Blind Side: A Fake Dating Sports Romance: Chapter 8

“Can you focus?”

“Oh, trust me, I’m focusing,” Clay said Friday night, licking the pad of his thumb as he swiped another page of one of my books.

I huffed, crossing my bedroom to swipe the book out of his hands and put it back on the shelf. I made sure it was in its right place before I held up the two dress options again.

“Which one?”

“That’s what I want to know. Which one is Cheyanne going to choose?” He shook his head, thrusting a hand toward the bookshelf. “I mean, her husband who loves her and made vows, or her first love who’s back in town and can’t live without her?”

“Her husband is a cheating asshole and a narcissist, and Roland is God’s gift to the Earth. So, spoiler alert, she runs off with him.”

“Scandalous,” Clay said, quirking a brow at the shelf.

I snapped my fingers. “

.”

I held up the hangers in each hand, and Clay folded one arm across his barrel of a chest, balancing the opposite elbow on his wrist as he smoothed a hand over his jaw in consideration.

After I’d called him the other night, we’d decided this was the best time for our first lesson. The season opener was tomorrow afternoon, which meant Coach gave the team the evening off to rest and get ready.

Of course, only about the team would actually rest. The remaining half would be out partying and hoping like hell they weren’t too hungover to play at their best tomorrow.

I imagined Clay would be in that latter group, had he not been saddled with me. But this was all his idea in the first place, and I reminded myself of that as I waited for him to tell me what the hell to wear.

“Neither one of them feels like you,” he said after a long pause.

I sighed, the hangers dropping to my sides, dresses on the floor. “Of course not. I bought them today with that exact intention.”

“Why?” Clay shook his head, taking the hangers out of my hands and crossing to my closet. He stuck the dresses in haphazardly and then started filtering through my clothes.

“Excuse me,” I said, slipping between him and my twenty skirts before I pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him back. “A little privacy, please?”

“You asked for my help.”

“Just… sit,” I said, pointing to my bed as I turned back around. I hung my hands on my hips, not happy with anything staring back at me — at least, not for There were no fashion guidebooks on “Wear something you like,” Clay said from behind me, kicking his sneakers off and lounging back on my bed like it was home.

It was unfair how enticing he looked in just black joggers and a gray NBU t-shirt that he’d ripped the arms off. But that rip had his bulging biceps and shoulder muscles on display, as well as his lats underneath, and my gaze lingered there for a moment too long before I brought my eyes to a more decent location. Of course, that decent location was his face, which was freshly shaven, his slightly damp boyish hair curling a bit around the flat-billed cap he wore.

Here I was stressing about what to wear, and meanwhile, Clay was practically in pajamas, yet looked ridiculously sexy and ready to take home three supermodels with one smirk and wink combination.

He started thumbing through his phone, oblivious to me checking him out. “You don’t want to be uncomfortable. It’ll show.”

“But what if everything that’s comfortable to me is boring?”

He stopped texting, arching a brow at me. “Trust me, you wear is boring.”

I gave him a flat look. “You know what I mean. You’ve seen the girls who salivate over him at the foot of the stage.” I sighed, looking back at my closet. “I don’t have anything like .”

“You don’t need anything like that.” Clay snapped his fingers. “Oh! Wear the kitten skirt. My favorite. Makes your ass look—”

“Don’t finish that,” I warned. “And I can’t. I was wearing that last time he saw me.”

Clay blinked when I stared at him like that was an obvious issue.

I groaned, waving my hand at him and turning back to the closet. “Just… be quiet so I can focus. And stay away from my books.”

“Your porn? Sure thing.”

I rolled my eyes, but didn’t grace him with a response as I paged through my blouse options. I paused when I came to a simple, white, short-sleeved button up, plucking it out and laying it over the back of my desk chair before I started swiping through again.

“Did I tell you Maliyah texted me?”

I whipped around. “Already?”

Clay’s smirk was that of the Cheshire Cat as he nodded. “Right after lunch on Chart Day.”

