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Been a while.
“Thanks, Red.” Her hands are still fisted from when they were in his shirt, so he looks down, gives a little shrug, and busts knuckles before turning back to me, grin wide and welcoming as he comes over. He rubs my arm. Squeezes my hand and then holds on a bit longer.
And the way he’s looking at me. It’s so Ben. So over the top with so much intensity and affection and… restraint.
That’s when I get it. He’s holding himself back.
“Ben?”
He lifts a brow.
“Anyone know we’re together?”
The other brow jumps up with the first, and he takes a quick look around. “Nah. They know we’re friends. Been careful.” He looks down at where he’s still playing with my fingertips, winces, and drops them. “Pretty careful.”
This time it’s my brow lifting. “Bad for your image?”
“You kidding?” He coughs out a laugh. “Bad for yours. But for the record, you don’t even know how bad I want to kiss you right now.”
“That so?” I ask, waiting for his eyes to meet mine, that weird and wonderful connection to lock into place. And when I have it, I reach up and hook a finger into the top of his pads and pull him down into a kiss.
I can feel his spreading smile pressed against mine, holding.
And then we’re breathing together, brows touching.
“Elliot, you are one reckless, wild woman.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just yours and you’re mine… and I kind of want everyone to know it.”
There’s music coming from the locker room. That old Black Eyed Peas song.
“Noted.”
Slowly, Ben starts moving his head to the beat. Whispering, “I gotta feeling…” as one massive arm bands beneath my ass, taking me off my feet, up and against him as he throws his fist in the air and starts pumping it to the beat as I laugh, clinging to his shoulders while he dances us around.
He’s mine. For now, at least. And so I kiss him back and enjoy the ride.
* * *
Ben
I love a really close game. Going head-to-head with an opponent for the entire period and then whipping out the winning shot in the final seconds. Nothing beats that shit.
But there’s a cost… The press wants to talk.
They don’t care that Lara and I had a serious moment out there in the corridor, or that I’m aching to get home to her. Like now. Because there’s still more that needs to be said.
Nope. They just want the sound bites. The face time. So before I head back to my girl, I do the rounds that are a part of my job. I do it well, making it look like it’s my favorite part of the job. And I do it for as long as the PR guys decide I need to… because I love my job… even the parts that aren’t actually my favorite.
When I’m done, the guys want me to hit the Five Hole. Celebrate and burn off some of that adrenaline.
Static shoulders into me on the way to the lot. “Bring your girl.”
Yeah, yeah. I’ll be hearing about this for a while. But not tonight.
“Next time.” And then I’m heading home. Texting Lara that I’m on my way. Mentally telling myself to slow the fuck down. A few more minutes isn’t going to make or break anything.
It just feels like it might.
