Page 91 of The Fine Line

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“I just take my caffeine like I take my men.”

I blink at her, her words going straight down my spine.

You need to leave. You’re going to be late,my brain screams.

But my mouth has a mind of its own.

“And how’s that?”

She locks eyes with me. “Fast and hard.”

Jesus Christ.

“Are you free tonight?” I ask, my voice husky.

“Nope,” she says. “But I’ve got fifteen minutes now.”

Fuck.

“Then I’ve got time to take care of you twice.”

And that’s how I ended up christening my new city against a coffee shop bathroom wall at 9:42 a.m. on a Wednesday.

And that’s how I ended up christening my new city against a coffee shop bathroom wall at 9:42 a.m. on a Wednesday.

And how I managed to royally screw my first impression—storming into the Chicago Blizzard’s headquarters fifteen minutes late, panting, sweaty, curls wild, lips bruised, and very visible scratches peeking from my collar.

Jennette.

She left me with nothing but a laugh and a pat on my cheek when I asked for her number—which, I guess, is more than I’ve gotten in the past.

So—

Was it worth it?

No, probably not.

Would I do it again?

Probably, yeah.

“Coach, I’m so sorry,” I start, breathless. “Got turned around on the way. Still learning the city?—”

“How nice of you to join us.”

My shoulders instantly stiffen. Because the voice that cuts me off isn’t my Coach Patrick’s. It’s coming from someone sitting down at the table behind him.

And even though they’re hidden from my view, I’d know that voice from a mile away.

Coach steps aside.

And there he is.

And suddenly it all comes back to me like a war flashback.

Red streamers. Deafening chants. His face inches from mine as he slammed me into the boards.

My old enemy.

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