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Shane reached for a fresh white towel that had been folded neatly at the edge of the bleachers. “Congrats, Tatum! But, uh … I meant that fox you’re staring at in there.” He tapped at the middle spread of the story, splashed across page six, leaving a wet fingerprint where he’d soiled the page.
“Oh, yeah, that, too,” she murmured, eyeing him up and down and back again. “Please tell me you wore underwear this time?”
He chuckled. “Hell, no, why would I do that? And deprive you of your dirty, sweaty laundry kink?”
“It’s not a kink,” she insisted. She peered around the stadium as if someone might hear, despite the fact that practice had been over for more than an hour, leaving Shane plenty of time to endure his punishment for being late. “It just makes me horny, okay?”
He dabbed at his neck absently, descending the last few steps on rubbery legs. “I know I’m just some dumb redneck jock, Tatum, but isn’t that the definition of a kink?”
Tatum pressed her fingertip against Shane’s sweaty tank top, if only to feel the rich, wet dampness beneath it. Kink indeed! “At least I don’t make you wear heels to bed every night, oh, kinky one.”
Shane blushed but chuckled just the same. “I guess we’re both just a couple of kinky horndogs, what can I say?”
Still pressing against his chest, Tatum slid her finger to the nearest sleeve of his tank top and tugged him close. Close enough to kiss. “Say you’ll skip the shower tonight, Stud.”
His chuckle was pure sugar and total spice, her favorite Shane Dixon combination. “Your wish,” he teased, reaching over to snatch the paper from her hand. “So, how many times have you read it so far?”
She grinned, knowing he’d only get the answer out of her some way if she lied. “Twenty-seven. You?”
“Dang, only nineteen, but I’m a slow reader!”
They chuckled, Tatum flattered that he’d even read it at all. “It’s funny,” he added, tucking a big, dirty thumb under her chin. “For someone who only took the job as a pre-rec, you’re one hell of a reporter after all.”
Tatum blushed vaguely, not wanting to admit how much the words suddenly meant to her. It was true, she’d taken one job to get to another, but after feeling so passionately about her subject, and turning that passion into prose, the writing had begun to mean more and more to her. She’d thought Moira was joking about submitting her article to the college competition she’d mentioned, but now that she had, Tatum was waiting on pins and needles to see if it won. She wondered what Shane might think of her if she did, and where her life might lead if writing became more than just a prerequisite from here on.
She peered back at her lover, winking to keep things light. “Only because I had one hell of a subject to write about, Shane.”
“Aw, you’re just saying that so I’ll stay nice and dirty for your kinky little ass, aren’t you, girl?”
“Maybe,” she murmured, folding into his arms and inhaling his rich, manly scent, more powerful than any cologne. And way sexier by far. “But I haven’t heard you complaining this week.”
“Or last,” he reminded her, wriggling free of her grasp and sinking down onto the spectator bench near where they stood.
She doled out their hot dogs and sodas, just like old times. Just like the first time, in fact. “Guess we’re getting to be quite the habit, huh, Tatum?”
“Again, I don’t hear you complaining, Stud.”
“And you never will, either.”
“Never say never, Big Guy.”
He chuckled, holding up his foil-wrapped hot dog with a merry grin. “This is getting to be a habit too, huh?”
“Sure, I mean, once Coach read an advance copy of the story and let me watch you run the bleachers after practice every day.”
“I wouldn’t have to run the damn bleachers every day if you wouldn’t keep me up all night.”
She cracked open her soda, as if to match the smile she cracked while grinning over at him. “Did you ever think Iwantyou to run those bleachers every night, Big Guy? I mean, how else are you gonna get so hot and sweaty in the off season?”
“Why, you devious little horndog.”
They chuckled easily, so easily it had become another habit of theirs, like Tatum’s afternoon stadium visits and hot dog delivery service. Like their late nights and early mornings, hot and sweaty and sticky and sore.
“So, tonight?”
“My place, obviously.”
“Phew, good! Boomer’s making chili again and it always stinks the place up.”