“Wow,” I mused, turning back to my closet. “That didn’t take long.”

“All she said was .”

“What did you say back?”

“Nothing.”

I whipped around again, holding a black skirt with little white hearts stitched all over it in one hand. “What do you mean, ?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t answer.”

“Why on Earth not?”

“Because that’s what she wanted. If I would have answered, she would have known I’m not over her, and that whether or not you and I are together, she still has power over me.” He held up his finger. “But by answering her, I showed her I’m not bothered in the least by her being here, that I’ve moved on.”

I blinked. “Okay…”

But as I turned back to find the right shoes, I found myself shaking my head and wondering if all these games would ever make sense to me.

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing,” Clay said. “You’ll see after tonight. That is, if you ever pick an outfit.”

I was sifting through my drawer of socks and stockings, and I turned long enough to peg him with a bundled-up pair that made him chuckle.

“Be right back,” I said, disappearing into my bathroom.

Ten minutes later, I came back out to find Clay propped against my headboard reading one of my motorcycle club romances.

“Am I going to have to put these under lock and key?” I plucked the book from his hands, holding it out of reach as he protested.

“With dirty scenes like ? Yeah. Probably.” He waggled his brows. “I saw you put a highlighter tab on the soft choking part…”

My neck burned hotter than it had in my whole life as my eyes nearly popped out of my skull. Without thinking better of it, I reared that book in my hand back and promptly threw it at Clay, who dodged it only by a hair.

“Hey, no shame!” He laughed. “Just info I want to tuck away for later,” he added, tapping his temple.

In a miraculous feat of strength, I sucked in a long breath before smoothly letting it go, holding out my arms. “How do I look?”

Clay swung his legs off the end of the bed and pulled on his sneakers as his eyes made a slow descent from where I’d put a simple black headband over the crown of my curls, to where I’d zipped up the four-inch chunky black boots around my ankles. The white blouse paired with the black skirt perfectly, the hearts a sweet touch, and I’d even been as bold as to tie the ends of the button up just under my chest to show a little midriff as opposed to tucking it in.

I did, however, grab my cream cardigan and throw it over the whole ensemble.

Clay’s eyes lingered on the black knee-high stockings I’d grabbed in a last-minute decision, making me self-conscious enough that I bent my knees together.

Finally, he let out a low whistle, rising to his feet. “This is going to be fun.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I get the feeling I should be scared?”

But he only laughed, nodding toward the door. “Come on. We don’t want to be late for your boyfriend’s big show.”

“So, what exactly is the plan here?” I asked Clay as he held the thick metal door open for me, every ounce of light instantly being snuffed out once we dipped inside the bar. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and note the smiling hostess illuminated only by two small candles.

“Just follow my lead.”

“But what ex—”

I couldn’t get the question out before Clay was leaning his elbows on the hostess stand, offering the slim brunette beauty behind it his signature smirk.

“Good evening,” he said. “Table for two, please. Booth, actually,” he clarified, and winked back at me.

I just stared at him dumbfounded. What difference did it make?

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re booked solid tonight,” the girl said, twirling a strand of hair between her long, onyx fingernails.

Clay sucked his teeth, glancing at me just as my shoulders slumped. But then, he grinned again, tapping on the wood of the stand. “Good thing I have a reservation.”

She lit up then. “Oh! Wonderful. What’s the name?”

“Johnson.”

The woman slid her finger down a list, and then smiled broadly, gathering up two menus. “Right this way.”

I had to admit I was shocked, so much so that Clay had to hold his arm out for mine to lure me from where I’d been rooted in place by the door. He curbed a grin as we followed the hostess through the dimly lit bar, one vastly different from the casual place on campus where Shawn usually played. This one was known for fancy cocktails that cost more than a full four-course dinner should.

Still, I marveled at the bizarre chandeliers and busy, yet not tacky, floral wallpaper as we wound our way through the tables. And we were deposited in a back corner booth.

Right near the stage.

