Page 46 of Falling Offsides

Then, when we’re inside, he places the plates in the sink and says, “I'm sorry.”

I glance over at him. Disappointment gripping my chest at his apology. I don’t want him to be sorry for checking me out. I like his eyes on me… his attention makes me feel good…

“For this week,” he clarifies. “I hurt you and then I was a dick.”

“Yeah,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. “You were.”

He nods, looking genuinely apologetic.

Still, I meant what I told him the other morning—as gorgeous as he is and as much as I’m starting to like him, he doesn’t get off the hook so easily. As such, I lift my chin and tell him, “Do it again, and I'm stealing your puppy. Also, I’ll have my dad put you on death drills for the rest of the season.”

That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Noted.”

We both look down when a sudden stream hits the floor.

“Oh fuck.”

Samson is peeing. Right next to us.

Auguste moves like he's about to throw himself on a grenade.

“I—shit, I didn’t?—”

“Relax,” I cut in, crouching beside the pup. “Babies always have accidents. We’ll get some puppy pads while we’re at the pet store.”

With a scratch behind Samson’s ears, I lift him up and clean his wet paws with some kitchen paper. Meanwhile, Auguste watches, something soft flickering in his eyes.

And just like that, we settle back into the mess of whatever this is.

Like he never froze me out.

Like we didn’t start with a puck to the face and a grudge.

Like we might actually be something else entirely.

The pet store is massive,full of pastel toys and overpriced collars. Auguste is pushing the cart while I go into full-on puppy parent mode—even if Samson isn’t mine. I’m picking up treats and chew toys and staring down entire aisles of food options while I google them one by one on my phone and weigh up the pros and cons with Auguste.

Samson rides in the front basket, tiny paws draped over the edge as he looks around—drooling and flopping his head back with cartoonish drama like he’s a kid in a candy shop.

“He’s ridiculous,” I snicker as we pass the treat station on the way to the collar aisle and Samson barks at the stand.

“He’s you,” Auguste says from beside me, completely deadpan.

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, pretending to inspect a rack of grain-free treats. “Drama. Pretty. Impossible to ignore.”

“Pretty?” I say, arching a brow.

Auguste just smirks, but a rosy tinge glows on his cheeks, softening the chiseled edges of his face.

God, the man is infuriating—infuriating, confusing, way too attractive, and now he’s holding up two collars like we’re actual co-parents in this weird little pet store moment.

I reach for one—a dark brown leather collar that’s soft and broken in around the edges—and he hands it to me without a word. Then I grab a couple of gold heart-shaped tags and head to the engraving station.

I clip the first onto the collar we picked out while the next one is being finished.

When the assistant hands it to me, I hold it up to the light. “It’s perfect.”

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