"Ahh . . . I don't know," I finally say, turning red. "I just know he arrives in three days and that he's a quarterback. The team's asked him to skip walking at graduation, and he's coming straight from his final exams."

"Then let's do some research," Hank says amiably. He turns to his computer and clicks around with his mouse. "Let's see . . . Tyler Paulson . . . quarterback . . . oh wow, he's got great stats. Not that it helps us . . . let's see, car . . . well, maybe this helps."

Hank turns the monitor toward me, and I feel that old feeling, what was it I called it back then, chocolate and batteries? Yep, it's chocolate and batteries time again as Hank shows me a picture of Tyler from the Internet. He's got even more of a surfer boy look than when we were kids, with his hair in a total Abercrombie and Fitch lanky half-comb over thing with brownish-blond hair, but he's lost some of the tan that I remember him with. I guess college football will do that to you . . . that and remembering to wear sunscreen.

"That's him all right," I say for some damn reason. I take a closer look, and see he's leaning against the hood of a car. "What is that he's driving?"

Hank peers intently at the screen. “That's a Mustang badge just on the right of his hip there. Looks like your new boy likes sports cars."

"Mr. Larroquette would throw a fit if he found out I rented Tyler a Mustang," I reply, groaning inwardly. Not sports cars, although I guess that's not as bad as the Escalades and giant trucks some of the guys drive. "Got anything a little more sane?"

"Oh come on, they're not as bad as they used to be," Hank replies with a smirk. “You can get him the EcoBoost model… pretty small engine for a sports car. Sure it looks sexy, but it's a PUA."

"A what?" I ask, trying to keep up.

Hank laughs. "Sorry, got it from my kids. A PUA, pick up artist. All talk, no real go behind it. Come on April, you work with football players, you've got to be more up on the slang than that."

"I try," I say, blushing again. I do keep up, but I'm not all that cool, I just do my job. "Okay, well, I guess a Mustang will work then. Can you get me the calmest one?"

“No problem,” Hank says, turning his monitor back around and typing away. "I can get you one that you can pick up tomorrow if you like."

"Yes please. Oh, and can you get it in electric blue, do you have that option?"

Hank raises an eyebrow. "Electric blue? Why?"

"Blue is Tyler's favorite color," I say without thinking, my memories coming forward again.

Hank chuckles and taps at his keyboard. "Doesn't know the car the man likes . . . knows his favorite color. April, you are one funny woman. All right, I'll see what I can do."

* * *

T
he night is almost totally
black, but there's no chill to the air as the counselor lights the big bonfire that takes up the middle of the sand. We're really pushing the limits on the fire code, but it's cool with the flames nearly as tall as I am. And the food was great, and we've still got dessert to make with S'mores on deck.

"Whoa," Tyler says as the fire shoots up. "I guess Tom wasn't lying about helping it out with gasoline."

"Stupid," I comment, still feeling funny. Tyler's been really nice all day, and now at the barbecue he's been awesome. When the food came around he got me a plate and brought it over to our spot on the sand like a real gentleman, and when the other boys ran off to play football, he stayed and we talked. He told me about his life in San Diego, and how he dreams of playing professional football, and he listened as I told him about my life in Canada. In fact, he listened more than he talked, which most people don't do at all.

"Hey Tyler?"

"Hmm?" Tyler asks, the flames still dancing in his eyes.

"Earlier, why didn't you run off to play football with the other boys? You could have, you know."

Tyler turns to me, a little smile on his face, and shakes his head. "I thought this was supposed to be a date, not a football game."

Tyler looks at me strangely for a second, then leans forward, and we kiss. It's my first kiss, so it's not like I have a lot to compare it to, but I know that his lips are soft, and it's not yucky at all. Instead, it's really nice, and I can feel my heart speeding up. I want to kiss him more, but suddenly there's a call from the other side of the fire.

"Woooo-ooo-ooo! Tyler and Pokey!"

Tyler breaks our kiss and looks embarrassed. "Shut up, Gina!"

