Silence stretches between us. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine starts.
“Carter,” she says softly. “Why did you want to see me?”
“Because I couldn’t not see you.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “Because I just played one of the best games of my career, and the only thing I could think about was whether you were watching. Whether you were proud of me. Whether—” I stop, dragging a hand through my still-damp hair. “I know we’re supposed to be careful. I know this is complicated. But I needed to see you. Just for a minute.”
Her expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across her face. “I was watching.”
“And?”
“And you were incredible.” She takes a step closer. Then another. “You were confident and smart and… God, Carter, watching you out there, it was like watching someone in their element. Like you were born to do this.”
“I was.”
“I know.” Her voice drops. “And knowing that your time doing it is running out, that every game could be one step closer to the end… it made me realize something.”
My heart hammers. “What?”
She closes the remaining distance between us, and suddenly we’re inches apart. Her perfume, something light and clean, fills my senses.
“That life’s too short to play it safe all the time.”
And then she kisses me.
It’s not tentative. Not careful. It’s months of tension and days of restraint and three separate almost-kisses finally breaking free.
Her hands slide up to my neck. Mine find her waist, pulling her closer. She tastes like mint and coffee and something sweeter I can’t name. The kiss deepens, her body pressingagainst mine, and I forget where we are. Forget every reason this is a bad idea.
All I know is her.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against mine, eyes closed.
“That was—” I start.
“A mistake,” she finishes, but she doesn’t pull away.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I should mean that.” She opens her eyes, and they’re bright with unshed tears. “Carter, this is everything I said we shouldn’t do.”
“I know.”
“If anyone sees—”
“I know.”
“Your career, my job—”
“Olivia.” I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. “I. Don’t. Care.”
“You should.”
“But I don’t.” My thumb brushes her cheek. “I don’t care about the risks. I don’t care about what people will say. I don’t care about anything except this. You. Us.”
“There is no us,” she whispers, but even as she says it, her hands tighten in my shirt.
“Isn’t there?”
She closes her eyes again, and a single tear slips free. I catch it with my thumb.
