Page 22 of Sideline Play

TEN

SCARLET

“Are you serious?No, absolutely not; put it back.”

“It's on the plan, Scar.”

“You ate threemassivecupcakes just last night,” I remind. “We’re not exactly being strict with your diet.”

“It’s called balance, baby girl,” he hums by my ear, leaning in and reaching around me to the over-priced alternative I’m blocking. “Can’t be clean and wholesome all the time; otherwise, things get boring.” Plucking two off the shelf, he adds, “Gotta roll out a little naughty here and there to keep things interestin’.” His voice grows heavier and his breath caresses my neck until the fine hairs along my body come to attention, his proximity and words far too subjective for the middle of the afternoon in a grocery store.

Dropping them into the cart and stepping back as my body warms and flushes, he winks at me before sauntering off, yet again without his cane.

Over the last several weeks, those small touches he would give me at The Nest have grown. They’re purposeful and lingering, leaving no doubt of his interest. From the moment we left the hospital and he took my hand in his, holding it fornearly the entire drive even as the lingering anesthesia pulled him into sleep, Remington hasn’t stopped seeking me out. Each day brings him a little closer to me, hooks me just a little more so I’m left craving him each night.

I never thought I would be the type of girl who plays games. Never had I ever thought of myself as being anything but direct. But when faced with the prospect of making a fool of myself, I realize I'm a bit of a coward. That I let my fear creep in and take over. So instead of asking him outright how much of this is innocent flirting and how much is real, I tease and push back, studying every reaction I receive and then trying to decipher it.

When he reaches over me in the kitchen while retrieving the dishes I can’t reach and he places his palm in that tentative place between my waist and lower back, I step into him, allowing the small gap to close and my back to mold to his front. The distance created by him sitting on the couch and me curling up in the armchair while watching a movie boldly closed when I took up the end opposite him. In return, the following night, he set the space up so there was no question about where my new spot would be—on the couch within easy reach of each other. During the subsequent nights, as we continued working our way through the list of movie releases he missed during the season, we mutually drew ourselves closer together. Me no longer hesitating over taking up the space flush along his side, his arm draped over the back where his fingers slowly progressed with the film to play with my hair and massage the nape of my neck. Or how at some point following his sessions, we moved from pointedly not looking at each other while my hands worked up his thigh and around his hip, to his deep hazel eyes holding me captive, making things far more intimate than the detached, clinical assessment it should be. So much so that quality time with my favorite pink dildo, fingers, and other toys I packed for my time in Gatlinburg has become an afternoon staple in my life.A nightly one too. And more often than not, a start to my day that’s better than any coffee.

For weeks we’ve been circling and dancing. Tension simmering and brewing. Every touch and conversation—a moment of connection that leaves my mind spinning with possibilities long into the night. Thoughts plaguing my mind as I waffle between seizing a bold bravery and going for it or staying firmly planted where I am, where I’m safe and comfortable.

When I'm with Remington, near him, I feel safe, at peace. The whirlwind of thoughts inside my head quiets. The ever present feeling of anxiousness turns to a faint, manageable, even ignorable hum. I’m comfortable with him in a way that has never been easy for me. The overanalyzing of my words and actions and how I’ll be perceived for them absent.

At the same time, being with him is exciting and thrilling. My heart races when he looks at me. My breath quickens under his touch. He makes my blood heat and my thighs clench as deep in my core things begin to coil and tighten with anticipation. I’m on edge whenever he’s around, desperate for his attention, craving his touch, longing for just a bit more. For him to push things further and take what he wants, knowing I’m frozen with fear of the fallout but waiting and wanting just the same. He makes me feel alive.

Pressing the cool backs of my hands to my heated cheeks, I suck in a sharp breath, attempting to banish the sudden cloud of lust that’s settling over me. Grabbing my water, I roll the tumbler over my chest, the temperature change doing far less than I had hoped as my nipples draw taut. Glancing down at the peaks pushing against the bodice of my dress, I have to finally concede that Remington has won this round. Again.

I thought the silky, slip-like dress with its low, draping neckline would provide me the upper hand in tempting him. And while the uncontrolled widening of his eyes and the slowway he tracked them over me had been exactly what I wanted, the dress was proving to work against me. Its thin material that flowed and whispered over my body like rippling water left me without armor against his touch, which he was handing out in abundance today as we tackled a mile long list of errands. I had wanted action from him when I picked it out this morning, but I should have been careful in my wish. Because while I opened strong, he’s been out maneuvering me all day, leaving me speechless and frustratingly turned on.

The guiding hand at my back when we walked to and from the car; the slight caress of his fingers along my waist before he withdrew; the crowding, engulfing presence of his tall, broad frame closing in around me as we shopped and debated. It’s been maddening, and like an addict, I want more despite knowing this is bad for my health. These sexually charged, almost possessive moments with him while doing such mundane tasks are exactly what I mentioned longing for. The constant tease and anticipation is a foreplay all its own. One I hope we will succumb to before long.

Grappling for something to ground and redirect me, I reach into the cart and snatch the coconut aminos. Putting it back on the shelf, I exchange it for regular soy sauce. Then finding the store brand on special and with a coupon, exchange the name brand for generic, his particularities over food baffling to me. Satisfied with the more economic choice, I cross it off my list and begin pushing the cart to catch up to Remington, exchanging his arrowroot powder for cornstarch that’s half the price.

Turning onto the baking aisle, I drop a box of funfetti cake mix into the basket and a few tubs of frosting. Still not finding him, I go over one more only to have him steal more of my heart.

There, surrounded by two dozen different kinds of cereal, he’s squatting down—a move that would have me chastising him if not for the why. Even as low as he’s gotten himself, his sixfoot five frame still towers over the kid he’s speaking to who's on crutches, a neon pink cast circling from her toes to her knee. Hanging back, I watch him as he smiles and gives the child his rapt attention, eagerly following along with the story she’s telling.

“That’s amazing!” Remi exclaims. “I wish I was that skilled. I slipped and fell down my stairs the first night I was on crutches.” Jerking his thumb over his shoulder he asks, “See the pretty girl over there? She still won’t let me use them without hovering even though I’m able to get around just fine now without crutches or a cane.”

“You’re Colt Jones’s daughter!” the girl yells.

“I am,” I call out, abandoning the cart. Walking up to her and who I assume is her mom, I hold out my hand to introduce myself, noting their matching Nighthawks t-shirts in my signature shade of pink that’s been branded by the team. But before I can say anything, Remington answers, “Yeah she is, but she is so much more than that. Do you know what else Scarlet does for the team?”

With awestruck eyes, the little girl shakes her head while her mom takes pictures.

“She designed those pretty shirts you and your ma are wearing and all the other pink Nighthawks merchandise. But what makes her extra special is that she’s the best athletic trainer in thewholeLeague. Everyone wants her to come work for their team and keep their players healthy, but we were able to snatch her up. And lucky me, I get to be the first player to work with her.”

“You work for the team?” she asks, her curious brown eyes looking up at me.

Gathering the skirt of my dress, I lower myself into a squat and answer, “Kind of, yeah. I’m still in school right now, but that’s my dream. Remington is sort of like my class project.”

“Like an experiment?”

“Exactly,” I laugh. “He’s my practice player before the real thing.”

With that heated, possessive look returning, he nearly purrs, “Oh, this is very much the real thing.”

Looking confused, the little girl’s dark brow furrowing as her eyes study me, she says, “But Andy Mitchell said only boys are allowed in baseball and even if girls could join, I can't because I’m too prissy.”

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