Page 73 of Close Knit

And just like that, he dropped a bombshell. He finds his peace withme.My heart flutters like fabric in the wind.

“I feel the same.” And without overthinking, I grab his hand. He stares at our interlocked fingers. I wish I could read his mind, or swaddle it in a nice, comfy sweater. “You looked so good out there. I-I mean, you played really well,” I stammer.

“Thank you.”

The cold November air whips through his hair, tousling his perfectly unkempt locks. “Cameron, are you sure me wearingyour jersey doesn’t mean anything?” I ask, needing to know. I want to hear him admit that he is beginning to like me as more than a friend. I need to make sure my feelings are reciprocated.

“It doesn’t have to.” He avoids my gaze.

“Would you care if I wore someone else’s jersey?”

“If that’s what you want.” His foot taps incessantly on the pavement.

“I don’t,” I say.

“Good, because I’d rather you didn’t.” His eyes fix on me, his fingers tightening in my hand.

“Glad we’re on the same page.” I nibble on my lower lip. “I wish I had come to a match earlier. I learned so much today by hanging out with the WAGs. They’re a blast!”

“Like what?” He strokes his thumb over the inside of my palm.

“Ivan’s wife said no one cheers for the keeper.”

Cameron shrugs, running his free hand over his neck. That adorable tic makes me want to pin his arms to his sides and kiss him senseless. “Not often,” he admits.

I pause, trying to find the perfect words. “There’s no way I’m letting you miss out on the best part of the game—at least, it was for me.” I reassuringly rub his strong forearm. “I’m making you a promise. I’ll wear your jersey and cheer obnoxiously loud, so you always know you have a friend in the stands.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corners of his lips, a rare crack in his tough-guy façade. “You’re coming to another game?”

“I’ll even make you a chant.” His head tilts skeptically. “What, you don’t believe me, Goose?”

Finally, he lets out a full laugh. “Do I get to hear this chant?”

“You can’t laugh at it. Promise?”

He makes an X across his heart. My hand feels cold in his absence. “But just remember, there’s a reason I never made the cheerleading squad.”

“Why? Because you look too irresistible in a skirt?” He motions to the mini I’m wearing, and I gulp.

“Goal or bust, in Hastings we trust!” I declare, repeating it for emphasis. “I know, it’s a bit last minute, but what do you think?”

Cameron’s stare is a blend of blankness and tension, like when I gave him that crocheted birthday cake. I’m like a science project under his scrutiny.

“I love it, Duck.”

“Good.”

Time beats slowly. My body hums with the ache to touch him.

Screw this.No more waiting. I fling my arms around his waist and hurl myself into his rustic, salty musk. The muscles of his back flex before softening. He crooks his arms around my neck, urging us closer, making me feel small and safe in his embrace.

His fingers tangle in my hair as he cups my head. His chest expands with each breath, as if he’s inhaling not just air, but me too.

I shuffle my feet forward, burrowing myself deeper into his torso. I close my eyes and memorize every sensation—the way his fingers feel, the soft hum of his breath, the heat radiating off of him. Our hearts batter against our rib cages in sync.

Rain starts to fall, but we don’t move. Our embrace feels more intimate than any kiss. I get lost in the sensation of him against me. Hard and soft. Something tenses under my stomach—oh my, that is most definitely hard.

Fire floods my core. Without breaking our contact, I settle on the edge of his car hood. His body is heavy over me. He grips me tighter until we’re practically dry-humping in this parking lot. Without a doubt, this is the sexiest hug of my life.

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