Page 97 of The Rebound Plan

I need to get this back to Mabel, somehow, without making eye contact with her or ever explaining what that display just was.

Maybe I should text her that it’s in this room, and just…never see her ever again.

I pat my back pocket for my phone, but it’s not there. It’s in my purse, and…

Fuck, I left my purse in the other room.

So the eye contact is going to have to happen, because Mabel will find it when they finish up.

I pace across the room to the far wall, anxiety rising.

I don’t know how people punch walls. Punching this wall looks terrifying. I try shoving at it and that does nothing, so I lean against it and just groan.

When the door behind me opens, I nearly jump out of my skin.

Russ raises his hands. “It’s just me.”

He looks taller than usual. I look down and he’s wearing his skates still, guards on.

“Where are your shoes?”

“I left them across the hall with your purse. I told Mabel I’d come and find you.”

“And you did.” I laugh weakly. “That was fast.”

He winces. “You were easy to find. You waved at a reporter I know on your way in here.”

The anxiety explodes in my brain, like an oncoming car turning on their high beams. “A reporter?”

“It’s okay.” He comes closer. “Aaron’s a good guy, and you wearing my jersey isn’t sports news. There are some weirdos on Twitter who might find it interesting, and I really liked it, but it’s your personal business.”

I throw the offending jersey at him. “Not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

He closes the gap between us. The uniform he’s wearing today is pristine. It still smellsnew. It is a neon sign that he’s off-limits. If cooking my husband a nice dinner in the final weeks of the regular season put his playoff chances in peril, having an affair with his teammate in the pre-season would definitely fuck up the entire season.

But as he stands in front of me like a shining, oversized brand-new man, I can’t forget how he made me feel over those days at his cottage.

Still, I have to try to resist.

“Russ, we can’t…” I trail off as he lifts his hand.

His fingers hover just above my bare shoulder, his attention locked on the thin strap of my tank top. “Can’t do what?”

“Anything.”

“But we already have.” His hand lowers, those fingers making contact with my shoulder.

I shudder at the deep, profound ache that spirals through me from that warm press. I miss being wanted.

I miss being desired. That’s all that this is. I’m vulnerable to his attention because I haven’t been a good enough wife and?—

He drags his fingers up my neck and tips my chin up. “I’m not going to kiss another man’s wife, don’t worry.”

I gasp and jerk away from him, because that’s what I want more than anything else.

I want him to kiss me.

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