Page 55 of Winning Brynn

We lost the game.

3-2.

And though I scored a goal from the center line—which was pretty fucking spectacular, actually—we sucked as a collective, and our opposition used it to their advantage.

Arun got a verbal beatdown by Coach in the locker room afterward. We all did, to be fair, but he got it worse as the goalkeeper. Two of the goals we conceded were blamed on our defending players, but he made a royal cock-up in the eighty-third minute when he dropped the fucking ball.

Literally.

It was slow-moving, low-power, and it slipped through his hands like a toddler trying to catch for the first time.

He's in a foul mood now. But then, we all are.

The gray cloud of disappointment follows me the rest of the day. Even as I rock Salem to sleep, her eyelashes fluttering peacefully over her cheeks, I can't stop replaying the match in my head and kicking myself for all the shit I should have done differently. And for a long while, I just sit on the floor of my daughter's bedroom, holding her as she sleeps.

It's almost nine p.m. by the time I walk back into the main living space.

Brynn looks over at me in surprise, one hand holding a glass of white wine, the other flicking through the pages of a fashion magazine that rests in her lap.

Retrieving my own glass of wine from the kitchen, I take a seat beside her on the sofa.

"I thought you'd fallen asleep," she says, setting the magazine down on the coffee table and hugging her legs to her chest. Resting her chin on her knees, she peers up at me through her eyelashes.

God, she's fucking beautiful.

All shimmering eyes and flushed cheeks from the wine. As always when she's at home, she's wearing the smallest pair of pajamas. Pink-and-white-striped silk. Soft against her long legs that are tan somehow despite the Seattle fall weather.

It's like the universe took all my fantasies and built her out of them.

"I was thinking," I reply.

"About the game?"

I nod.

"You played well today," she offers gently. "That goal?" she whistles. "Fucking beautiful."

Her words don't erase my disappointment at today's loss, but they sure do boost my ego. I find myself sitting straighter, my chest puffing slightly with pride.

"Thanks." I shoot her a lopsided grin. "But I played like shit the rest of the game. I missed a chance to pass in the first half because I was too focused on scoring."Because you were watching, and I wanted to impress you." Fucking selfish of me, really. If I'd been thinking about the team, I'd have passed, and the other team wouldn't have intercepted the ball and then gone on to score. We could have at least reached a draw if—"

The touch of her hands on my shoulders cuts me off mid-thought. I hadn't even noticed her get up, let alone round the couch to stand behind me.

When her delicate fingers begin kneading my muscles, I have to fight to suppress a shudder. "Stop beating yourself up," she says, her hands working fucking miracles.

"But I need to know what I should have done differently."

"You already do." Her thumb finds a particularly tender spot in my shoulder, rubbing in small circles, and my eyes close as I let myself relax into her touch. "You know what you could have done better, and next time, you won't make the same mistakes. So, sitting here driving yourself crazy with things you can't change isn't going to do anything but make you feel shitty."

To be honest, it's difficult to concentrate on what she's saying when she's rubbing her hands over me. She's only touching my shoulders, but my body is reacting to her as if she were on her knees about to suck my dick.

My heart is beating almost to the point of cardiac arrest, every breath carries extra weight, and I'm hard as a fucking rock. It's a goddamn miracle she hasn't already noticed. My track pants leave very little to the imagination, so I'm pretty much saluting her right now.

"You can stop now," I choke out. "Thank you."

Her hands fall away, her absence bringing with it an immediate, bone-deep chill. I have half a mind to beg her to touch me again, but I'd probably spontaneously ejaculate the moment she does. So, it's safer for my dignity—and the well-being of both of us—if I don't.

I pull a blanket from the back of the sofa and throw it over my lap as she sits back down.

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