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I remember another man, another time when the person I was interested in didn’t care that I was sweaty, that my hair was a mess, and?—
His lips come closer.
And…I’m stuck in my memories, in this moment of split reality—Stefan stepping close, his hands in my hair; Trey turning as he shifts beside me, his palm cupping my jaw. The arena in the background, the sounds of my teammates in my ears. The quiet of the late afternoon, wind swooshing through the trees. Cool rink air clinging to my cheeks. Fading sunshine gilding my skin.
Right and wrong.
Strange and not.
Stefan. Trey.
Trey. Stefan.
Soft lips touch mine?—
Right and wrong.
No.
Wrong.
It’s wrong.
“No,” I whisper, breaking the kiss, pushing lightly at Trey’s—yes, it’s Trey’s—chest. Not Stefan’s. Not?—
“You taste so good,” Trey groans, hand tightening in my hair, body coming closer, rolling over mine, pressing me into the rock face.
“No,” I say again, my gut churning, bile rising up to burn the back of my throat. I push at his chest more intently, another time of being restrained, of not being able to move, of a man deciding what he’s doing with my body pushes into my mind and I struggle to shove it out enough to focus on the present, on this moment. “Stop. This isn’t what I want, Trey?—”
“Fuck,” he rasps. “The way you say my name.” He groans again, louder this time, his hand tightening in my hair, more of his weight coming over me…pressing right into my side.
Pain shoots up my torso, and I cry out.
Which seems to make Trey even more earnest—as though he doesn’t understand the difference between pain and excitement…
Or maybe that he doesn’t care.
More bile. More churning. More pain.
“Stop,” I say, ripping my mouth from his when his lips seek mine out a second time. “Trey, stop?—”
“You want it, baby,” he croons, sliding his leg between mine, knee coming up.
Fucking. Men.
But before I can react to that—and use some of the self-defense skills Mia (a kickass karate teacher who’s married to a teammate and also teaches women how to protect themselves) taught me—I hear a growl.
A fraction of a second later, the weight on top of me disappears.
I blink, shove my elbows beneath me, and freeze. “What the?—?”
Only, I don’t finish the question.
Because I’m too busy gaping at the sight in front of me.
Stefan is standing there, all of five feet away from me, wearing jeans and a tee, a sweatshirt tied around his waist, and…
He’s gripping the front of Trey’s shirt, looking a heartbeat away from planting his fist into Trey’s face.
