Page 34 of Sidelined By Love

Chicken on a biscuit.

The press of her hands against me is lightning, slicing through me like I’m nothing more than air and sky.

I twist to meet her eyes, but her unblinking gaze is locked on the swath of rapidly cooling skin above my waistband.

“Whodid this to you?“ She shoves up the hem of my T-shirt, revealing most of my side. I lift my arm to give her a better view—erm—so I can get a peek at what has her looking like a ghost.

Ham got creative with a magic marker during pre-season team workouts, which ended up with a few rookies getting unplanned—and temporary—tattoos. No way he’d have the guts to do something like that to me.

But no matter how I stretch, I can’t see whatever has Zoe in a trance.

Slowly her finger traces an uneven line from the middle of my ribs toward the center of my back. Then she dips south, and I suck in a sharp gasp. She stops at my waist, dragging her nail gently along my sweats and back up my side. My heart slams against my sternum, my lungs suddenly forgetting their job. And my body reacts like I’ve never been touched by a woman before.

Butchicken. On. A. Biscuit.

Every inch of skin her fingernail traces goes up in flames. And it’s the best torture I’ve ever known. I hold myself still, afraid any movement might scare her away. Praying she’ll never stop.

Her touch shifts. Now softer than satin sheets, more soothing than the hot tub after a long game. My eyes drift closed as I focus on the feel of her and the catch in her panted breaths. Her fingers walk over my ribs, and a feeling I’ve almost forgotten clenches low in my gut.

“Grant?” she asks because I still haven’t answered her question. Though I have a better idea what’s caught her attention now. I spotted it in the mirror this morning, andthe bruise from Sunday’s game is pretty gnarly. “It looks like someone took a baseball bat to you. Who did this?”

I fight the smile that wants to come, keeping my eyes closed and enjoying her undivided attention.

Just for a second.

But I know a second is all it takes. Less, actually. Losing my focus for just a moment cost me months of recovery and rehab. And it almost cost me my entire career. I’m closer to retirement now, but I’m not ready to call it quits yet. I’ve still got a few more years—a few more chances to take my team to the big game.

My eyes fly open, and I step away from her, forcing a smirk to my lips. “There were eleven of them. Big guys. Kept coming at me. Over and over again. Mean sons of . . .” I bite off the word. The guys in the locker room tease me about my language—or lack thereof. But my mom never abided cursing in her house. And I’ve been especially careful since Kenna moved into mine. I don’t need my sister coming home to a teenager who’s picked up some bad language. No matter how much I hear at the facility.

Realization dawns across Zoe’s face. Slowly at first, then all at once. “You jerk,” she says, swinging her elbow at the bruise on my side. “This is from the game, isn’t it?”

“Hey! Hey! I’m injured.”

“I’ll show you an injury,” she growls, pushing at my shoulder. At some point, the sleeves of my sweatshirt sagged, and her hands have disappeared again.

“Come on, now,” I cajole in my sweetest voice. “What would your dad say if you injured his QB1?”

Her cute features and pert little nose wrinkle with all the force of her scowl. “You seem to be under the impression that I care what my dad thinks.”

Something deep inside wants to unpack that with her—to know what caused such a rift between them. But the smell of her shampoo wafting on the breeze pulls me in for another reasonaltogether as she takes a playful swing at my shoulder. The empty cuff of the sweatshirt sleeve slaps me impotently, and I grab it, tugging her toward me.

“Hey!” I’m pretty sure she’s going for indignant as she stumbles a step or two toward my chest, but the giggle that bubbles underneath steals the show.

Snatching the other sleeve, I hold her captive barely a step in front of me, even as she tries to wiggle to freedom.

“I was legitimately worried about you. And this is the thanks I get?” With an eye roll that would rival Kenna’s, she stills.

I want to tell her that this is the thanks she gets for looking so adorable in my sweatshirt. This is the thanks she gets for accepting an invite on my Incline hike. This is the thanks she gets for invading my life.

Instead, I give her sleeves a sharp but gentle tug, just enough to pull her off balance and straight against me. Her hands—still enshrined in the sweatshirt—fly up and land on my chest, her chin lifted all the way up. And suddenly I’m frozen, caught in the force of her gaze.

Her eyes, green this morning, stare up into mine. Unblinking. They’re pools deeper than the sea and twice as dangerous. Suddenly I’m falling in. Falling fast. Falling deep. Gone are the practice field and the wind and the house and the whole of the Springs. Only Zoe remains.

I scrape my thumb across her cheek, brushing away an invisible lock of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. Her half-smile grows with the movement, a secret hidden in her shallow dimple.

And I want to know what that secret is. I want to tell her plenty of my own too. But that’s a stupid idea.

Cradling her face in my hands, I close the distance between us by half.

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