Page 10 of False Start, Real Passion

His honesty takes me off guard. It’s my turn to falter. “What is this really about?” I ask. “The interview or…?”

He’s so close now I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, feel the warmth radiating off his skin. “What do you think?”

I swallow, trying to keep my composure. My gaze darts to the guys watching, but Jaxon doesn’t even seem to notice them. He’s waiting, expecting an answer. And damn it if I’m not ready to give him one.

I lift my chin, defiant even in my confusion. “I think you should remember this is a business arrangement.” I try to sound convincing. Try to convince myself.

He smiles, maddeningly confident. “Sure about that?”

No. “Yes,” I say, voice wavering, betraying me.

His questions rattle around in my head, pulling my resolve apart thread by thread. He steps back, giving me just enough space to breathe, to feel the reality of how much I don’t want him to.

“Think about it, Tori,” he says, loud enough for the team to hear, like it’s a promise.

And with that, Jaxon turns back to the field, leaving me with a clipboard full of notes and a heart hammering like it’s trying to escape.

***

The equipment room smells like leather and sweat and my own uncertainty. I tell myself I’m here to tidy up, but who am I kidding? I’m here to breathe, to get my bearings, to regroup after Jaxon’s interrogation. But then the door swings open, and I’m left breathless all over again. He fills the doorway, confidence and charisma radiating like heat from the sun. He steps inside, and suddenly the space feels smaller, charged, like the molecules around us are vibrating.

I focus on the pile of jerseys in front of me, fingers working without direction, like maybe I can fold my way out of this mess. I was supposed to come here and clear my head, convince myself that our little showdown on the field was nothing more than a hiccup in my professional plan.

Why are you fighting this?The question lodges in my mind like a barb, impossible to shake. I’m not fighting anything, I want to believe. I’m just doing my job. But it feels less like the truth and more like a mantra, losing power with every silent repetition.

I don’t need to turn around to feel Jaxon behind me, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore. “Hiding, are we?” he says, voice like velvet, like sin.

I swallow, forcing a casualness I don’t feel. “Organizing,” I say, still not looking at him, knowing full well it’s useless.

He’s closer now, the warmth of his body so near it pulls at my senses, at the resolve I’m desperately trying to reconstruct. “Does it help?” he asks, low and teasing. “Keeping busy to avoid what you really want?”

I whirl around, meeting his gaze with more defiance than I feel. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

His smile is devastating, slow and knowing. “I think you know.”

The air between us thickens, tension coiling tighter with every second. I should push back, give him a line about professionalism and boundaries and how much this isn’t happening. But I’m too busy fighting the urge to close the remaining distance, and my heart is a wild, uncontrollable thing in my chest.

He steps forward. I step back. I hit the shelves, breath catching as he places a hand beside my head, not touching me, not yet. His nearness is a force, his focus absolute.

“You can’t run forever, sweetheart,” he says, and it sounds less like a threat and more like a promise.

The words unravel me. He’s so close, his eyes boring into mine, relentless, undoing me in ways I can’t even begin to parse. I should shove him away, make another dramatic exit. But my hands stay glued to my sides, unable to follow the instructions of my rational mind.

“Jaxon…” I start, but the rest of the sentence refuses to come. The space between us feels electric, charged with all the things I’ve been pretending don’t exist. My pulse quickens, my breath mingling with his. I should say something, anything, to break the moment, but I’m drowning in it, the air too thick to speak.

His gaze drops to my lips, the world shrinking until it’s just the two of us, and it’s like I can feel him even though he’s not touching me. Yet.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough with want, and I know I should.

Instead, I hold my breath, my traitorous body refusing to move, to resist. His lips are a whisper away, my heart a jackhammer in my chest, and I—

“Stop!” The word bursts from me as I shove him away, hands finding their purpose at the last possible moment. I bolt for the door, feet carrying me before my mind can catch up.

“Running away again?” I hear his voice behind me.

I whirl around, finding him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. The space suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.

“I’m not running,” I say, but the words lack conviction.

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