Page 69 of The Wrong Play

And locked eyes withher.

I was too far away to catch every detail, unfortunately—there was no way to see if her face went white, if her lips popped open, if her whole body locked up when she saw what I was doing. But I knew it had. I felt it, deep and sure, like I could reach out and touch her from fifty yards away.

Those honey-colored eyes were burning into me—I’d bet my left nut on it—wide and shocked, pinned on me like I’d just ripped the ground out from under her.

My Riley-girl thought she could run. She thought she could hide, push me off, bury whatever this was under two days of silence. But there was no escaping this—no ducking me, no dodging what I’d carved into my skin for her to see. She’d painted my number on her cheek—willingly or not, it didn’t matter—and I’d answered with her name on mine. Checkmate, baby llama.

We wouldn’t go into the fact that I’d been stalking her across the campus the last two days whenever I wasn’t in class or practice. Because, obviously, I couldn’t go two days without seeing her.

That wouldn’t have been just crazy.

The ref’s whistle cut through, signaling the extra point, and I jogged back to the sideline, giving Parker the hip thrust I usually did in the end zone, because I knew he would be missing it. He rolled his eyes, grinning like a jackass, and slapped my shoulder. “I thought you were trying to stop her from running,” he said, his voice rough with a laugh.

“It’s all in my master plan,” I shot back, wiping sweat off my forehead, my eyes flicking up to her again. She was still there, standing stiff, like she was caught in my crosshairs and didn’t know how to break free.

Good. Let her squirm. Let her feel it, the weight of my number on her, her name on me, this thing between us she couldn’t outrun.

Halftime came eventually with the score seventeen to seven, us in the lead, of course, and I jogged to the tunnel, peeling off my helmet, sweat dripping down my neck and soaking my jersey.

The boys were loud—Parker yapping about the drive, Matty cackling about some hit—but I tuned them out, my gaze flicking back to the stands one last time. Riley was still there, rooted, that77bold on her cheek, her arms crossed tighter now, like she could shield herself from me.

I tapped my cheek again, even though she couldn’t see me, my cock twitching just looking at her. I grinned, slow and determined, already picturing it—another image coming to mind…of me smearing that paint across her skin, dragging it over her lips, down her jaw, marking her messy withme. I’d paint her in my cum, inside and out, until she couldn’t breathe without tasting me.

She thought she could ditch me two days ago—she thought she could wash me off.

Nah, babycakes.

Riley St. James wasfucked. ’Cause I wasn’t letting her go—ever.

CHAPTER 10

RILEY

Stats class was another version of hell. Math had always been my weakest subject, and taking a year off between high school and college…and then missing time at the beginning of the semester from being sick…hadn’t exactly improved my skills. I sat near the back, doodling in the margins of my notebook while Professor Lang droned on about probability distributions.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and since I didn’t talk to anyone, and it was unlikely that one of my coworkers had decided to start up a conversation…it was probably another text from Jace.

I ignored it, just as I’d ignored him all week as he popped up everywhere I was. Both my jobs, outside of my classes, and in the dining hall, even though I knew the athletes had a special dining hall just for them.

His tongue, his hands…him. It felt like he was burned into me.

But I couldn’t cave. Even though I wanted to.

Callum had sent me an email to my personal email address yesterday. Telling me how much he missed me, and howeverything was going to be different when we were reunited. When. Not if.

The shock of seeing his email had reminded me why beautiful boys—and men—were the most dangerous.

And why I should be avoiding Jace at all costs.

“Riley?” A quiet voice cut through my haze, and I glanced up to see a guy hovering by my desk. Danny, that was his name. He had an easy smile and tousled brown hair. He looked kind of like a guy who’d stepped out of a J.Crew catalog, with sharp cheekbones, blue eyes, and a navy sweater that hugged his lean frame just right. He was nice looking, sure, but safe. Predictable. The opposite of Jace’s walking chaos.

And why was I comparing him to Jace right now?

“Do you have a second after class?”

I blinked, my pencil stalling mid-scrawl. “Sure,” I said, wary but curious. Hopefully he wasn’t trying to ask for help in this class, I was more likely to help him fail then improve on any of his skills.

Class dragged on, but when the bell finally rang, I shoved my stuff into my bag and followed Danny into the hall. He stopped near the vending machines set up against the wall, shifting his weight like he was debating bolting. “So, um,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner or something. Friday night…if you’re not already busy, of course,” he added quickly.

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