Page 62 of Get Me to the Starting Line

Her fingers trace the fabric gently, outlining the number.

“Forty-two,” she says, almost to herself. I track the movement of her fingers, aware that I have very little restraint left.

She looks back up, her eyes searching mine. “If I wear this, if I put this on, what does that mean? Because I’ll tell you onething, I am no one’s wife.”

That word again. She may not be my wife, but she ismine.

“Put it on,ma têtue.”

“Tell me what that means first,” she orders.

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. “My stubborn one.”

She blinks for a few seconds and then bursts out laughing. Her anger is exhilarating, but her laughter is irresistible. I’m about to tell her to put it on again when she picks the jersey back up, eyeing it again, the laughter still lingering on her face.

Her features turn stern. “Don’t ignore me again,” she orders. Then she slips the jersey over her head and it cascades down her body, skimming the tops of her knees.

Fuck me.

No woman of mine—not that there have been many, and screaming fans don’t count—has worn one of my jerseys before. I’ve never cared enough about the silly tradition, always thought players who did were possessive assholes. Seeing her in my jersey? I get it.

I thought I was hard before, but blood rushes downwards and my dick is now in physical pain, straining against the zipper of my jeans.

She’s swimming in it, the jersey covering her thighs, sleeves stretching long past her hands. Though she’s covered, I’ve never seen anything as sexy as her standing there looking like she’s naked underneathmyjersey.

Even though I know she’s got those skimpy shorts and tank on, her legs are bare, the neckline showcasing the line of her collarbones.

I’m rooted to the spot with so much heat coursing through me I’m worried I’d burn her withmy touch.

“I can’t wear this, it’s huge!” she says, swirling her body around in it, completely unaware I’m about three seconds away from pouncing. She twirls again but stops abruptly, as she catches a glimpse of the other gift I tucked in the box. Her brows furrow as she bends over, lifting the last piece of tissue.

She sees what it is, this time understanding immediately, and drops to the couch as if her knees have given out. Her hand trembles as she slowly reaches in and lifts the small jersey to look it over.

“I did have to buy this one,” I whisper, not taking my eyes away from her face as she admires the small forty-two and my name on the back of it.

When she lifts her face, there are tears in her eyes.

“You got Levi one of your jerseys?”

“YougotLevioneof your jerseys?” I can barely get the words out as emotion clogs my throat.

“Yes.”

So we’re back to one-word answers.

“Why?” I breathe as I tear my gaze away from the small Whales jersey. This time, nothing comes out of his mouth. It’s in his eyes, though, the intensity morphing into something softer. When I don’t speak, he clears his throat.

“Formon petit loup,” he whispers.

My heart throbs with an emotion so thick, I feel it everywhere in my body. It slams against my rib cage and my eyes well up with unshed tears, blurring my vision.

He’s thrown me off by coming here unannounced. Even if Mrs. Hastings hadn’t poked her busybody nose out into the hallway, I would have let him in eventually. Can’t a woman let a man sweat anymore?

But now I’m the one sweating. Is it sweat? I feel wet.

I can do nothing but stand up and face this enigma of a man who ignores me, says the worst things at the worst times only to silently support and encourage me, and apparently, brings me the best, most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me.

Growing up with Paige, who inherited her notoriously terrible gift giving from my mom, opening presents became somewhat of a joke—something that brought tears of laughter.

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