“Have you ever had a concussion before?” I ask. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve got to get to the bottom of what’s going on.
“Sure. Too many to count.”
His answer stuns me. That’s not good. Not at all. Not with all the research that’s come out about chronic traumatic encephalopathy. It’s an area of interest for me since it was first researched at Boston University, where I got my physical therapy degree. “Aren’t you worried about CTE?”
“Ehh,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, I should be, but there’s not as much out there about CTE in soccer players. The irony is I never wanted to play soccer. I wanted to play football. At least in football, you get to wear pads and helmets.”
Brandon looks at me and closes the gap between us. He takes my hands in his. “You’re freaking out. What’s going on?”
I close my eyes, unable to look at him. Swallowing hard, I raise my lids and meet his gaze. We’re as close as we were when I gave him that red card. “I think I’m having hallucinations.” The smell—his scent—is still there, calling to me. I tilt my head forward and inhale again.
It’s as if the notes of fresh air and sea, infused with mint and pine, awaken something deep within me. Very deep, mostly located at the center between my legs.
Maybe, if I hold very still, this moment will pass, my rational sense will return, and Brandon Nix will never be the wiser.
“Did you just smell me?”
Where this man is concerned, luck is never on my side.
I don’t move a muscle. “I’m gonna say no.” Even as I say it, I feel the flush creeping up my neck, warming my cheeks. My hands, still trapped in his, are beginning to sweat.
He leans in and whispers in my ear. “It sure seemed like you smelled me.”
I close my eyes again, his cheek millimeters away from mine, his mouth next to my ear. My breath is starting to come in short pants. “I was trying to see if I had a sense of smell.”
Brandon laughs, a big throaty chuckle. “You have a concussion, not COVID.”
I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him laugh like this before.
I pull back to look at his face. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, years of playing soccer in the sun etching lines. His dark eyes twinkle mischievously. I lick my lips when my gaze gets to his mouth.
“It could be COVID,” I stall.
“Do you have a fever?” Now he licks his lips.
“It certainly feels warm in here.” Sweat prickles my skin.
Brandon leans in and blows gently on the side of my neck.
Holy hell.
Did I just orgasm?
Wait—what the hell is going on here? This is Brandon Nix. I should not be thinking about him and orgasms in the same paragraph, let alone in the same sentence. Yet somehow, as his hands stroke up my arms, one landing firmly on the back of my neck, that’s all I can think about.
