Page 92 of Lucky Shot

“Why are you so quiet?” he asks, glancing my way and smiling as he zips his cleats up in a special shoe bag.

“Not quiet, just . . . this is a first.” I chuckle as the awkwardness of what just happened hits full force. And not exactly what happened, but where it happened.

“A first?”

“A stadium? Like . . . not your average place.”

He purses his lips and puts his head down as a grin slides over his lips. He says something I don’t catch.

“I’m sure not for you, but—”

“Actually, it is a first for me.” His words take me by surprise.

“Like I’m supposed to believe that.” He has to be joking, right? There’s no way he hasn’t.

But by the way he shakes his head and looks me up and down like he wants to devour me, I second-guess myself. “Believe what you will, but I know what I’ll be thinking about every time I walk on the pitch from now on. And I definitely won’t be complaining about it.”

Heat crawls up my cheeks, and no doubt stains them pink. I look away and turn to pretend the pictures on the wall of great players interest me.

“Nope,” he says as he walks over to me, cups the back of my neck, and brings his lips to mine in an unexpected kiss. I want to sink into it even more but ending it before I do that is paramount so I step back. “Uh-uh. We’re not going to do the awkward thing. We know each other, Whitney. We’re both consenting adults who just had sex. Sex we’d waited for. Sex that you took the reins on . . . . shit, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“That’s what?” I ask.

“While it was phenomenal on my end, I’m thinking it probably wasn’t all that fantastic on yours, right? On a grass field in the wide open. Grass beneath your knees. Buried as deep as I could be in you.” My cheeks grow even hotter as my body burns with a sweet ache. “I get it’s a sure thing for me, but I didn’t . . . I couldn’t give you one hundred percent of what you need.” He emits a self-deprecating chuckle and runs a hand through his hair.

“One hundred percent of what I need?”

“Rather, what you deserve.”

“And what’s that?”

He points to our surroundings. “You deserve better than this.”

“It was fine. This was fine.”

He mock stabs himself in the chest. “My ego will survive . . . maybe, but fine is the kiss of death for a man.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I laugh and love the smirk that plays at the corners of his mouth.

He’s doing that thing he does again. The thing where when he knows I’m uncomfortable so he tells a little joke to pull me out of my overthinking. There’s something to be said about a man who can recognize it and then react.

“Fine.” He lifts his eyebrows at his use of the word, and I chuckle. “I’ll ask the question and make this even more awkward than it’s suddenly become.” He draws in an audible breath. “Please tell me you didn’t fake it.”

I stare at him, a man who seems to be an absolute mess of contradictions. Just when I think he’s one way—a player who has his fun without thought—he goes and shows me a completely different side to him. One that is thoughtful and caring and . . . real.

I laugh and then realize he’s dead serious. “Yes. Every gasp, every groan, even the way my body shuddered around you. It was all an act to protect your ego and deny my own pleasure.”

“Ugh.” He pretends to fall on a sword in dramatic fashion that once again has me smiling at his unexpected charm. “The kiss of death,” he groans.

But it’s my own reaction that is even more surprising. I step forward, cup his face, and press my lips against his. One that feels out of place in this situation but at the same time so very right. I don’t understand why everything feels so confusing. “Is that answer enough for you?”

“No.”

“No?”

His eyes shoot wider and his grin is ridiculously large. “Promise?”

“Promise.”