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I can’t decipher the emotion behind it. A good fuck? A panicked fuck? A what-the fuck?
Without much coherent thought, I turn my head back and search out his lips for another kiss. I don’t think there’ll be any more after this night, so I might as well take what he’s offering, because this is a one-time deal.
I don’t know what’s going on with him.
I doubt he knows either.
But for this moment? This brief, fleeting moment of insanity? He’s mine. The demanding lips on my lips are mine. The skin underneath my fingertips is mine. The sharp gasps are mine.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
Exhilaratingly mine.
And then, like all brief moments of insanity, it ends.
Possibly even more abruptly than it began.
He tears his mouth away. His eyes are huge and wild, moving from my eyes to my lips, then back. His palm lands against the door next to my head. His fingers curl into a fist, and he thumps it against the dark, cool metal surface.
I watch him silently push himself off me. Away from me.
Watch him silently as he walks out the door.
Away from me.
RYKER
“James! Get your fucking head out of your ass!”
You know you’ve hit another level of sucking when you manage to make the whole coaching staff swear. Which I now have. Coach Taylor was the last holdout, but I can now proudly scratch his name off the list. Pro tip: if nothing else works, sucking ass in practice for four days straight will do it.
I suck in practice.
I suck in class.
I suck at the gym during lifts.
Talk about a trifecta.
I blow out a slow breath through my teeth and stretch my neck from side to side. I’m sweaty, tired, and tense as fuck. Every muscle in my body aches from being so tightly wound, and there’s no real possibility I’ll be able to relax anytime soon.
Tomorrow is game day.
And, as already established, I’m having a bit of difficulty acting like I’ve ever played anything in my life.
My head isn’t in the game. Not even close. I left that thing somewhere in Lake’s hallway. I mean, I must’ve, right? Because that’s where my thoughts keep me. Trapped and locked up against his front door.
Not really ideal circumstances for being all mellow and finding my inner peace and shit.
A piercing whistle cuts through the air. The sound is shrill and echoes back from all directions. I close my eyes for a moment.
“Line up,” Coach calls. “Blue line. Random passes.”
The stick in my hand feels just as foreign as it’s felt for the past week. Like I’m holding it for the first time. Like I’m not sure what to do with it or how to handle it.
