Page 62 of Fighting Spirit

“I can’t.”

“Seriously?”

“Never figured it out. I can do them on other people but not on myself.” I spent months of my childhood watching video tutorials on how to French braid, desperate to have them like the other girls in my class. I could never twist my fingers into the right shape to make it happen, and my mom was always too busy to help.

He grumbles something I don’t hear, the sound lost over the pounding of blood in my ears. I have to fist my hands to stop myself from gripping the sheets. The brush is running through smoothly now, it has been for a while, but he makes no move to stop. I’m certainly not going to interrupt him, not when the sensation of the brush against my spine is shooting delicious tingles up my neck. Is this what people mean when they talk about ASMR?

When he finally sets the brush down, I say nothing, not wanting to shatter the moment. I startle as his fingers touch my scalp, a gasp escaping me as they graze the shell of my ear. His hands run through my hair once, twice, three times, checking to make sure he got everything untangled. I think he’s going tostop, that he’s going to move and go back to watching the movie, leaving me a panting mess.

But he doesn’t. Before I know what’s happening, I feel him split the hair into three sections, adding more as he makes his way down. He isn’t… Right?

“You got a hair tie?”

I point toward the nightstand, not trusting my voice to speak. He finds one among the clutter and secures the end of the braid. I don’t have to look, I know it’s perfect.

“How do you know how to do that?” I ask. There’s a creeping little monster in the back of my mind, wondering if he learned for another girl, and I have to remind myself I have no right to ask. Just friends, remember? Even if I want to climb him like a tree, he’s made it very clear that he’s not interested.

“I used to babysit my neighbor’s kid. She was very particular about her princess hair.”

Okay, maybe I take back what I said about Rowan not being cruel, because how can he say something like that and expect me not to completely melt? The picture of this burly, scowly man doing French braids and playing princesses with a little girl is doing ungodly things to my insides.

He stands from the bed. “I can teach you some time, if you want?”

“I think I’m beyond help.”

He shrugs, picking up his bag and tossing it over one shoulder. “Then I guess I’ll just do them for you.”

I clench my jaw, not letting it drop open. Does he really not see what he’s saying?

He’s almost at the door when I clock his exit. He’s going? Seriously? The sudden shift is giving me whiplash and I must be making a face because he replies without my asking. “You keep rubbing your eyes. You need to go to sleep.”

I go to deny it, but my hand is already halfway to my face, ready to prove his point.

“Maybe they’re just irritated,” I say petulantly, hating how easily he susses me out.

“Yeah, by sleep deprivation.” He’s sliding on his jacket, and I don’t know what I can say to make him stay. I don’t know why I’m desperate to come up with a reason to keep him here.

In the end, reason wins out. I need to put some distance in if I’m going to move on, and late-night pseudo-erotic hair brushing probably isn’t helping matters.

“See you around.”

“Get some rest. I’ll let myself out.”

He taps the doorframe as he goes, not pausing to look back.

This man’s going to kill me.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

ROWAN

“Buddy, we go together every year. I don’t understand why you’re being difficult about this?” My dad huffs down the line. I hate when he calls me ‘buddy’. He only uses that name when he wants something and isn’t planning on taking no for an answer.

“I don’t know if I have time this year.” It’s only partly a lie. Sure, we’re well into the season, and I have plenty to do. But mostly, I just don’t think I can take another year at my dad’s alma mater, watching his former team. Since I was a kid, we would sit together in the stands, and he would tell me about what my life would be like when I was on the field, when I got drafted, and when I finished what he couldn’t by playing in the NFL.

Since then, I’ve let him down twice: first when I committed to Beaufort and second when I told him that I wasn’t going to enter the draft, that I wanted to coach.

“Son, you need to make time.” His voice has turned serious, no longer trying to cajole me. This is how Keith Ainsley operates. One minute he’s your best friend, and the next, he’s telling you how it’s going to be. “I don’t ask for much, but this is something I don’t expect you to let me down on.”

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