Page 62 of Offside Devil

Mira has lived with me for a couple weeks already, but I’m still surprised when I walk into the living room and see her curled up on the end of the couch. Her feet are tucked underneath her, legs mostly hidden by the long hem of the Phoenix Angels jersey she’s wearing.

I thought the endless sundresses were bad enough, but now, I have to lie in bed tonight and imagine bunching that jersey high around her waist. There’s no shortage of distractions in this house.

Fuck me.

“Did Aiden go down okay?” I ask, voice cracking.

She sits up when she sees me. “Once he settled down, he fell right to sleep. He was exhausted. I’ve never heard him talk so much.”

The entire night felt like a loss—until I stepped through the door and saw Aiden waiting for me. He was grinning, waving a foam finger twice the size of him and wearing a toddler jersey with my name printed on the back. It’s his name, too, I guess.

Mira bought it for him at the merch shop.

“You’re fast!” he kept saying, his blue eyes sparking with excitement. I recognized the look: it’s the same one I wore when my dad took me to my first game.

It’s been years since we’ve been to a game together. Years since we spoke.

Mira chuckles softly, pulling me out of my downward spiral of memories. “He told me you were ‘almost as cool as Spiderman.’ Coming from him, that is a huge compliment.”

“It’s better than a lot of other things being said about me tonight,” I mutter, lifting the lid on the pizza box to my right and eyeing the covered plate of chicken alfredo to the left. “What’s with all the food?”

“Oh.” Mira climbs out of her tangle on the couch and the jersey falls around the tops of her thighs. Silk pajama shorts stick out of the bottom, but all I can think about is how easy it would be to drag them down her legs. How quickly I could have her just as bare as the day we met.

A sudden need to know if she’s wearing the same black lace panties almost blurs my vision.

“Your assistant called an hour after we got home to warn me she was sending a pizza,” Mira explains. “I told her I was already making dinner, but she said it was tradition. I guess it’s up to you. You can eat whatever you want.”

If that were true, Mira would be on the counter in front of me.

I shift away from her so she won’t see the massive bulge in the front of my pants.

I usually fuck after a game. That’s what this is. I play. I party. And I go home with some woman who has my number painted on her face.

My cock could hammer nails right now, but it’s just a Pavlovian response. Biological. I’d have this reaction to any woman standing in front of me with toned, golden legs and my jersey on.

I close the pizza box and grab the pasta. “Thanks. This looks good.”

I warm the food in the microwave while Mira boils water for tea. We move around the kitchen like we’ve done it a hundred times before. Like this isn’t the longest we’ve shared the same space since she moved in.

When she reaches into the cabinet for the tea bags, the jersey gapes around her arms. I can see a flash of her red bra and I nearly snap my fork in half.

“Why are your cabinets all so high?” she complains, lifting a knee onto the counter for an extra boost.

“Move,” I command, a roughness in my voice that has everything to do with how easily I could fit myself between the spread of her thighs. “I’ll get it.”

I used to go out with Paige and get trashed after games. When I sobered up, I figured fucking was a better release. Now, I’m not so sure.

Maybe I should call Owen. What would be worse: falling off the trolley or sticking my tadger in the nanny?

I know which one I want more.

I sit down with my steaming plate of dinner and shovel food into my mouth. Like maybe if I fill this hole, I won’t be thinking about filling?—

Nope. Not even going to think it.

Then I slow down enough to taste the dinner and groan. “You made this?”

“You like it?” She grins for a moment before she kills it and goes back to neutral expression. “Don’t get excited. It’s one of three dishes I know how to make well.”

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