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When I looked away, Professor Declann was glaring at us. No, not us. Riley. My stupid grin dimmed a notch, and Riley straightened in her seat, surreptitiously removing my earbud.
She slipped it to me, and this time, I was prepared for the thrumming sensation of her touch. I wanted to close my hand over hers, just to see if this reaction was an every time thing or if regular contact would make it less powerful.
Professor Declann turned back to the white board she’d been scribbling on, and Riley’s hand landed next to mine on the armrests between our seats. What would happen if I crossed that half an inch and closed the distance?
On cue, the memory of Coach laying down the no fraternization rule slipped across my mind.
Getting caught goofing off in class hadn’t completely erased the little smile from her face, but I had a feeling she wouldn’t risk her spot on the team for anything more. And she shouldn’t.Ishouldn’t.
Even if we were only friends, Riley could be a problem for me if I couldn’t get out of my head about her getting hurt. How much worse would the urge to protect her be if I crossed that distance?
There couldn’t be anything between us, no matter how much I was drawn to her.
8
“Can you take a hit?” Parker’s eyes blazed a path down my body, bulked up by pads for practice. When he landed on my face again, heat had burned away the frustration.
I crossed my arms—both an attempt to regain some control and to keep from stupidly reaching for him. “Can you?”
A chorus ofohhhssurrounded us. I’d forgotten there were witnesses to our little battle. Coach had waited until two weeks into practice to require full pads, a huge departure from the usual, but I wasn’t going to complain.
We’d been suffering under a heat wave, and most of the players had dressed out in as little clothes as possible, me included. Today, that ended because Coach wanted a “thud” scrimmage, meaning shoulder pads and helmets with limited contact.
Parker was in a pissy mood when he found out there’d be no special compensation for me. I admit, I was a little disappointed in him. In a miracle of restraint, we’d gotten friendly over the past weeks without any inappropriate touching. It helped that I’d managed to avoid him except for class and practice.
I’d thought he’d accepted my position as his teammate.
Now, here we stood, facing off while the team snickered around us. I didn’t have the patience to pander to his delicate sensibilities. “This is stupid. Get your head out of your ass and throw me the ball before Coach lectures both of us.”
I pulled on my helmet, and most of the guys around me did the same. Mac shoved Parker’s shoulder and sent him a commiserating look.
“Don’t you start too,” Parker grumbled.
He called the play and counted it off. I knew the route—we’d done it repeatedly—but my attention wasn’t on the field around me. It was on the sliver of hurt he’d delivered with his outburst.
I turned my head, and like every other time Parker passed to me, the ball was exactly where I thought it would be. We could be sogoodif he’d just get over his issues. None of the other guys treated me like I was weak. I needed Parker on my side too, but he stubbornly refused to see past my vagina.
Screw him.
The tackle took me by surprise. Both because I hadn’t seen Duke coming and because no one should have been tackling. I curled my body around the ball, holding on with both hands as he took me to the ground.
Somehow, the impact wasn’t as violent as I expected. Duke’s hand positioning helped cushion some of the force, and he caught most of his weight on his knees. Still, there was enough to nearly knock the wind out of me.
Duke lumbered up, and I untucked, tossing the football to one of the assistants hovering out of the way. With the chaotic thoughts cleared from my head, I noticed the hush on the field. All the attention was on me, waiting to see how I’d react.
Parker took a jolting step toward me before catching himself, and I hoped no one else noticed. I didn’t need his doubts to catch on. He should have known the answer to his question earlier. Thanks to my dad, I’d been playing tackle football since I was a kid—I knew how to take a hit.
Duke held out a hand, and I let him haul me up. “Sorry, RJ. I got a little excited.”
I tilted my head at him. “Do you apologize every time you make a tackle?”
He laughed, a quiet, rumbling noise. “No, but I usually get the ball out if it goes that far. You have a grip like duct tape.”
“Sounds like we’re even then since I shouldn’t have let you catch me.”
“Duke!” Coach barked from the sidelines. “We’ve talked about this. Light contact only. Save the ground tackles for the dummies and the other team.”
Duke lifted his hands in acknowledgement and returned to his side of the scrimmage line. “Sorry, Coach.”
