Page 27 of Sidelined By Love

Or maybe tiptoe my fingers down the straight slope of his nose. Or across his subtle lips.

I’m so busy staring at his face that I almost miss the motion of his hand waving a ball in front of me. “Hold it like this.”

“Huh?”Brilliant, Zoe.“Right. Like this.” I adjust the one in my hands so that my grip is around the white ring at one end.

“No.” His lips twitch, and he reaches for me. His hands are hotter than the rest of him, firing sparks up my arms at the brush of his fingertips. They’re rough and calloused from years in the gym and on the field, but his touch is gentle as he moves myfingers until my ring and pinky are on the laces, my pointer is reaching toward the tip, my thumb on the underside. “How does that feel?”

“Good.” My reply is a little too breathy, and immediately my cheeks burn. Grant’s eyebrows do that dip I’ve grown accustomed to. The one that says he’s wondering if I’m really all right.

“No. Great. The grip feels good.” I squeeze it again, then readjust slightly. “Yeah.”

He nods. “Want to give it a throw?”

“No.”

A laugh bursts out of him. “I thought you were here to learn how to throw a spiral.”

“I am.”

He chuckles again, scratching at the blunt of his chin. “Well, I’m afraid to tell you that this is one of those things that requires doing. You can read all the steps in a book, but if you can’t make your body do those motions, you can’t throw a spiral.”

With a huff, I flip my hair behind my ear. “Fine. But . . . how?”

“How what?”

“How do I throw it?”

His features somehow become more angular, his lips pinching, confusion written in his gaze. “I don’t understand. You just throw it.”

“But,how?“ I must sound like the biggest idiot, and I’m suddenly regretting asking him to teach me anything. It’s the same thing with acting. You can be taught all of the skills but putting them into play requires practice. I’ve heard script writers say the same thing. It’s one thing to know where plot points should go in your movie. It’s something else to show someone a draft of your script.

It requires a whole level of vulnerability. And as my heart thuds against my ribs, I know I don’t want to show that side ofmyself to Grant. I’d much rather look like I have all of my stuff together.

Better yet, I’d ratheractuallyhave all of my stuff together.

And I’d prefer to avoid another embarrassment like our last training session.

Grant drops his ball. “Your dad really never played catch with you?”

“Nope. He said girls don’t play the game.”

His nostrils flare once as he steps behind me. “Do you mind?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer to his question as he reaches around me, wrapping his hand over mine on the ball. His chest cradles my back, his arm supporting my form. “Bring it up like this. Turn your hips like . . .”

His free hand brushes my waist, then his fingers nudge me until I’m almost perpendicular to the end zone. “You’re going to bring your arm up here and turn here with the throw.” He squeezes my waist to show me where.

“Uh-huh.” That breathy response is back. But I can’t help it.

I haven’t responded to a man this way in a very long time—not even Joe . He never once made my insides turn to jelly or my skin light on fire the way that Grant has with one innocent brush of his hand. And his arm. And his chest.

His very presence interrupts the cool fall air, warming me. From the inside out. Unleashing goosebumps along my neck and down my legs. Knees going soft, I swayback into the man in question, and the pressure of his fingers into my hip sets off more fireworks. He’s solid. Not an ounce of give in our contact, but I want to sink into him.

Physics would probably say that’s not possible.

Doesn’t mean I couldn’t try.

But I won’t. Of course.

Because this is all totally innocent.

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