The party wraps up after we make our desserts, and afterward, we walk back through the dark to camp, flashlights bobbing as we walk through the woods. I'm not so much surprised as happy when Tyler reaches over and holds my hand again. “Sorry about those girls."

"It's okay," I whisper, but it's not, really. I've never been all that social, and I don’t like being called out like that. "You didn't mean to."

"Actually . . . I kinda did," Tyler says with a little chuckle. "I wanted to kiss you.”

"Why?"

Tyler shrugs, and before he can answer, we both trip over a root, stumbling a bit. He grabs me, and in the darkness I can feel his hand on my chest. Chocolate and batteries, chocolate and batteries . . .

Tyler realizes where his hand is and pulls back, and suddenly it’s his turn to be tongue tied. "Ah, well, ah . . . sorry."

"It's okay," I say, taking his hand again. "You weren't trying to feel me up, right?"

"Right," he says with a soft laugh. “I don’t know, I just wanted to. I've been thinking about it, that's all."

We start back on the trail, and Tyler sounds a little sad the next time he speaks. "So tomorrow's the last day."

"Yeah. You're going back to San Diego?"

Tyler nods. "I've got football practice starting next week. You're going home too, right?"

I nod. "Yeah . . . Canada's going to feel really cold after this summer. And London's not as much fun as here."

Tyler laughs, and I know why. Mixing that you're from London, Ontario instead of London, England can be worth a joke every once in a while. "Well, maybe before you leave, you can give me your address?"

"I'd like that," I say, and as we keep walking, he takes my hand again.

* * *

"
H
e never did write
," I whisper sadly to myself, three days later sitting in the baggage terminal at the airport. I shake my head, wondering why the hell I should care. It was a long time ago, and we were kids. I wasn't good at keeping up with people either then."

I check the displays, and see that I've got a few minutes until Tyler's flight is supposed to land. I double check my little soft briefcase, making sure I have all the paperwork that I'm supposed to have. Car contract? Check. Initial apartment listings? Check. Welcome packet including the emergency numbers? Check.

I wish Mr. Larroquette had given me Tyler's phone number, some of this could have been much more easily handled that way, but he didn't. Ah well, it wasn't on the paperwork either, so maybe Tyler didn't give it to the team. I make a note to get that as soon as I can as well.

"
Air Canada Flight 784 from Los Angeles now arriving,"
the PA system announces, and I put my stuff away. Tyler's going to be arriving soon.

I wonder if he remembers me?

T
he plane circles
Toronto in a holding pattern, and I'm excited. Sure, I'm missing graduation, but the Dean still gave me my diploma in a private ceremony yesterday, so I guess I can still say I did graduation. Cross that off my bucket list of things to do.

More exciting though is looking down on the city. It's beautiful, and I've spent a decent part of the past few weeks looking up Toronto.

It's high tech but without the craziness of California, I read. I can check out music, sports, and it's not that far from the US, so it's not like I'll be in the boonies either.

But best of all, at least according to the things I read, is the girls. Without all the cultural hang-ups of the US, Canadian girls are supposedly more laid back and freaky, and Toronto's the freakiest of them all.

And, I hate to put it bluntly, but I’ve grown bored of fake bottle blond California girls. I know I sound like a dumbass, and not all the girls in California are like that, but for some reason that’s what I attract. I could use a change of scenery.

If the stewardess on the Air Canada flight is any example of what I can expect, I’m going to love it. She makes eyes with me as the plane descends. "Please make sure your seatbelt is fastened, sir," she says, a little purr on her use of the word sir. "I'd hate to chastise you again."

"I doubt that," I reply in a low voice, just enough she can hear. "I bet you'd like to chastise me more."

"Maybe," she says with a naughty glint to her eye telling me that I guessed right. Not my normal scene, but I'm up for some adventures. "But my Master would have issues."

I grew up in California, and while San Diego and Los Angeles are no San Fran, I've run into this scene before. "Well, we wouldn't want that. You serve well, you should be proud."

She blushes a little, her smile growing a fraction past professional and into personal. "Thank you Sir. Now, please keep your seatbelt fastened."

