“I have to go, Jake,” I croak, my voice betraying me.
His eyes drift over my shoulder, landing on the half-packed suitcase on the bed. His brow furrows, and his grip on my waistband tightens slightly, inching me closer. His hazed eyes shift back to mine.
“Why are you packing? We don’t leave until morning.”
“You know why,” I whisper, my eyelashes flitting as my focus drops to his chest. “Last night . . . that can’t happen again. We can’t do this.”
He tips my chin up, forcing my gaze back to his.
“Stay,” he murmurs. He lets go of my waistband only to slide his hand down my arm, his thumb caressing the inside of my wrist. “Just stay.”
“I can’t.”
“You feel this,” he challenges quickly. He moves forward until our chests meet, and I’m guarded with my breath, knowing any shift in my body will add to the friction and make my body react more than it already is. “Don’t tell me you don’t, because I know you do.”
“I do,” I admit, tears of frustration stinging the corners of my eyes. I brush them away as fast as they appear. “I do feel it, Jake. And that is exactly the problem.”
Several quiet seconds pass between us, nothing but the sound of measured breaths filling our space. Slowly, his hands drop to his sides, and he steps back. Even though his gaze doesn’t leave mine, the air feels safe, and my mind clears.
“You know I’m right.”
He takes a deep breath that fills his chest, and the corners of his mouth purse with dissatisfaction, but also, I think, acceptance.
“Yeah.”
His gaze drops as he pivots slowly, then walks toward thedoor. His hand rests on the handle, and I hold my breath, wishing for two realities—one where he stays, and one where he goes. He pushes the handle down, but pauses, and my breath hitches as he looks at me with a devilish smirk.
“I did the press conference. Exactly like you wanted.”
I blinked, confused. “Yeah. I was there.”
“Which means,” he leads, his eyes flashing with promise, “you still owe me another dance.”
He slips out of the room before I can process the words, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence left in his wake leaves me with nothing but my screaming thoughts. I flop backward onto the mattress and stare blankly up at the ceiling.
Why didn’t I just say no?
I press my palms against my burning face.
Because I didn’t want to.
And that is the alarming reality. I want him. I want his hands, his mouth, his low drawl, his arrogance.
His body.
His heart.
And God help me, that is a massive problem.
ELEVEN
JAKE
A couple of days have passed since Little Rock, and the buzz still hasn’t completely worn off. The team is back in Sweetwater, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I am waking up without that heavy, nagging rock of self-doubt in my gut. My performance was solid. I proved to the front office, to the fans, Coach Shuster, and mostly to myself that I belong on that field.
It’s the kind of quiet, gray morning when the dew still clings to the tall grass, and the air smells like wet earth and cedar. It was important that I have my own space when I bargained for my apartment with the building’s owner, trading cheap rent during the off-season for my handyman services around the building. But man . . . it’s moments like this when I wonder why the hell I was so determined to live alone and leave my mom’s place. This is home. It’s more than the house my grandpa built. It’s this world out here, the pens and the fields. The old tire bolted to the oak tree in the middle of the yard where I practiced my pitching when I was a kid. That thing still clings to the thickening trunk. I’mconvinced that one day, that tree will completely swallow the rubber and make that tire part of its story forever.
I settle into the work, the familiar, rhythmic scrape of my shovel against the concrete floor of the horse stalls acting as my wake-up call. Mucking stalls isn’t glamorous, but it is grounding. I’ve never minded the job. I took the small allowance Grandpa, and later Mom, gave me when I was a kid, sure. But . . . I would have probably kept it up for free if they asked.