My stomach flipped at the sight of Shawn’s guitar case, of the long, charcoal gray bandana that hung off the mic. It was his signature, one I’d never seen him play without, and it held my attention as Clay slid into one side of the small booth and I took the other.

“Your mixologist will be right over,” the hostess assured us, and her eyes lingered on Clay for longer than necessary — long enough that I cocked a brow like I was his actual girlfriend. She coughed when she saw me, gave a brief smile and exited stage right.

My face softened once she was gone, only to turn and find Clay watching me with an arched brow of amusement.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, picking up the menu. “You just play your part well.”

I picked mine up, too. “She might as well have left her number on a napkin.”

“Coaster.”

I blinked, but Clay just smiled, holding up a thin white coaster with the bar name between his fingers. I saw without having to inspect closer that she, in fact, sprawled her name and number on it.

I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t worry, Kitten,” Clay said, scooting closer and putting his arm around the back of the booth and thus around me, too. “I’m all yours.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes again, mostly because our waitress came over. I ordered a grapefruit mocktail, because unlike Clay, didn’t have a fake I.D., and I wouldn’t be twenty-one for another year and a half. Clay picked a whiskey drink that was so strong, I took a sip once it was delivered and felt like I was breathing fire.

“I’m impressed you made a reservation,” I said.

“I didn’t.”

I frowned. “But, you just—”

“With a last name like Johnson, I took my shot.”

“What if the Mr. Johnson shows up?”

He shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

I gaped at him. “Clay!”

“Alright, so,” he said, turning in the booth to face me. I was tucked into the far back corner of it, a perfect view of the stage. “First thing’s first. Shawn’s going to come out and play his opening song, and then you’re going to go up there and drop a twenty in his tip jar.”

“A ?!”

“Money talks, sweetheart,” he said. “It’ll get his attention. And in a dark bar like this, you need to grab him somehow. Most of the other girls will try to do it with their eyes, sucking on the cherries in their drinks while they wait for his gaze to land on them. We’re taking a more direct tactic.”

I snorted. “Okay. And then?”

Clay leaned back, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee before taking a long pull of his whiskey. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“Is that the phrase of the evening?” I asked flatly.

Before I could lure more information out of him, Shawn took the stage. And unlike the coffee bar at NBU where he would have had a round of applause from all the groupies that followed him around campus, he received only a courtesy glance up from where customers were conversing here. Most of them went right back to talking, not bothering to listen to his intro — though there were a few tables of girls right up by the stage who leaned in eagerly.

One of them popped a cherry in her mouth, her lush lips rolling over the swell of it until she plucked it free from the stem.

Clay gave me a look, and I shoved him under the table.

“Good evening. I’m Shawn Stetson, and I’m going to play a little music for you tonight.” He smiled, running a hand back through his long hair as he settled on the barstool and propped one boot underneath him on the lower rung of it. I’d seen him do it a hundred times before, and yet I still found myself sighing, smiling, and leaning my chin into my hand as I dreamily watched him pull his guitar strap overhead.

Clay’s brows bent together, gaze drifting from me to Shawn and back again before he shook his head.

“If there’s anything you’d like to hear, I’m taking requests. But for now, let’s start with a little Harry Styles.”

Butterflies flitted in my stomach as the first chords of “Cherry” smoothed over the crowd, and I found myself singing along, feet bopping under the table. I traced the stubble on Shawn’s chin, wandered over the silver of his lip piercing, and fell into his trance as he crooned the sad, somehow seductive song.

A flash of a scene from hit me out of nowhere, and my heart jumped with the memory, with the fantasy all of this could potentially unlock.

When the song was nearly over, Clay covertly slid a twenty-dollar bill flat on the table toward me, and I swallowed, staring at it like it was a bomb, instead.

“Come on. Lesson number one — make him notice you.”

He all but shoved me out of the booth then, and I caught my balance just as Shawn finished playing. Again, where I was used to a full-on cheer after he ended a song on campus, here there were just a few tables that clapped before it was silent again, save for conversation that went on regardless of him playing.