The plane starts to descend, and I hate as my stomach rises into my chest with the speed. I hate this part of air travel. Goes with being a football player I guess, but I've never liked takeoffs or landings. I always feel like my guts are about two seconds behind the rest of my body in any big change of direction.

Thankfully, the flight gets down quickly and we taxi to the gate. My seat was business class, which sucks, but I guess it's better than the poor schmucks in economy. I get off the plane and go to the immigration line, where the customs officer looks over my passport. "Work visa, huh?"

"Yep."

He eyes me for a second. “Wrestler?"

I laugh and shake my head. "Sorry, that I leave to you guys. Football. For the Fighters."

The customs officer nods, and stamps my passport. "Good luck. Hope you enjoy Toronto."

"Thanks. Uh, which way to the baggage terminal?”

I'm surprised when the guy actually turns around and points instead of mumbling or just dismissing me. Maybe there is something to this reputation of Canadians being nicer than Americans. "Turn right at the end of the hall, that'll get you there. The signs are overhead."

"Thanks," I reply, tucking my passport back into my bag and heading off. Looking around, I'm feeling good. I'm a bit rushed on my schedule, I've only got two days to settle in before practice starts on Monday, but I’m excited. Friday afternoon, Saturday, and Sunday. Not a bad time to get the hang of a party town.

I turn right like the customs official told me and head downstairs to the baggage carousels. I look for my flight number on the screen, noting that they've already got bags moving according to the display, and head down to carousel fourteen. I packed light, figuring I'd pick up most of what I needed in Toronto. A little bit of clothes for going out, some personal items, and I'm good to go.

I find my two bags quickly and look around, wondering what to do next when I see a girl holding a white sign that says "T. Paulson" on it, looking my way. She's wearing a pair of slacks and a polo shirt from the Fighters, and while she's cute, the outfit does nothing for her. Her face and hair are cute, with high cheekbones and shiny black hair that makes me think she could at least be partially Indian . . . or First Nations. Someone, somewhere used to prefer that term.

"Tyler Paulson?" she asks, and I smile. She's shy, which is a shame, because she's prettier than she lets on. She just wears her shyness like a cloak, hiding behind it. "I'm April Gray . . ."

She says her name like I'm supposed to know who that is, but when I give her a blank look, she continues. "Anyway, I'm with the Fighters. I'm your personal assistant."

"Thanks, I remember Mr. Larroquette said he was going to assign someone to help me out. Tyler Paulson, but I guess you already knew that."

“Of course,” April says quietly, and I wonder how long she's been doing this — she doesn’t seem too confident in her job. Football players tend to be outgoing, and a shy pretty girl like her could get run over easily, especially by a quarterback. Thankfully, I'm not as much of an asshole as I let on. "I'll be working with you throughout the season, to help you off the field. Most of it will be during the first couple of weeks, but I’ll be here the whole season if you need me.”

"That sounds great, I can use the help. Let's get going, shall we?"

April nods and reaches for my wheeled bag, but I take the handle before she can. "It's okay, I think I can haul my own bags. I need an assistant, not a maid."

She nods again, her eyes barely coming off the floor, and we go out to the parking lot, where she hands me the keys. I barely notice, grinning at what I see. "A 'stang? How'd you know? You guys even picked out the right color. Or was that luck?"

"No, not luck," April says as I open the trunk and put my bags inside. "I asked for electric blue."

I slam the trunk closed and give April a smile. "Who told you my favorite color?"

She shrugs and goes around to the passenger seat. "I figured you'd like to drive. I can give you directions to the hotel. It's not too hard."

"Okay," I say, getting behind the wheel. They rented me an eco-engine? This thing must go zero to sixty in about five minutes. "Wow, worried I'd wrap this around a pole or something? I think my grandmother's car has a stronger engine."

"The team wants us to be as careful as possible," April says, "so the team tries to balance it with what players want. I . . . I tried."

I look over, and see that she’s actually nervous. I start up the Mustang and rev the engine once, humming. "Well, the interior's nice — I can dig it. Thank you,” I say, trying to ease her worry.

