Page 3 of Christmas Cheer

“Stop!” I roar, and yeah, if I was completely sober, I probably wouldn’t yell like that at her, but I’m already stressed from watching her on the bars and now I’m just cranky enough that I’m done with her pushing back. “Will you chill out for three seconds and let me do this so I’m not freaking out about whether you’re safe or not?”

Her eyes go wide. Too wide. A little damp.

Fuck. That might have been too much.

But after an uneven breath, she says. “Well, I have to shower and change. I can’t walk home like this. You wanna do the same?”

Fuck yeah, I want to shower with Keira.

Chapter 2

Keira

I throw mylocker door open so hard it bounces off its neighbor and nearly slams back into my hand. At this point, I’m so angry I doubt I would feel it.

Evan Allore.

Of all the people who have access to the fitness center 24-7, it had to be goddamn Evan Allore. The bane of my existence ever since my dad moved us across the country and I had to reinvent myself.

Why is Evan even on campus? It’s Christmas Eve; no one’s supposed to be here. It should have been the perfect time to practice one last time in the gymnastics center.

Also, how dare he question me? The only reason I messed up that layout Jaeger into a Pak transition is he startled me. And even then, I had myself tucked properly to land safely — only to get absolutely wrecked by a 213-pound cannonball of lean, muscular human flesh, a navy blue mohawk, and the most frustratingly charming sapphire eyes framed by seductively lush and long lashes.

Which he uses to be a total slut, by the way. His dick’s been in at least half the girls I’ve cheered with. Some of the guys, too. And being the arrogant, pig-headed all-star, he simply cannot stand that I’ve never been interested in that. I don’t have time to be his ego-stroke. I’m too busy keeping my head above water to deal with an energy vampire.

This is the worst possible timing for him to pop back up, when I’m raw and heartsick and stressed about the future that’s barreling toward me with just as much force as Evan.

I tilt my head up to the drop tile ceiling and groan long and low in frustration. I’m tempted to hang out here until Evan gets bored and leaves or passes out, but no, better to get this over with. I peel my sports bra off and spin around to toss it in my sports bag on the bench.

Evan is standing right next to me.

“Oh my God, what is wrong with you?” I shriek.

He raises one dark, impeccably groomed eyebrow at me. “What? We’re showering.”

I do my best to cover myself with my locker door as I gape at him.“Nottogether!”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen your tits, Hughes.”

I hate when he calls me Hughes. It’s not that I have anything against being called Hughes in general; most of my squad does. But he’s spent my entire career tormenting me about the fact that he doesn’t consider cheerleading a sport. When I’d just had to give up gymnastics because of the cost, and cheer was my only option? That was the last thing I wanted to hear from someone whose mommy and daddy were rich.

Also, oh my god, he’s seen my boobs one time. Not even for any sexy reason. One of my teammates pranked me by hiding my bra. I was hunting it down in a storage closet across the hall from the girls’ locker, and by terrible luck, Evan needed a mouth guard from that closet at that exact moment.

“You’re a jackass, Evan. I was fifteen. Will you please go so I can shower?”

“Nope.” He drops his gym bag right next to mine and strips off his stupid Alexander McQueen tank — seriously, what a waste of money — tossing it on the bench before kicking off his sneakers and dropping his gym shorts. “I’m not leaving you here by yourself. Anyone could walk in and assault you.”

“The building’s locked. We have key cards!”

“That every single athlete, all the coaches, the janitors, probably hundreds of people have. You wanted to shower, you told me I had to shower, so we’re showering together.” He adds his socks to his pile of laundry. “Come on, hurry up, we’re not spending all night here.”

He drops his briefs.

Jesus.

I don’t have to look at his dick if I don’t want to. The way we’re standing, it’s easy to just not focus there, although I swear my eyes start watering with the effort. And casual as you like, he pulls his shower supplies out of his bag. “Well, let’s do this.”

I should have an intelligent response. An absolute diatribe about how disgustingly inappropriate this is. But my brain is starting to pulse, my body’s getting all flustered with the effort to not look at what I already know is perfection, and all I manage is a weak “This isn’t okay.”

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