Jax
Me:
come over
Nova:
20 mins
Twenty minutes.
I put the phone face down on the passenger seat and look out the windshield at my house.
My dick kicks. I’ve been picturing her since practice — on her knees, mouth hot, those jeans tight over her ass — and now I have to wait twenty more minutes.
I get out of the car.
Brick yowls at me when I come through the door. Acknowledged. Fed.
I look around the kitchen.
It’s fine. It’s clean. There’s nothing to do.
I do something anyway. Move two glasses from the counter to the dishwasher. Wipe down a counter that didn’t need wiping. Pick up a hoodie I left on the back of a chair three days ago and toss it in the laundry room. Run to wipe down the toilet.
Do a quick change out of my practice shirt. Check myself in the mirror. The clean shirt looks like I’m trying. Take it off. Put the practice one back on. Look in the mirror. The practice one looks like I’m not trying at all.
I stare at myself for a second.
“Get a grip, Jax.”
I put the clean shirt back on.
Tighten my jaw because there’s a thing happening in my jeans that needs to settle the fuck down before she gets here or this is going to be a short evening.
I think about Hendricks and Cole. The folder. Their stats from last season. Caleb’s hip. The Reapers’ top line. Anything that isn’t her on top of me with her hair down.
It works enough. Barely.
She knocks at twenty-three minutes.
Not twenty. I noticed.
I open the door.
She’s in the same jeans she had on at the rink earlier — the ones I’ve been thinking about since three — and a different shirt, hair up, no makeup, a tote bag on her shoulder that’s heavier than it looks.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
She steps past me into the house. Brick is already on his way over because Brick is a traitor.
“He missed me,” she says.
“He missed dinner. He’s working you.”
“Don’t ruin this for me.”
