Page 52 of Sidelined By Love

By the time I get home from practice, I’m feeling Card’s accidental hit. It was more of a glance, really. But when a 265-pound beast sends you flat on your back in half pads, it hurts. It hurts in full pads too. But a little less.

When I swing the front door open, I expect to be greeted by Kenna and Zoe’s laughter and the smell of dinner in the oven. Instead, I’m nearly assaulted by all five-foot-nothing of Denise, her finger waving in my face.

“You have to do something.”

I fumble for my phone in my back pocket. Maybe I’ve missed a string of texts that would explain this greeting.

Denise doesn’t give me time to check. “She’s been here almost an hour. Refuses to eat or drink or sit down. Just wearing a hole in the rug in front of the couch.”

“Who?”

Denise raises disbelieving eyebrows, clearly calling me all kinds of fool. Fair. It can’t be anyone buther.

“I’ll . . .” I have no idea what I’m going to do because this is probably about one thing. “I’ll deal with it.” But before I head into the living room, I glance over my shoulder. “Kenna?”

“Drama club.”

“Right.” I knew that. Maybe Zoe’s just nervous for her protégé.

Ha. Wishful thinking at its best.

The second I enter the room, I know my first inkling was correct. Zoe is pacing a short path from one end of the couch to the other, head bowed, hands wringing the front of her sweater. Tension flows off her in an endless wave, and every few breaths catch in the back of her throat.

“Zo?” I whisper.

She jumps three feet into the air, eyes wild as they meet mine.

“Grant? What are you doing here?”

Taking a careful step forward and holding out a calming hand, I offer her the same smile I give new dogs at the shelter. “I live here.”

“Oh.” She blinks and shakes her head quickly. “Of course. Right. I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

She’s halfway past me when I grab for her elbow and slow her escape. I keep my grip gentle as my fingers slide toward her wrist. Though she’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt, my brain fills in the softness of her arm, the satin of her skin, shooting straight to my belly. “Zoe?”

Her head bowed again, she twists the toe of her sneaker into the carpet. “Yeah?”

“Did you come here to see me?”

She shakes her head, the messy bun on top of her head flopping from side to side.

“You came here to wear a hole in my rug?”

“What?” She jerks around to look at the scene of her pacing, then swings back to finally face me. “I did not.”

“So you were here chasing me again?”

“That implies I chased you before, and I refuse to concede that allegation.”

“Ah.” I bend close until our faces are just about even. “So you don’t deny it this time.”

Her mouth twitches, and she fights off the smile but can’t keep the dimple from her cheek. “I plead the fifth.”

“Wise. Very wise.” Only then do I realize that my fingers have dipped lower, wrapping around her hand, tugging her closer. No matter how many times I tell myself to let go, my body refuses to do as it should. “So, what’s your excuse for being here if not chasing me?”

She swallows thickly, audibly. Though her gaze doesn’t shift from my face.

“I thought I should—that is, my dad is . . .” Her plump pink lips disappear in a line, and the world is the worse for it.

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