Page 222 of Scoring the Player
There’s so much I need to tell him.
I listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing for signs that he might still be awake.
“Hey,” I whisper, but it comes out too low.
Except he shifts a second later, and I hear, “Yeah?”
“You seemed surprised that I knew which foot your injury was on.”
“Huh?”
Not sure why that’s what comes out, but I keep going. “During our face-off in Brooklyn, you seemed surprised that I knew. I was on the road—Detroit—and turned on ESPN, and there was a clip of you on the floor in pain.” My fingers curl around my pillow as I remember the shock that slammed into me. “I didn’t know why then, but I couldn’t breathe. I don’t remember how, but I ended up on the rooftop of the hotel—just a regular rooftop—to be alone, just to breathe. I was convinced I hated you. Not you, you, but, like, your presence and the way it slammed into me whenever you were near. If I hated you, it’s because it seemed like you knew what it did to me.”
“If I could have stayed away, I would have,” he says, turning to face me.
Thank God he didn’t. “I told myself you weren’tthatbeautiful or sexy or funny, even if the jokes you threw my way made me grin after I cooled off and was alone. You made me afraid, and when I’m afraid, I fight, which never really worked with you because no matter how hard I tried, I never won any of our fights.”
I hear him snicker under his breath. “You got good shots in, though.”
“Tsk. That was some of my best work.”
His gravelly chuckle makes me grin.
“And then you get on TV…” I shake my head. “I never saw it coming. You batting for the same team? Never.”
“See, now I’m offended because I spit my best game at you.”
“What game?‘I like you watching me. I like what it does to your face,’”I mock.
He laughs. “Aha. It worked. You remember?”
“Eh. Maybe on some level, I thought about it. But the cake…” I groan and bury my face in my pillow. “It was so good, it made me hard.”
He lifts the pillow from my face. “You said it made you hard?”
I try to bury my face under the pillow again, but he pulls it away. I squeeze my eyes shut and blurt it out, “I watched a replay of one of your compilation videos while eating it and jerking off. Then some of the cream got on my hands, so I used it as lube and came so hard as I imagined you bending me over and fucking me deep in this bed.”
After a few seconds of silence, my eyes creak open, and I hear, “Wow.” There’s a shuffle and then he switches on a low reading light, bright enough for me to see the big fucking grin on his face.
His teeth roll over his bottom lip. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “You fucked my cake.”
I wince. “I fucked your cake.”
He falls onto his back and groans. “Christ, that’s so hot. If I ever open a bakery, your testimonial is going on the front page of my site.”
“Why do you want to be with me again?”
He snorts. “Because you’d fuck a cake,” he quips, and we both burst out laughing.
“What?” he asks when I turn serious.
“I ran at first, after reading your note. I was standing in front of my teammates and coaching staff, who were all drooling in front of the cake, and whatever lies I told myself—that you weren’t serious with the press conference—were wiped out by your letter. It was so direct and honest in a way I couldn’t deny. So, I ran, and when I got back from the weight room, there were a few slices waiting for me.”
“Hmm.” He crosses his arms and stares up at the ceiling.
Maybe that was too honest.“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“That you’ll want to run—maybe need to at times—but you can’t disappear. You have to talk to me. I can’t handle anyone else I love disappearing. Especially not you.”
