Page 21 of Crossed Lines

I hum, watching him for a moment. He looks beautiful like this; a Greek Adonis decorated in silver and black. Utterly perfect and untouchable.

“You could go pro after the Harriers,” I say eventually, swatting away the treacle-sweet feelings. “Everyone thinks so.”

Spencer shrugs. “What do you think?”

As if the opinions of the coaches, the media, and all our fans don’t matter as much as mine. Leaning forward, I wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him into a quick kiss that sends flutters through my stomach. Spencer grips my thigh and tilts his head just so, deepening the kiss into something rougher, more desperate. Like he’s afraid I’ll run away. It leaves me panting when we pull apart.

“I think,” I say against his lips, “I’d be stupid if I didn’t want the great Spencer Hall on my team.”

His answering smile is so bright, so fun of sunshine I can’t look at it for too long before I burn up.

“I have these dumb cleats, but you’ve got real hard work, sweetheart.”

“But what if it doesn't get us through the semi-finals?”

Spencer runs a thumb across my cheek, silver rings catching the dying sunlight. “You got this far, didn’t you? And you don’t have to do it alone, because I’m here.”

“I just don’t want to disappoint the team.”

He grips the hand resting in my lap and squeezes. It’s comforting. “We’re the Dream Team. Whatever happens, I’ll be by your side.”

He says it with such conviction I have no choice but to believe him. The weight that it feels like I’ve been carrying on myshoulders for the last few years falls away, leaving behind an almost euphoric lightness. I want to believe him, and isn’t that enough?

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I stare at our entwined hands. Pale against dark. “Thanks.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you, Luke.”

My lips quirk up. “Does that line work on all the girls?”

“I’m telling the truth, asshole.” Lucky cleats forgotten, he maneuvers us around until he’s behind me, legs encasing my hips. “The first time I saw you, I thought you were an angel.”

Heat floods my cheeks. God, the things that come out of his mouth. He always knows how to make me flustered, how to rip the ground from beneath me like a rug.

What do you even say to something like that? But Spencer doesn’t seem like he’s waiting for an answer. He allows us to settle into a comfortable silence, humming a soft tune that rumbles through his chest. We watch the sunset together, as pink fingers spread over the rippling water.

But through the feelings of relaxation and comfort, something niggles in my chest. Somewhere along the way, we’ve crossed the line of what’s acceptable between friends.

The problem is I don’t know if I want to stop.

*

We had left our phones in the car—an idea from Spencer that had seemed good at the time—but when we return to start heading home, my phone flashes with dozens of missed calls. Some from our teammates, two dozen more from Coach Davis and Assistant Coach Miller.

All of them saying we’re late for our last practice before the match.

“This is all your fault.” I press my forehead against the window, hoping the cool glass will stop me from panicking. It doesn’t. Washington whizzes past in a blur, and my stomach rolls.

“Bullshit.”

“You’re the one who dragged us out here. Something about having fun, wasn’t it?”

Spencer runs a hand over his buzzcut. “Would you just relax? We were having a break, it’s not a big deal.”

Except it is a big deal for me. I don’t bother responding, chewing on my bottom lip, and try not to feel like I’m letting something slip through my fingers.

When we finally arrive at the training facility, practice is in full swing. Assistant Coach Miller is waiting for us in the locker room, her shaggy blonde hair messier than usual. Like she’s been running her hand through it all evening.

“There you are,” she says, mouth pinched into a thin line. “I was beginning to think you’d run away on us.”

---