Page 85 of The Breakaway

He chuckled. "That's what happens when you use muscles you didn't know existed." He handed me a bowl of spaghetti.

I took in the shredded parmesan on top. “You made this?”

“It’s not hard. Ground beef and jarred sauce.”

I laughed. “Well, it looks amazing.”

Rob turned on an episode of Seinfeld and leaned back, resting one arm on the back of the couch. I twirled a forkful of spaghetti and glanced at the screen, recognizing the opening notes of the theme music. I didn’t watch much TV, but this was definitely a favourite.

Jerry and Elaine started their banter, and within moments, Rob and I were laughing. I couldn’t help it—Jerry’s deadpan delivery and Elaine’s sharp wit had us both in stitches. Rob’s laugh was unrestrained, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back against the couch, utterly at ease.

I found myself grinning more at him than the show. His face lit up in a way that made my chest ache. How had I never noticed how perfectly his smile tilted, just a little lopsided?

Then Jerry and Elaine began laying out their friends-with-benefits rules, and my blood started to rush. Neither of us was laughing anymore. I tried to focus on the TV, but my attention drifted, drawn to the way Rob absentmindedly tapped his fingers on the armrest.

The soft glow of the screen highlighted the curve of his jaw, the way the light caught the faint stubble on his chin. I honed in on the rest of my spaghetti, and when I finished, I set my bowl on the coffee table. The movement brushed my knee against his. He didn’t pull away, and the faint contact sent a ripple through me. My body felt taut like I was holding my breath, even though I could’ve sworn my lungs were working.

I regretted setting down my bowl. At least five seconds ago, I had a prop—something to keep my hands busy. Now, feeling warm and fed, all I wanted to do was sink into him. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, his fingers just inchesfrom my shoulder. Would it be so terrible if I let myself inch toward him? Just enough to . . .

No.I pushed the thought aside.Logan, Logan, Logan.Rob and I were friends. That was the deal. Nothing more. Nothing that would make things messy or complicated. But my body didn’t seem to care about the rules of boyfriends and loyalty. My chest ached, my skin felt too warm, and every breath I took felt too heavy.

I got up from the couch, thoughts of Logan reminding me why I’d connected to the internet. I cleared the screensaver and opened up my email. When it loaded, I scanned my inbox. Nothing from Logan.

I exhaled and disconnected, then sat back on the couch. I’d poured out real feelings in my last note to Logan, and it had been a full day. How had he not found time to respond?

Rob laughed softly at another joke, the sound low and rough, and my heart twisted. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way I was staring. But how could I not? The way his lips curled when he smirked, the way his hair fell just slightly into his eyes—it was all too much.

I forced myself from the living room and took our dishes to the sink, then sat on the floor. "I need to stretch or something. I can already tell I'm going to be a walking corpse tomorrow."

Rob nodded. "I have some Tiger Balm in my bag. Our trainer uses it after games. I can grab it for you." He pushed up to stand and walked to the door where he'd dumped his gear. "My bag reeks, but I promise the balm is clean."

I laughed. "A glowing endorsement." I was silent as I watched him unzip his bag and start rifling through his things. He walked back with the tin in his hands, then sat next to me, pulling off the lid.

I sat up straighter. "You can just give me the balm."

Rob looked up. "Oh. The trainer usually rubs it in."

My breath snagged. I swallowed hard. “You don’t have to do that.”

He dropped his eyes. “Where are you sore?”

I knew exactly what he was asking. I thought of all the places aching in my body. So many of them I could reach with my own hands, but that wasn’t what came out of my mouth. “My lower back.”

Heat flushed my cheeks, and I hoped he didn’t notice with the lights turned low. Rob nodded, still not looking at me. He set the top to the tin on the rug next to him. “Just lie down . . .”

I didn’t wait for him to finish that thought. I dropped to my stomach, creating a pillow for my head with my hands.

“Do you want a pillow?” Rob asked.

I shook my head. “No, it’s fine.” I knew this was a bad idea. I knew we were treading a very thin line. I knew what I would feel the second his hands hit my skin.

And I’d underestimated all of it.

The second Rob lifted the hem of my sweatshirt, heat flashed between my thighs. Holy hell. I thought about flipping over. Scrambling up and telling him I’d changed my mind. But then his hands were on me, and all rational thought faded to the back of my mind.

His hands were strong. Firm. I gasped as he pressed into my sore muscles, and he pulled back.

“Too hard?”

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