I held my chin up, moving with as much feminine swagger as I could muster as I weaved in between the two tables separating our booth from the stage. Of course, my was about as strong as my will to resist a good Hallmark movie, and so I tripped over a tablecloth and stumbled on my way up. I righted myself, though.

Just in time for him to look up.

My knees wobbled when Shawn’s golden eyes flared at the sight of me, faint recognition at first, and then pleasant surprise as I dropped the twenty into his tip jar.

“Thank you,” he said into the mic, and I watched curiosity dance in his eyes before he added, “Any request?”

For a split second, panic zipped through me.

But somehow, I held it together, and surprised even myself as I offered a slight shrug of one shoulder and said, “Play one of your favorites.”

Shawn’s eyebrows rose a little higher at that, an appreciative smile on his lips as I turned and walked slowly, slowly, back to the booth.

I managed to get there without tripping this time.

Shawn was still watching me when I sat down, something…

in his eyes. He started strumming out the first notes of his next song, and he was still watching me.

It felt like someone had cranked the heat up the longer he watched me, and I realized in that moment why it felt so intense.

Because he didn’t just look at me and then look away. He didn’t wink at me as his gaze swept over the rest of the crowd.

He me.

I was still high on that thought when I felt a touch that stole my breath.

Under the table, a warm palm splayed the length of my thigh so fast I sucked in a sharp inhale at the contact. I jerked my head toward Clay, who met me with low, lazy eyes and a cocky curl of his lips that lit me on fire almost as much as his hand slipping a few more inches up did.

“Clay,” I whispered, though I’d on it being a scold. It was more breathy and questioning than anything else.

He descended on me, one arm behind me along the back of the booth, and the other still on my thigh as he did. I instinctively backed away until his hand left my leg and reached up to cup my face and hold me still.

One touch.

One small, simple touch, but I burned beneath it.

My lips parted, Clay pressing in on me, his scent like teakwood and spice as he ran the pad of his thumb along my jaw. His thumb trailed up then, smoothing over my lower lip and dragging down the center of it. I tasted him, salt and whiskey, and then my lip popped free and he tilted my chin just like he had in the cafeteria.

“Good Kitten,” he purred, and then his lips were on me.

Not on my lips, but on my chin, along my jaw, crawling slowly down the length of my neck as my eyes rolled back and I arched to give him better access. His lips were warm and soft, delicately pressing against my skin as his hand slowly slid down the length of my ribs and under the table once more. He rested that palm possessively on my knee, fingertips wrapping full around it and tickling the inside of my thigh.

I was intoxicated by the heady rush until he pulled back, and when I lifted my head, our noses met in the middle. My eyelids were heavy, breath shallow and slow.

For a moment, Clay seemed to forget what he was doing, his green eyes flicking between mine as his grip on my knee tightened. But then he swallowed, leaning his forehead against mine.

“Look at him,” he whispered against my lips, and then he kissed a gentle trail along my jaw until he could nip at my earlobe with his teeth.

It was embarrassing, the little mewl that ripped from me when he did, my eyes closing automatically as I gasped and leaned into the touch. But I peeled them open in the next instant, and just like Clay said, I dragged my gaze toward the stage.

And found Shawn Stetson staring right back at me.

He was singing a song, one I didn’t know or couldn’t identify with Clay still nibbling on my earlobe and neck as his fingertips drew circles on my knee. My heart raced like a leopard, sleek leaps and bounds across the jungle of my relinquishing inhibition as I succumbed to how it felt to have a man touch me like that.

And have a man watching.

There was something dark in Shawn’s eyes as he did, his brows bent so fiercely the line between them formed a shadow. It was an effort to keep my eyes open and watching him in return with how hot my cheeks were, how my body trembled, how my nipples peaked and ached beneath my blouse.

“No matter what do,” Clay whispered in the shell of my ear. “Keep your eyes on .”

