We’ve been dancing around this for years. From the first day I walked into the locker room as a cocky freshman and she was a sophomore and told me to shut up and sit down so she could tape my wrists, I was done for.
From late nights in the training room when it was just the two of us, her finishing paperwork, and me pretending I needed more ice time just so I could sit and talk to her, I’ve been completely captivated by her.
We’ve always been something. Just nothing we could ever name.
Because she’s the trainer and I’m the player. A line you can’t cross. Because lines like that don’t blur. They get destroyed if you cross them.
So, we didn’t.
But we pushed, pulled, and circled around each other. And now we’re here.
I’m so close to her that I can see the freckles sprinkled on her nose, her fingers tightening around the clipboard, like she’s using it to stay grounded.
Her breath stutters when I hook a finger under her chin, forcing her head up to look me in the eye. The professional distance she’s worked so hard to maintain in public is gone. But I do see the girl who’s stayed late to help me bandage my cuts, the girl who knows my favorite Oreo flavor and shares my obsession with Marvel movies, the girl who’s been breaking my heart without even knowing it.
“We’re friends,” she says. I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince herself or me. “Best friends. If we ever cross that line and it goes south, I don’t just lose a player. I lose my person. And I don’t have a lot of those, Saint.”
“You could never lose me,” I murmur. “I’m built for standing my ground. I’ve spent three years holding the line for this team, so do you really think I’d let you go that easily?”
She huffs a laugh. “You have to. You’re the projected number two draft pick. You’ll be in a different city every week during the season.”
“Yeah, but I’ll be FaceTiming you and texting in my free time.” I lean into her. “Please don’t push me away tonight. Don’t tell me we shouldn’t.”
“Saint,” she says quickly, “this would just complicate everything.”
“Or,” I counter, “it could be the one thing we don’t regret. Don’t you think?”
I don’t give her the chance to argue with me. I gently cup her face with my hands—which, just hours ago, were shedding blocks and crushing the quarterback.
When our lips meet, it’s like a dam breaks. This isn’t a celebration kiss. This is years of tension and everything we’ve been holding back. It’s desperate and frantic, and I can taste the heartbreak we’re trying to outrun.
Presley makes a soft, broken sound in the back of her throat, but wraps her arms around my shoulders, her fingers tugging on the hair at the nape of my neck. I press her harder into the back of the lounger. The party is flowing behind us, but I don’t care. Because for a few seconds, the scouts, cameras, and her family’s expectations don’t exist. It’s just the heat of her and the crushing realization that I’ve waited too long to take my shot with her.
She kisses me like she’s angry about it. Like she hates how much she wants me. Like she’s trying to make the most of this moment before it’s too late.
My hand slides around to her neck and tangles in her hair, tipping her head back just enough for me to deepen the kiss. Slower. More deliberate. Savoring. Because I know this will never be enough.
When I pull back, our foreheads rest together, and her blue eyes are nearly black and wide.
“That,” she says breathily, “was a mistake.”
“You didn’t kiss me like it was a mistake.” I laugh lightly.
“Shut up,” she says, pushing me, but pulling me back in by fisting my shirt.
“Make me,” I taunt her, my lips brushing against hers.
“This changes things,” she breathes, voice shaky. “It’s going to make our friendship thing a little more difficult.”
“Good,” I say, a jagged smile tugging my lips. “I want it to be difficult. I don’t want you to forget me. I want you to be so annoyed by how much you miss me that you have no choice but to answer when I call.”
“You always annoy me, Saint. It’s pretty much the basis of our entire relationship.” She runs her hand down my shirt, and I can feel it trembling. “But we have to be real. Life is about to get very loud for you and very busy for me.”
“Okay, so we don’t have to make promises,” I say, an idea taking hold. I take the pen off her clipboard, clicking it with a snap, then take a blank piece of paper from under her notes. “Instead, we make a pact. A safety net, if you will, for two of the most stubborn people I know.”
“What are you doing?” she asks, looking at the paper, a smile breaking through.
“Let’s say we go our separate ways. You focus on becoming a doctor, and I’ll be in the NFL, and we can put a pause on exploring this, even though you’re seared in my brain forever.”
