Page 3 of Falling for 42
“Go.” I shove his arm. “Go say hi to your girl.”
He looks back at me, his light brown skin flushed, and I roll my eyes. Millie and Mikey—Jesus, their names put together like that tells you exactly how loved-up they are and what a perfect couple they make. They’ve been best friends since childhood, which honestly, I kind of envy.
“Thanks, Mally. I probably won’t be out for drinks.”
I wave him away, not surprised by that as he spins on his heel, leaving me with an open line of sight to Jackson, who’s standing on the sideline with his brother. The same inked-up brother who Jackson knows I’ve been crushing hard on for the past couple of years.
Admittedly, I was first hooked by Kobe’s smirk and his intense gray eyes from one of Jackson’s photos. But that simple admiration entered major crushing territory once Jackson told me about his Insta account.
Do I live to watch his reels? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Between spending hours cyber-stalking—but is it really stalking if his account is public?—and prodding Jackson for updates on his hot-as-fuck brother who’s been working in Japan to perfect his already incredible tattooist skills, I feel like I know the guy.
Ridiculous, I’m aware, but fuck if him being here doesn’t have my stomach somersaulting.
Jackson steps out of his brother’s hold after a tight hug. This is only the second time they’ve seen each other since Kobe’s been stateside. Officially, it’s our first time meeting.
My feet are already moving. There’s no point in pretense or hanging back. The guy’s wearing my number—which, hello, spank bank material for the rest of my life right here. Plus, from Jackson’s loud snort when he first spotted his brother and his not-so-innocent shrug when I asked him why the hell he was wearing my numberandwhy Jackson never told me his brother was coming, it’s super clear Jackson orchestrated this whole thing.
I’m not mad at all.
I don’t know why Jackson’s done it, but no way am I missing my opportunity.
By the time it’s obvious the direction I’m going—yeah, I’m arrowing toward Kobe like a magnet drawn to steel—Kobe’s eyes flick to me. There, right fucking there, a smooth, sexy smile appears, perfect enough to steal my breath and make my mouth dry.
“Hey,” I say once I’m in front of him, hand outstretched. “Kobe, right?” I ask, as if it’s not super fucking obvious that I know exactly who he is and that I want to jump his bones.
There’s movement from Jackson and a light, barely disguised cough covering what I know is a snort. Not that I give a shit, and I care even less when Kobe’s smile stretches wider as he grips my hand. His grip’s firm, his inked skin soft, but it’s the swipe of his thumb that makes it a struggle to swallow down the way my breath hitches.
“Yeah, and you’re Malik, right?”
Another cough from Jackson. This one gets both of our attention, and I reluctantly pull my gaze away from drinking Kobe in, and even more grudgingly, I release his hand.
Jackson’s smile is cat-that-got-the-cream wide. “We need to get going before Coach Tiller sends out a search party and kicks our asses.”
I sigh, knowing he’s right. There are still a few players milling around—Coach gives us a little slack in these preseason games. If we don’t haul ass soon, though, we’ll be on his shit list.
“I’ll meet you out front, right?” Kobe’s voice washes over me, gruff and deeper than it sounds on video.
When Jackson doesn’t answer, I frown and glance over at Kobe. His eyes are on me. Holy fuck. The hairs on my arms react immediately, standing on end like I’ve been hit with a live wire.
“Me?” I press my lips together, heat flooding my cheeks. Jesus, how high can one word sound?
Kobe tilts his head a little, a small twitch of his lips following. “Jackson owes us both beers.” He lifts his shirt, drawing my attention to the fact that he’s wearing my number. The widening of his eyes is small, but I notice it. “Uhm….” Uncertainty crosses his features. “You are twenty-one, right?”
Amusement spreads in my chest right along with a tumble of glee in my gut that it’s something he’s wondering about. “Yeah. I’m a senior. Just twenty-one for another two weeks. On Valentine’s Day, in fact.”
I’m absolutely laying all my cards out there for him.
Kobe’s brows lift, and his shoulders ease just a fraction, like I’ve clarified something bigger than just my age. There’s a flicker of relief that tells me he’s been thinking about me more than just in passing. His gaze hasn’t wavered—there’s a kind of pull to it, magnetic and strong, and I’mnotpretending not to feel it.
I let out a breath, a little unsteady. “So, about that beer,” I say, trying to smooth over my nerves with a smile.
Jackson cuts in with a playful groan, clearly trying to lighten the moment. “You two are making this way too serious. But yeah, beer’s on me. First round.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m still caught in that charged space between me and Kobe. The kind of space where words feel like they don’t need to be said, but part of me wants to say them anyway—wants to make it clear I’m not playing some kind of game. I’m not trying to be coy or play hard to get. The truth is, I’ve been interested in getting to know Kobe for far too long to pretend otherwise. And right now, standing here with that quiet intensity in his eyes, I can tell he’s curious about how he ended up wearing my number.
The moment stretches, something unsaid passing between us, and then Jackson’s voice breaks it, like a door slamming open. “C’mon, Mally. We gotta move!”
