Page 53 of Sidelined By Love

“I saw the headlines.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry about that.”

“You sent them that picture?”

Zoe jumps back and crosses her arms over her stomach, leaving my hand far too empty. “Of course not.”

“Then why are you sorry?”

Waving her hands around, she returns to her pacing. Same spot. Same rhythm. “Because if I wasn’t in that picture, it wouldn’t have been worth the cover. Because I’m the one giving you—and the team—publicity you don’t want.”

Forgetting the actual physical beating I took today, I feign an emotional injury, pressing one hand over my heart and the back of the other to my forehead. “You don’t think I’m deserving of the cover of Whatever Weekly on my own?”

She shoots me a decided stink eye. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. It’s just that tabloids weren’t exactly running after you until I showed up in the Springs.”

“True.”

“And you’ve probably climbed the Incline a thousand times, and no one bothered you.”

“Not true.”

Her mouth is half open when she freezes.

“Sixty times.” I correct her. “Tops.”

She rolls her eyes and marches forward, carrying that sweet scent that I’ve come to recognize as uniquely hers. Coconut and something subtly sweet. It’s clean and inviting, and I lean into her bubble just a little bit.

“Here’s the thing,” I say, keeping my voice low and calm. “I’m not worried about what a few trashy magazines say.”

“Yeah, well . . . my dad is.”

Though barely above a whisper, her words land like Thor’s hammer, knocking the air out of me.

Her dad’s worried. Which means we all have to be. Because I can’t let Coach or the GM be worried.

“He warned me. He told me to keep my drama out of his locker room. I wasn’t supposed to get . . .”

It takes everything inside me not to fill in the rest of her sentence because I want—no,need—to know where she’s going with this.

Her face twists as she turns her back on me. Her shoulders hike toward her ears, an almost-imperceptible tremble racking her body. Notably, she does not step away.

It’s not quite an invitation, but she’s not asking for more space either. Stepping closer, I press my nose into her hair and inhale sharply. Chicken on a biscuit. This woman could make a good dog break his leash. And she’s not even trying.

I don’t think.

Then I realize she hasn’t said anything else. “You weren’t supposed to what?”

“Nothing.”

“What?” My voice drops, like it does on the field when I call a play. Insistent. Commanding.

Her neck twitches as she looks out the bay windows into the backyard, the setting sun turning the sky all kinds of orange and purple. “I wasn’t supposed to get friendly with any of the guys on the team.”

Friendly. Right. That’s what we are. Just friendly. Just casual acquaintances, who sometimes stay up all night thinking about the other. Semi-familiar contacts, who tease each other relentlessly. Basically strangers, who talk almost every single day and make up excuses to be together.

“And then you showed up being all”—she waves her hand over her head like it will fill in the blank—“you.”

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be offended. But I think so. “Pardon?”