Page 43 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s my follicular phase conspiring with the scent of pine sweat and menthol gel. Or maybe it’s just been a while—like, a Netflix subscription could’ve expired and renewed four times kind of while.
But also . . . no.
It’s not just the heat in my stomach. Or the full-body awareness that kicked in the second I touched his leg, and he made that noise—that noise—like he was holding back more than pain. Like he was holding in something, and maybe I wasn’t the only one pretending not to feel it.
“Fuck, Scottie,” I mutter into my palms, “get a grip.”
But the only grip I want is his.
On my waist.
On my hips.
In my hair.
Nope. Nope. Do. Not go there.
I shoot up from the box like I’ve been electrocuted. The bands scatter across the floor like they’re trying to flee withmy dignity. Too late. That left the building somewhere between his low grunt and the moment he called me Scottie, soft and reverent like my name meant something besides ‘high-functioning disaster in leggings.’
This is fine. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.
I just need a cold shower, a glass of wine, and maybe an exorcism.
Or a lobotomy.
Either way, I’m not surviving this man with my sanity intact.
I scrub a hand down my face.
What do I even do now? Pretend it didn’t happen? Pretend I didn’t feel the heat between us like a live current? Pretend his thigh didn’t twitch when I touched him, and his eyes didn’t dip to my mouth like he was considering biting it.
That was not clinical.
That was not nothing.
That was . . .
Shit, I don’t know what that was.
And the worst part?
A piece of me liked it—all of it. The attention, the spark, but also the moment where someone wasn’t just looking at me like a coach or a therapist or a woman who’s got her shit together, but like I was still someone wanting.
Still someone wanted.
That piece?
It’s loud now.
I hear a knock on the hallway door—probably Camille, George, or Em looking for me.
I take a breath, then another.
Compose. Lock it down. Reset.
I stand, dust off my leggings, and reach for my clipboard like a shield.
But even as I walk out, heart calm, face neutral, every part of me that Jason touched still buzzes with something I don’t want to name.
