Page 38 of Undisputed Player
"I know you will, champ," Jax replied, ruffling Leo's hair with his uninjured hand.
And just like that, watching him be gentle with Leo, my stupid heart performed a gymnastic routine.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Estelle
The walk to our apartment was surreal, like being escorted through my life by a fallen angel who'd gotten lost on his way to paradise. Jax Easton followed me through the dingy parking lot of our building and flickering lights that made everything look like a crime scene in progress.
This was my reality.
The thought burned through me with fresh shame as I became hyperaware of every crack in the concrete, every stain on the walls, every sign that screamed "poverty lives here." I'd seen pictures of his beach house online—our entire apartment could probably fit in his bathroom.
God, what must he think of me? Of us?
The shame was crawling under my skin, making my hands shake as I fumbled with keys that got stuck in the lock. Behind me, I could feel his huge presence like heat from fire, warm, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
Leo bounced beside me, clutching that beautiful book like itcontained the secrets of the universe, his excitement comforting in my spiral of mortification.
"It's not much," I mumbled as I finally got the door open, my voice small and defensive, "but it's home."
It was the saddest line I possibly could have come up with.
Jax stepped inside, and our tiny living room immediately shrank around his presence like a theater set designed for someone half his size.
His broad shoulders seemed to fill the entire space, making our secondhand furniture look even more pathetic by comparison. Those piercing blue eyes swept the room, taking in our patched curtains and the security cameras I'd installed myself.
I braced myself for the pity, for the careful distance wealthy people always put between themselves and poverty, for the polite condescension that would remind me exactly where I belonged in the social hierarchy.
But his expression remained neutral, almost... thoughtful? "It's a home," he said simply, his voice warm without a trace of judgment. “It’s lived in. It's real."
Real.The word hit differently coming from someone who could afford anything artificial, anything perfect. I wasn't sure if it was a compliment or just a polite way of saying "quaint," but something in his tone sent unexpected emotion through me.
The apartment felt too warm, too small, too intimate, with him standing here, all big and golden. The air seemed thicker, charged with a tension I tried to ignore. I directed Leo to get the first aid kit, grateful for the excuse to turn away from those blue eyes that saw too much.
My hands trembled slightly as I filled a plastic bag with ice from our ancient freezer, the cold against my fingers grounding me to reality.
This was Jax Easton. In my kitchen. The surreal nature of it all made me feel slightly dizzy.
"Here," I murmured, extending the makeshift ice pack toward him,careful not to let our fingers touch again. The brief contact earlier had sent electricity up my arm that I was still trying to process.
But he had other plans. His fingers brushed mine as he took the ice pack, the contact deliberate and lingering, sending sparks of awareness shooting straight to parts of my anatomy that had been dormant.
His skin was warm, calloused from boxing, and the simple touch made me hold my breath.
"Thanks, Estelle." The way he said my name was like a caress, low and intimate, like he'd been practicing it in private moments.
I had to stop it. Stop reading into everything. He was probably just being polite.
I turned away quickly, busying myself with filling a bowl with warm water while my pulse hammered against my throat. Leo returned with our first aid kit, a collection of Band-Aids and antiseptic that had seen us through every minor disaster of the past year.
"Let me see your hands," I instructed, trying to inject some professional authority into my voice, trying to pretend I was a nurse instead of a woman whose entire nervous system had gone haywire from proximity to pure male perfection.
He extended them toward me, palms up, and I had to fight back a small gasp. His hands were large and elegant, long tan fingers adorned with heavy gold rings that caught light.
But it was the scrapes that concerned me, red abrasions filled with grit from the pavement, the kind that would get infected if not properly cleaned.
