“I can think of one thing,” I said. “Your spot on this team going up in flames.”
As I said the words, they burned my chest as much as I imagined they did his.
I was really the pot calling the kettle black here.
“We’ve been careful,” he said. “But… I don’t know. It’s getting harder to keep it all a secret.”
“What are you going to do?”
He shrugged, smacking his legs before he stood and offered his hand for me to do the same. “Dance with my girls and pretend like I don’t have a problem in the world.”
“Sounds logical to me,” I said, covering his hand with my own after he looped my arm through his. I kissed his cheek, lowering my voice. “I’m here for you, if you ever need to talk about it. Okay? You’re not alone.”
He patted my hand. “I know. Love you.”
“Love you.”
And then, it was showtime.
We took the field for warmups, stretching in our little area while I did my very best not to be too obvious in my search for Braden. I’d kept my word. I’d left him alone after that day in the gym, other than a smile or a wink from a distance. I hadn’t texted him — even though everything inside me wanted to. And I hadn’t asked to meet again, even though I was pretty sure I’d die if I didn’t have his hands on me more than just that one time.
It hadn’t even been a full two weeks and I was going through withdrawals.
What would it be like if I relapsed and had him again?
I shook off the thought, knowing it wasn’t an option, and focused on the game at hand. We were set to open it all before kickoff with a new dance number that we’d been working tirelessly all week.
And I had a star tumbling pass in it.
My heart skittered at the reminder, hands balmy when I grabbed my pompoms and jogged to join the rest of the team that was getting lined up and ready for our spot.
We had no choice but to go past the players, some of whom were trickling back into the locker room until it was time for them to run out through the tunnel.
Braden, of course, wasn’t one of them.
He stood next to one of the benches, one foot propped on it while he did some sort of mobility stretch with his hip. His helmet was on the ground, his uniform crisp and clean for the only time it would be all game. I knew once that first whistle blew, it would be over — that white fabric would be covered with dirt and grass stains, with blood and sweat.
It made me absolutely feral to think about being the one to strip him out of it when the war was over.
He glanced over his shoulder when the dancers started approaching, acting like he barely noticed before he was focusedon his stretch again. But he looked again when I was closer, and this time, his eyes found mine and held my stare.
It was only a moment, four or five seconds at best, but time warped and slowed like someone had pressed pause just for us. His warm eyes searched mine, like he wanted to say a million different things and hoped I’d hear them all by that look alone.
His expression was pained, his brows bent upward, jaw tight.
I wondered if his lungs burned as badly as I did when we shared the same air but couldn’t share each other.
Before the moment ended, I offered him the smallest smile, just a slight tilt of my lips that I hoped told him I was thinking all the things he was.
He broke, his lips curling to mirror mine before he ripped his gaze away and back to his leg.
But just as I was set to pass behind him, he adjusted his stance, and I didn’t have time to move or avoid him.
I bumped into the back of him, letting out a little squeal.
“Sorry,” I said, catching my balance.
And then I realized why he’d done it.
