Page 38 of The Break Down

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because I don’t know if he meant it that way. If he meant to look at me like that.

I don’t know if he regrets it. And I sure as hell don’t know where we go from here.

Dane and Carolina are at some fancy dinner meeting with the team we’re supposed to play while we’re in New Orleans.

Something about networking and building friendly league rapport.

I tuned out halfway through the explanation, mostly because Koa had walked by the RV shirtless, wearing those goddamn short ass rugby shorts with his thick, tattooed thighs on display, and my brain had promptly short-circuited.

We’re here for five days this time. Not two.

That’s cool with me.

That means more content, more behind-the-scenes footage, more players goofing off in tight shorts and sweat-slicked jerseys.

More Koa.

And yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Dangerous territory.

But screw it.

At least I get to stretch my legs and work in a city with amazing food, incredible music, wild history, and gorgeous architecture that makes every shot look like a damn movie trailer.

So far, so good.

The fan pages for the Carolina Rovers are exploding.

My latest post—slow-mo of Koa walking off the field, shirt off and wiping sweat from his jaw with it, muscles rippling—has gone insane.

Shares, likes, flame emojis, thirst comments in three languages.

And every single one of them feels like a dagger.

"God, look at those abs."

"He could tackle me anytime ."

"Imagine that mouth on your neck."

I want to reply. I don’t. But I want to.

Lady, I don’t have to imagine it.I’ve felt it and all I can say is this.

Hands. Off.

My jaw clenches every time I read another comment from some faceless woman drooling over him like he’s public property.

Which is dumb. Because he’s not mine.

Not officially.

Not in a way that counts.

Not in a way that gives me any right to feel this sick twist of jealousy in my gut.

We had one passing moment.

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