Page 74 of Offside Angle

“Shower.”

Perfect.

I head straight for it.

“Rivera, what the fuck are you—”

I open the bathroom door before Roman can finish.

Shane has apparently just stepped out of the shower, because he jerks so violently at the sight of me that he nearly loses both his balance and the towel he’s trying to wrap around his waist.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

Excellent start.

“Kiss me.”

Shane freezes with one hand clutching the towel and water dripping from his hair.

Behind me, Roman goes completely silent.

“What?”

“Kiss me.”

Shane blinks at me like he’s waiting for the rest of the sentence. When none comes, his eyebrows climb. “Did Hollywood punch your brain out?”

“Goddamn it, O’Rourke, just kiss me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Mm. Bossy.”

“Oh my fucking God.”

“Last year I had to get drunk for this and you ran away, by the way. Still emotionally recovering.”

“Shane.”

He laughs, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Fine, fine.”

Before I can lose my nerve—or remember that there are probably more scientifically rigorous ways to explore your sexuality than ambushing your naked teammate before breakfast—Shane catches me by the back of the neck and kisses me.

And I wait.

For something.

Anything.

Nothing happens.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

Shane is objectively attractive. I have eyes. He’s tall, built, annoyingly handsome, and currently wearing nothing but a towel, which really should contribute something useful to the experiment. Instead, all I’m aware of is the fact that his hair is dripping water onto my forehead and Roman is standing somewhere behind me witnessing what has to be the strangest morning of his life.

There’s no heat, no rush, no urge to grab Shane and pull him closer. Nothing even remotely resembling what happens when Santi so much as looks at me the wrong way.

When Shane finally pulls back, he studies my face with a confused frown.

I stare at him for a second.