Page 65 of Falling Offsides

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to because the shift between us is beyond palpable—it’s living and breathing with a pulse of its own. A thrum that’s echoing through me with every beat of my heart in my chest. Throbbing through my veins.

All I can do not to reach to the side and touch him is stare out the window. Pretending like none of this is getting under my skin.

Pretending like the scent of him and the heat between us aren’t tying knots in my stomach.

Because even if I try to convince myself we’re just friends—coffee and muffins and rides to work—I know the truth.

This tension?

This pull?

It doesn’t stay caged for long. Eventually, something will give. And when it does, I’m scared it won’t just break the rules we’re pretending to follow.

It’s going to break one of us.

And I’m terrified it’s going to be me.

The facility is buzzing—PRmeetings, player stretches and drills echoing down corridors. Everyone’s moving in controlled chaos, and I’m trying not to trip over my own feet with all the gear I’m carrying. The video crew asked me to help them set up for their one-on-one shorts with the players.

“Hey, whoa—let me help with that,” Jordan says, suddenly appearing beside me from one of the therapy rooms.

I blink up at him through my disheveled hair, my arms full of camera equipment and a lighting tripod that’s threatening to jab someone in the eye. “You sure? I’m pretty used to looking like a walking yard sale.”

Jordan grins. “I can’t in good conscience let Coach Nilsson’s daughter drop a three-thousand-dollar lens. I like my job too much.”

I roll my eyes but smile. “Fine. You get one heroic moment.”

He chuckles and grabs the tripod from under my arm, tucking it against his side like it weighs nothing. “Where to?”

“I’m setting up in the space next to the locker room. Making it easier for myself to dash and grab the equipment as it’s needed in the locker room later.”

We fall into step, and I notice—like I always do—how easy Jordan is to talk to. He’s casual. Warm. Comfortable.

“How’s the third week treating you?” he asks.

“About the same as the first week.”

“Sans puck to the head, thankfully. Right?”

I’ve been keeping myself busy so I don’t think about Auguste. Spent my whole morning up in the PR and Marketing office going through photos and footage so the team can put in their requests for this week.

“Right,” I murmur in reply. “It’s actually healed now, I sort of forgot about it to be honest.”

Lie.

I’m a liar. There’s no way I’ve forgotten about it because I can’t get Auguste-goddamn-Broussard off my mind, and everytime I look in the mirror, the pink scar is the first thing I look for. Like it’s a token of our meet cute.

The sicko that he’s making me, I trace the raw line with my finger as though touching the scar he gave me is like touching him—Auguste-freaking-Broussard is ruining me, my sanity, my logic…

“You’re right, it has healed quickly.” Jordan peers closer at my hairline when I pause to hitch the equipment bags on my shoulders up again. His fingers are inches from my face, from that one lock of hair next to my scar that refuses to cooperate when he tells me, “Lucky for Broussard.”

He smiles and my insides skitter at the mention of Auguste’s name.

“So, I heard the guys from marketing rave about the shots you got of Ansel and Micah at Disneyland yesterday. Have to say your stuff looks great all over socials.”

“Thanks. That’s good to hear.” I feel a flicker of pride and try not to show too much of it.

“Maybe the gods upstairs will offer you a permanent position.”

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