Page 18 of Second Quarter Comeback
He tilts my chin up, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You can’t stop yourself from falling, Camille,” he says softly, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “But we can make damn sure that while we’re falling, we take care of each other’s hearts.”
And I hope he’s right, because I don’t what’s going to happen if he suddenly realizes I’m not enough. I’m too little for the kind of person he’s about to become. I just pray I can survive the fall.
Fourteen years later
Fourteen years later . . .
Chapter Ten
Killion
The Return Play No One Expected
Present Day . . .
Tuesday evenings after training are usually predictable. By now, the adrenaline from Sunday’s win has faded, leaving me stuck somewhere between exhaustion and routine. Slinging my duffelbag over my shoulder, I step out of the car in front of my building. The high-rise gleams against the gray evening sky, its sleek glass reflecting the muted glow of the city.
As I move toward the entrance, I notice a moving truck parked at the curb. The logo on its side is faded, and the movers unloading boxes look like they’d rather be anywhere else. My eyes narrow.
“Let’s hope this isn’t for my building,” I mutter. The idea of a new neighbor disrupting the peace I’ve carved out in my penthouse doesn’t sit well. And, okay, I know it sounds conceited, but the only unoccupied unit is the one next to mine.
When they left, I was half relieved, half concerned about who would arrive in their place. I even had my agent reach out to the family that owns it and offer to buy it, but they turned him down. Something about spending a few years in Europe to immerse their young kids in other cultures. Once they’re older, they plan on coming back. Listen, I’m not judging their educational style, just sell me the place so I can control my environment. They can buy something new when they’re back, right?
“Evening, Jerry,” I greet the doorman as I reach the revolving doors.
“Good evening, Mr. Crawford,” he replies with his usual polite nod.
As I step into the lobby, I freeze.
Near the elevator stands a woman, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, directing the movers withcalm efficiency. Her cream sweater clings in all the right places, her dark jeans molding to her curves. Red hair, tied into a bun with a green scarf, glints like copper fire under the fluorescent lights.
There’s something about her that stops me cold—the tilt of her head, the way she moves with that purposeful sway, the soft press of her lips as she concentrates, like the world around her doesn’t exist. It’s too familiar, too goddamn haunting.
My pulse kicks up, and my cock stirs before my brain catches up. My eyes roam her figure like they’ve been starved for years—and hell, maybe they have. That hair. That fucking red hair. It’s enough to make me feel unhinged.
It can’t be her. It shouldn’t be her.
But then my chest tightens, the memory crashing in hard and fast. She looks like her. My Cami. My fucking Cami.
And there I go again, losing my damn mind, thinking that any redhead who stirs up my blood like this could be her. But this time, it’s different. My body isn’t just reacting—it’s zinging, every nerve on high alert like it’s found its missing piece.
It’s her.
Camille Ashby.
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath. “No way. It can’t be her.”
I narrow my gaze, zeroing in on her like a predator catching sight of prey. It’s been years, but there’s nomistaking her. That wild red hair I used to tangle my fingers in. The proud tilt of her chin, the way she carries herself like she owns every inch of the space around her.
And if I got close—really close—I’d find those freckles, wouldn’t I? The ones that used to drive me crazy. I’d trace them with my tongue, one by one, just to hear that soft, breathy sound she made when I kissed her skin. I wonder if she still tastes the same, like honey and temptation.
Her eyes. I know if she turned around and looked at me, they’d still have that same fire, that way of locking on to me like I was her whole damn world.
But that was years ago. We were stupid kids back then, drunk on dreams and each other. She had plans, big ones that didn’t include staying put. And me? I had a career carved out for me before I even knew who the hell I was.
It seems like now, she’s here, and I can feel it in my bones. I can feel the pull, the need . . . it shouldn’t be there, but I feel it.
She turns suddenly, her gaze sweeping the lobby before landing on me. For a moment, her expression remains neutral—a polite smile, the kind you give to a stranger you’ve caught staring. No flicker of recognition.
