Page 33 of Sidelined By Love

And like a creep, I can’t stop staring at her. Which I’m sure is making her feel super comfortable with a stinky football player.

But she’s staring at me too, her lips sliding side to side.

Raking a hand through my hair, I mumble the first thing I can think of. “How’d you sleep?”

Her eyebrow gets another workout. “Fine. How was your run?”

“Fine.”

I’ve never been accused of being a great conversationalist, but even I can do better than this. I know I can.

It’s just that I haven’t had a woman in my house in the morning—ever. Unless you count Denise. Or my sister. Which I do not.

Breakfast conversation feels different. More familiar. More intimate. More like I should be confessing that I tossed and turned half the night away because I couldn’t stop thinking about her sleeping on my couch. Because I couldn’t stop wishing I’d kissed her. Because then I had to give myself a stern talking-to and a swift kick in the pants to remember why I should be giving her a wide berth.

“So, do you want to . . .?” Her head ticks to the side, and for a rollercoaster second I panic that she’s reading my mind.

“Huh?” Again with those conversation skills.

“We could get in some practice this morning.”

Right. Smart. Totally professional. Not involving her lips and mine at all. “Sure.”

As soon as we step into the backyard, her whole body shivers. She quickly wraps her arms around her middle, but the tension in her shoulders and neck is still evident. “I’ll be right back.” It takes me only a moment to jog inside and grab a purple sweatshirt from the chair in the corner of my room. When I return to the backyard, I toss it her way. “Put this on.”

Holding it out by the shoulders, she frowns. “How big do you think I am?”

“It’s that or one of Kenna’s coats from the kid’s section.” My back is to her as I pick up a couple balls from the bin on the sideline. And when I turn around, I take a gut punch. She’s drowning in my double-XL sweatshirt, the sleeves completely covering her hands. But somehow, she pinches the collar and presses it to her nose. Eyes closed and features peaceful, she inhales.

I should have let her freeze.

Because now I can’t think about anything but wondering if she likes that scent. My scent.

Honestly, that’s not something I’ve ever thought about before. Of course I want to be clean. I want to feel and smell fresh after practice or a game. But that’s the end of it. Until this very second.

Until Zoe Peebles smelled my sweatshirt.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I underhand a ball in her direction. I need a new hobby.

The ball bounces off Zoe’s arms, and she scowls up at me. “Give a girl some warning.”

“Would it have helped if I had?”

She fights a smile, but it breaks through the cracks as she shoves up her sleeves and picks up the ball. “Probably not.”

Pretty soon we settle into a rhythm of her throwing and me handing her a fresh ball with a few pointers. “You’re getting better,” I say.

Flashing that million-dollar smile at me, she tosses another. It has a wobbly spiral but goes a solid fifteen yards.

“Of course, you didn’t have anywhere to go but up.”

“Hey!” She shoves my shoulder, and I exaggerate the sway from her impact. “I wasn’t that bad.”

My snort nearly drowns out her self-deprecating chuckle. As I stoop to pick up her last attempt, the wind grabs the hem of my T-shirt, blasting cold around my ribs. I haven’t stood all the way back up before I hear a sharp gasp. Suddenly Zoe is at my side, tugging my shirt, her fingers splaying across my side and around to my back. Her smile has vanished, replaced by a tight line and intense eyebrows.

“Who did this?”

“What?” Part of me wants to shake off the icicles she calls fingers. But a stronger part of me wants to never not feel her touch again.

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