I moan his name like a prayer, and when I come, it’s like a shuddering confession.
Oliver is breathless between my legs when I pull him up to me, catching his jaw in my hand. I taste myself on his lips.
He reaches for his jeans, quickly tugging them down. He slides into me right there, with my back pressed against his locker. It’s deep and intense, and the whole room echoes with the sounds of our bodies and breath.
Every thrust is a declaration that sends a shock through my body. Every moan feels like I’m the only person in an empty stadium. I don’t know who is still here—cleaning staff, maybe. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could hear us. This is reckless, and I don’t even care. That’s what makes it all the more thrilling. I want him too much to care.
He’s not just touching my body—he’s reaching something deeper, something I don’t think I’ve let anyone else come close to.
We fall apart together, both breathless and shaking. My fingers curl into his back, his mouth presses into my shoulder as he groans.
And then it’s silent.
We just did something reckless. He leans back, grinning, brushing a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear like the world hasn’t just burned around us.
“So,” he says, standing up and smiling, “your place or mine?”
I can’t stop grinning. I can’t stop shaking. Everything inside me is still alight from him, from us, from that reckless, perfect storm of heat and desire.
36
tight marking
COOL BY GRACIE ABRAMS
Alan is so energetic this morning that I’m not even sure he’s actually seated in his chair. He bounces with excitement so much I don’t think his behind ever touches the seat.
“We’re almost there, Addison,” he says, eyes bright with anticipation. “Promotion is within reach. If we didn’t have that losing streak back in February, it would have been locked down by now.”
“I know.” I smile, tapping my pen against my notepad. “I’m sure it would have been nice to have it tied up by now, but we wouldn’t be Rockford if we weren’t underdogs right to the end.”
“Exactly,” Alan says, smiling. “How are things coming along for the gala this week?”
“Just working out the last-minute details,” I say, a hint of hesitation in my voice. Alan seems to notice it. The planning committee has handled most of the logistics of the event. I’ve just been coordinating media coverage.
“What is it, Addison?”
“Everyone's focused. The players. The coaches. The supporters. The entire club is laser-focused on these last few matches. Part of me wonders whether a gala in the middle of all that becomes a distraction.”
He nods. “I get that. Trust me, I want promotion just as much as everyone here. But this is tradition. Every year before the final stretch of the season, we host this gala.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. “Buteveryyear isn’t like this year. We’ve never been this close before.” Alan smirks at me. “What?”
“Look at you becoming a football fan,” he teases. “Worried about distractions and speaking like you’re one of us. I see where your concern is, Addison. I really do. I think it’s important to keep with our traditions. If we start doing things differently just because of the situation we’re in, that might trip the lads up and get into their heads. But I also think celebrating how far we’ve come and raising money for local organizations will really remind the lads of who we’re playing for.”
“That’s true,” I admit. Maybe he’s right. Maybe subconsciously, I worry it will distract the team because I know from personal experience, simply because of Oliver, how badly they all want this. Maybe I’m too close to see the bigger picture here.
“You've become one of us, you know.”
I laugh. “What does that mean?”
“You came here to handle media relations.” He points at me. “Now you're worried about squad mentality and momentum.”
I laugh. “I suppose football has grown on me.”
“Football?” Alan scoffs, laughing. “Rockford has.”
“You might be right.”
