Page 67 of Bound

He’s looking thoughtful.

Which is more than enough progress for today.

Especially—I take a bite of my PB&J—because I plan on making him block all the fucking shots tonight as payback.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Claire

I was expecting this.

I just was expecting it sooner.

Smitty’s waited an entire week between my whirlwind start with Jackson on the road trip and today to find a time to corner me.

The whirlwind has continued, really, and I’ve had far less time with Jackson than I wanted.

Mostly because we slept that first day away, both of us exhausted by the game that ran long because of a shit-ton of penalties being called—on both teams—and a delayed flight on our return trip home. Then, the next morning, I had to zip over to Gran’s because she had a burst pipe.

Her basement was flooded, with sewage no less.

Thankfully, Jackson saved the day, stopping by with a plumber friend and taking Gran and me out to dinner once things were under control.

But the damage was…a lot.

And disgusting.

And so, Gran’s staying at my place.

I love it, love that I get this time with her, but between getting her necessary things to my apartment and cooking, cleaning, and setting her up in my guest room, I’ve barely had time for work.

Something that’s made harder with the obscenely busy game and practice schedule this week. It’s meant that Luc and I have been running around, and the guys working their asses off, and?—

That I haven’t had a lot of time to do anything but sleep, soak in what little private time Jackson and I have had (minimal at best), and cram work into any available moment.

Well, anyway, I guess it’s not really a surprise that it’s taken a week for this conversation to take place.

“I texted you,” I say softly.

“Texts hide a lot of shit,” he mutters, eyes fixed on mine. “Are you really okay?”

“Frazzled. Busy as hell. Exhausted.” I sigh. “But happier than I’ve ever been. It’s like…well, like you said, practice makes perfect, and Jackson and I are working on perfect.”

His eyes narrow. “It’s been a week.”

“And sometimes that week is enough for you to know what’s very right and what’s very wrong in your life,” I tell him.

He scowls, but I see it.

The softening on the edges of his expression.

So, I give him what he needs to be at ease.

“I told you I was tired of being on the sidelines, but terrified to jump onto the field alone, terrified to let anyone in. Jackson”—this time my sigh is contented—“well, he makes me forget I was scared in the first place. I can’t say that it’s going to be all adorable puppies and rainbows now that we got our shit together, but I’m happy and excited to be out here living.

Silence.

His scowl deepening.

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