Page 32 of Just Say Yes

“No plans to celebrate your win?”

I grinned. “The guys will go out, but not usually before a game day. We’ll celebrate when we win again tomorrow.”

A soft, disgusted noise rattled out of her nose. “So cocky.”

I placed my hand on my chest. “I like to think of it as healthy confidence. Besides, us princesses need our beauty sleep.”

MJ lingered by the edge of the bed, glancing down at her rain-soaked shirt, and I couldn’t help but notice her hesitation. She pulled at the fabric a little, her eyes scanning the room.

“You could ...” I started, my voice low, already wondering if I’d regret this. “You could wear my shirt if you want. Probably more comfortable than sleeping in that.”

Her gaze snapped up to mine, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. I grinned, maybe a bit too satisfied with myself, and stood. Reaching behind me, I pulled off the fresh team-branded shirt I’d tossed on after my shower. My name was printed across the back, along with the team logo, and something about offering it to her felt ... oddly personal.

Still, I pulled it over my head in one motion, watching her reaction as her eyes darted over my chest and shoulders, pausing just long enough to tell me she noticed. She swallowed, her gaze dropping, but not before I caught her reaction.

Her lingering gaze sent a spark of satisfaction through me. For a moment I felt the air between us shift, heavy and charged.

I held the shirt out, and she reached for it, her fingers brushing mine in a quick, warm touch. “Thanks,” she murmured, not quite meeting my eyes.

MJ slipped into the bathroom, and as soon as the door clicked shut, I let out a slow breath, scrubbing my hand over my face before walking toward the bed.

This was going to be rough. Sharing a room with her, sleeping in the same bed, all while pretending I could keep my cool? Not likely. She had a way of getting under my skin, and tonight I could feel it in every nerve. I was too aware of her, too drawn in by everything she was—and wasn’t—saying.

And the thought of her in there, slipping into my shirt, her body wrapped in it ... or, hell, maybe even my actual jersey, the fabric barely reaching her thighs—let’s just say it wasn’t helping my case to stay focusedorrelaxed.

My cock ached.

I shook my head, trying to push the image out of my mind, but the visual kept creeping back in.

Focus, Logan.

I heard the bathroom door click and looked up. When she stepped out of the bathroom, I forgot how to breathe. My shirt hung loose on her, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. It wasn’t just that she looked good—she looked like she belonged in it, like it was made for her.

And damn if that didn’t do something to me.

I cleared my throat, turning back to fluff a pillow, hoping she hadn’t noticed the way I’d frozen for a second there.

“It ... uh, looks good on you,” I managed, keeping my tone casual, though my pulse was anything but.

She shot me a quick, almost shy smile, tugging at the hem and tucking a lock of soft brown hair behind her ear. “Thanks.”

We stood at the center of the room, neither of us acknowledging the empty bed. “So,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “Why aren’t you playing in the Sevens? Maria said it’s what most of the pros do.”

I felt the question settle in my chest, a familiar weight of pride and frustration. There it was—the thing I couldn’t shake, gnawing at the back of my mind every time I thought about the team, about my body. I took a breath, choosing my words carefully.

“The thing is,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair, “the body doesn’t always bounce back the way you want it to. And when you’re thirty-four, people start whispering about when you’ll finally hang it up. I’m not ready for that.”

She waited and I found myself opening up more.

“During the Olympic Games, I got a concussion,” I said. “And I tweaked my knee. Didn’t quite bounce back like I thought I would. Now I’m doing exhibition games instead. It’s a temporary gig, just to stay sharp.”

She was quiet, her gaze turned away, and I wondered if she could feel that tension in me. This was the reality—thirty-four years old and I was one of the senior players, no longer able to just shake off the wear and tear. The next Olympics would probably be my last run, but even that felt like a gamble now.

I’d lost count of the times I’d asked myself,How much longer can I keep doing this?

“Want me to take a look?” she asked.

I paused, considering her offer. “Is this within the realm of blood-pressure medication and enforcing visiting hours?” I teased.

---