“I didn’t know this is where you grew up.”
She follows my gaze. “You can see my house from the next block over,” she says, almost absentmindedly.
My eyes snap back to her and the corner of her mouth lifts.
“That wasn’t an invitation,” she adds.
“That’s disappointing.”
She laughs again, softer now, and the sound lingers between us like something meant only for this corner of the room. The bar has filled up around us, bodies pressing closer, music louder, the low thrum of conversation rising until it feels almost intimate in its anonymity.
Isabella doesn’t look away from me. Her hand rests on her thigh, then it moves.
Slowly and deliberately.
Her fingers slide along the outside of my knee first, testing. Not asking permission, exactly, but more like checking whether I’ll flinch.
My breath stutters, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a visible reaction.
“You’re bold tonight,” I say, lifting my glass.
Her thumb shifts ever so lightly and presses into my muscle.
I take a slow sip to steady myself. She leans closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice over the music, and her mouth brushes my ear when she answers.
“Seeing how far you’ll let me go.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“You’re assuming I’m letting you, Princess.”
“You are.”
Her hand moves again. Higher, not quite inappropriate but so close that my pulse kicks hard enough and I’m certain she can feel it through her palm.
The bartender sets down our second round, but I don’t break eye contact.
“You look very pleased with yourself,” I murmur in her ear.
“I am,” she says with a blinding smile.
I could move her hand. I could create distance and remind her—and myself—that this is a terrible idea for many, many reasons. The main one being that my athlete’s future is largely in her hands, and if one thing goes wrong, I’m risking his career, not mine.
Instead, I shift on the stool, widening my knees just enough to make space for her hand.
“Fuck, Ceci,” she says, and her fingers tighten against my thigh.
The space between us has thinned into an electric tension. Her knee slides between mine. My hand drifts to her waist, fingers hooking lightly at the fabric of her top, not pulling, just anchoring me.
“Do you make a habit of corrupting visiting coaches?”
She smiles, slow and wicked. “You walked in on your own, baby.”
The crowd presses tighter around us and a group of laughing people squeezes past, jostling the stools.
And then?—
A sharp elbow. A startled curse.
