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I didn’t want to fight with him about this. And I certainly didn’t want to project my shit on him. He knew his dad better than I ever would. Who was I to say if Robert Callahan was worthy of his son’s love and admiration?

“No, it’s fine. You’re right; I didn’t have a dad. Mine fucked off before I was old enough to even remember what he looked like. Forget I said anything. I’m just talking out my ass anyway.”

He blew out a breath. “I feel like I have to defend him now.”

I shook my head slowly. “You really don’t.”

“I just …” He paused, and his face took on that faraway look again. A few seconds later, he shook his head as if to clear whatever thoughts he’d been having. “I know he’s tough. I’m not an idiot. But he’s also invested in me, and I don’t want to let him down.”

“You couldn’t,” I told him. “Not ever.”

“He’s a legend,” Cally said, his thumbnail working at the skin on his opposite pointer finger. “And I’m the kid who deferred for four goddamn years because I was too fucked in the head to do something I’d been training my whole life for. To find out if I could live up to everyone’s expectations.”

“You will.” It wasn’t even a question in my mind. Cally was going to be one of the greats. “You’re going to light this league on fire.”

His lips quirked to the side, though it wasn’t really a smile. “You sound pretty confident for someone who has only known me a handful of weeks.”

“About you?” I asked. “One hundred percent.”

EIGHT

CALLY

I’d been lying here staring up at the ceiling for half an hour, willing my brain to stop thinking about my teammate in ways that were hugely inappropriate.

“Fucking fuck!” I bit out, rolling onto my side and smashing a pillow down over my head, trying desperately to shut out the shameful memories of what I’d done earlier.

The walk back from the grocery store had been excruciating. I’d been so hard from touching Mikey’s fucking wrist and hearing his shocked intake of breath—something my brain unhelpfully translated as what he might sound like during sex—that I thought I was going to explode the whole way home.

The second the door to my room closed behind me, I’d dropped my groceries on the ground, gotten my belt open and my zipper down, and pulled out my dick. I’d stood there in the entryway and stroked myself off in less than a minute, whispering things like, “Oh shit,” and “Fuck, Mikey,” and “I’m so fucking sorry.”

I’d had to scrub the carpet afterward.

Then I took a long shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand it and scrubbing my skin so furiously I’d probably taken off the top layer. I toweled off with my hands still shaking and then put on clean clothes because I’d gotten cum on my fucking jeans.

I’d seen the guy naked dozens of times now in the locker room. You’d think that might be what I pictured when I touched my dick, but nope. It was the grip of my fingers on his skin in a goddamn grocery store.

I’d tried telling myself my reaction was a fluke. A one-time thing.

But the second I’d sat down across from him tonight, our legs bumping under the table, I was screwed. A normal person would have laughed and bumped his knee back. A normal person would have said sorry and left their leg where it was.

I was not a normal person.

Instead, I got instantly hard, my dick practically shouting, “Yes, him! Gimme.”

“Fucking hell.” I groaned and tossed the pillow away, then got out of bed and started doing push-ups.

Twenty-five at first, then twenty-five more.

I lost count after that, going until my arms shook and my chest burned, sweat dripping into my eyes, the whole time telling myself this … obsession would pass. That I’d outrun something like this before, and could do it again. That I was absolutely not going to make the same mistake twice.

I knew better now.

I just had to be more careful. Spend less time alone with Mikey. Less⁠—

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Every muscle in my body complained as I crawled toward it, pushing up onto my knees to see the screen.

Mikey