I pull out, and look over to see April giving me a strange look. "What?"

"Nothing," she says after a moment, even though I can tell there is. It's like she keeps expecting me to say something. "If you turn right, you can get over to the Gardiner Expressway that takes you downtown. I chose a hotel close to the stadium to help you out, but you’re free to change if you want.”

"Speaking of that, what do you recommend?" I ask. "I lived in the athlete's dorms at Western."

She's relaxing, maybe because I'm asking her stuff that she's obviously prepared for as she pulls another packet out of her bag. "It depends on what you are looking for. Downtown, especially around Yonge-St. Clair is nice, and close to the stadium. I'd stay away from directly around the waterfront, just because you'll want some separation from work. But if you really want to be by the water, New Toronto is nice too."

"Well, we'll talk about that later. Here's the Expressway.” I spent most of the drive looking around as we make our way toward the stadium. I see a plane descend, and I realize the island just off the coast has a couple of runways. "Hey . . . what's with the other airport?"

"They only have ferry service, and it's a city airport," April explains. "Pearson's the best option for coming into the city."

I shrug, I come from LA with enough airports to confuse anyone, and we keep going. "The stadium looks kinda small from here."

"So far, but next season it's going to expand to fifty thousand seats, which makes it equal to the old home. The team used to play at the Sky Dome, but the team moved out of there starting this year."

"Why?" I ask. April sounds surprised that I'm asking, but listening to her talk, she knows more than she lets on.

"Uh . . . well, it's just my opinion, but . . ."

“Wait," I say, stopping her. "If you're going to be my personal assistant, I don't need you to sugar coat stuff. Just give it to me straight."

She swallows and nods. "Okay. The stadium's newer, and it has a grass field. A lot of players didn't like the turf at the Sky Dome."

"I don't like turf either," I muse. "Hurts like hell to get tackled on it after a while. All right. Well, where's the hotel?"

I follow April's directions, and find that it's decent, even if it's not quite five-star. Checking in, I see she’s still looking at me strangely, and I turn to her, curious about what's going on. "Anything else?"

“No, I guess not," she says, looking at her phone. "Uhm, I went ahead and scheduled an appointment with the real estate company at nine tomorrow. I know that it's a bit early by your body clock, but, well . . . is that all right? We can meet here at eight thirty?"

I nod. "Yeah, sure. What about this evening?"

April shrugs. "Whatever you need."

I think about it for a moment, then shake my head. I need sleep, and I've got two nights still to get my feet underneath me. "No, I'll be okay. Oh, one thing though. Tomorrow, maybe after the real estate agent, can you take me to get a cellphone?"

April smiles, and again I'm struck by her familiarity. Who does she remind me of? "How about I get you one this afternoon, on my way back to my place?"

"Sure. Nothing too fancy, just a regular phone will do for now.”

"Okay, Tyler. See you tomorrow."

I go up to my room and lay out on the couch. The team rented me a suite, which is kinda nice, even if it does have that hotel room feeling. Fuck it, just for a few days. I pull out my laptop and plug it in, connecting to the room's Wi-Fi. Opening my email, I'm happy to see a message from my friend, Duncan, who sent me some photos of his wedding to Carrie. They also skipped his graduation, using the time to get married and get an early start on their honeymoon before they settle down in Jacksonville with the Wildcats.

I go through the rest of my email and send off a message to Cory Dunham, a second-hand introduction that Duncan had given to me. The man handles Troy Wood and Duncan Hart’s money, so mine should be no problem.

I close my messages and think for a minute, wondering what to do. According to the clock, it's nearing nine, but my body is still on West Coast time, which says that it's just about dinner time. I'm not really hungry yet though, and I've gotten used to skipping a meal when I change time zones, it seems to help my body adjust better.

I grab the remote and flick through the channels, noticing I have HBO on demand — might as well catch up on
Game of Thrones.
There's some bad, bad women in that show, and I just haven’t had the time to keep up.

Still, as the action heats up and the blood starts flowing, I can't get April out of my mind. Who in the hell does she remind me of, anyway?