Page 34 of Puck Off, She’s Mine

His smirk grows. "If you fuck up with her, just remember that I'll be lurking in the background, waiting to swoop in and steal her."

I look at him for a moment—really look. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes and lines of tension around his mouth. Even with that smirk on his face, he looks drained, like he's been putting on a show for too fucking long and the mask is slipping.

"No, you won't," I say, more confident of that fact in this moment than ever before. Cara was right. Whoever broke his heart still has him all fucked up in the head. He isn't over it. I'm guessing he never really will be. But that's not my business, so I let it go.

"Are we good?" he asks. "Because, gotta say, riding the fucking bench is a bitch. I'd prefer not to keep doing this shit just because you've turned into an unhinged psychopath over your girl."

"You going to keep your hands to yourself?"

"You going to hit me again if I don't?"

"Every fucking time," I promise.

"Figured as much." He grins, flashing his dimples. "I'll try to keep my hands to myself."

"You do that," I say, turning to head back inside.

"Hey."

I pause, glancing over my shoulder at him.

"Don't fuck up with her, Michaud," he says, more seriously than I've ever heard him. "She's one of the good ones. Hold on to that shit and don't let it go. Trust me when I say you'll spend a lifetime in hell if you lose her."

I stare at him for a moment, a question on the tip of my tongue. But I see the regret in his eyes and bite it back, refusing to pry. "I'll remember that," I say instead. "You good, man?"

"Yep." He grins. "Always, motherfucker."

I'm not entirely sure I believe him, but I'm not entirely sure I'm the asshole he wants to pour his heart out to, either. "See you inside."

"Yeah." He leans back against the building again, closing his eyes. "See you inside."

By the time I get to the hotel, it's late, but I still dial Cara's number, desperate to hear her voice.

"Hello?" she answers on the second ring, sounding half asleep.

"Shit. Did I wake you, baby?"

"No," she lies through a yawn. "I was awake."

She definitely wasn't. She was probably out cold, but I love her for lying to me about it. Fuck, I love her period. Every day, I fall a little harder. At this point, I'm not sure there is a bottom. I'm in a freefall with no end in sight.

I scoot back against the headboard, the phone clutched to my ear.

"I'm sorry you guys lost tonight," she murmurs.

I smile a little, thrilled that she watched even if I was on the bench the whole damn game. We both know she wasn't watching because her job requires it. Does she even realize that she's in love with me yet? God, I hope she does. I hope she knows exactly what's happening to her and why. I want her to feel it. I want her to sit with it. I want her absolutely certain that this is what she wants.

I reached that point days ago—right about the time she showed up on my doorstep.

"It's all good, baby. We'll win the next one."

"You're still benched," she says, worry in her voice.

"Yeah, but we're playing Arizona in our barn. We could beat them with half the team riding the bench."

"Cocky," she snorts.

"You love it."