The song ended and another began, and I learned that was another of Clay’s attributes. He never tired of touching me, teasing me, kissing along every bit of exposed skin he could find. He even slid my blouse down off my shoulder, sucking and biting at the skin there while I watched him before he did a subtle nod for me to turn my gaze back to the stage.

I didn’t know how long had passed before, suddenly, he stopped.

A gasp expelled from my chest when he did, and I lurched forward, toward the new, cold and empty space he left between us with the act.

“I’m going to go grab a drink,” he said.

“What? We have a waitress. She’ll be right—”

Clay stood, giving me a look before he mouthed, .

I frowned, not understanding, not really properly after however many songs of having his hands and mouth on me like that. But he just turned and walked away just as Shawn finished the last of his song, and I righted myself, fixing my glasses and hair and smoothing a hand over my blouse and skirt.

“I’m going to take a little break and then I’ll be back to play for you beautiful people all night long. Don’t forget to leave your requests,” Shawn said, and then he propped his guitar on the stand, running his hands back through his hair. He clicked a few buttons on the controller next to him, making a soft song fill the speakers.

The next breath, his eyes were on me.

I blanched as he hopped off the stage, smiling at a few girls at one of the tables close to him as he passed. One of them reached out to hook his arm. He laughed at something she said, and all I could make out was that he promised he’d be right back.

Then, he was headed straight for me.

“Oh God,” I murmured, sitting up straighter and praying to whatever goddess was listening that I didn’t look half as much of a hot mess as I felt. I didn’t have time to check my appearance or fix a damn thing before he was standing right there in front of me, a shy smirk on his face and both hands in his pockets.

“Hi,” he said.

I blinked. “Hi.”

He watched me, his eyes floating over my blouse a brief moment before they lifted again. He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Thanks again for that tip. It was very generous.”

I smiled, somehow holding in the snort-laugh that threatened to bubble over. “Well, I love listening to you play.”

“You come to the bar on campus, don’t you?” He tucked his hand back in his pocket. “I’ve seen you there.”

“You have?”

I wanted to smack myself for not keeping the incredulousness of that statement inside, but it only made his smile quirk up more.

“How could I miss you?”

My brows shot up at that, and for what I was sure wouldn’t be the last time around this man, I was speechless.

“I don’t remember seeing you with Clay Johnson, though,” he assessed carefully, coolly. “Is he your…”

It was endearing, how the words died on his lips, and he looked like he might be thinking better than to ask before I replied, “Boyfriend?”

Shawn grinned down at the floor before meeting my gaze again. “God, that was a cheap line, wasn’t it?”

“Well, he’s a lucky guy,” he said, and again I found my eyebrows hanging out somewhere near my hairline.

Shawn looked like he wanted to say something else, but he just grabbed the back of his neck before pointing back toward the stage.

“Alright, well, I should probably get some water and make the rounds before this next set. But I’m really glad you came tonight…”

He paused, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

“Giana.”

“Giana,” he repeated, smiling around the syllables of my name. “See you around soon, I hope?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before he gave me a knowing wink, turned on his heels, and made his way through the crowd, stopping at the table of girls he promised to visit. He was laughing with them again, but his eyes flicked to me, and he held my gaze until Clay plopped down in the booth next to me with a fresh drink that he didn’t really need, since most of his first one was still there.

For a long moment, I just sat there, stunned, staring at the sleek marble table as Clay took a long sip of his drink and sat back, casually crossing ankle over knee and tossing his arm around the back of the booth as he waited for me to say something.

I slowly lifted my gaze to his. “What the hell just happened?”

Clay chuckled. “I told you.”

“He walked right over to me. He said he recognized me from campus. He… I think he was with me.”

Clay cocked a brow, lifting his whiskey toward me with a knowing smirk like he wasn’t the least bit surprised.

I gaped at him, then at Shawn — who was getting settled on stage again — before I shook my head and found a way to zip my lips together. I smacked a hand on the table, grabbing my mocktail and sucking half of it down in one gulp. I slammed it on the table with more force than I intended, turning to face Clay head on.

“I need more lessons.

”

An amused laugh was my only reply.