Page 104 of Playing for the Hat Trick
This—right now—feels like a twenty-car pileup inside my brain. A wreck of too much feeling, too much wanting.
Last night was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be physical. A one-time detour into bad decisions are fun territory. No strings. No expectations. Just heat and hunger and letting ourselves get reckless for a change.
I wasn’t supposed to kiss him like I meant it. When I climbed into bed, it was supposed to be casual. Casual . . . instead, I lost myself in the way his hands knew exactly how to undo me.
You know what else I wasn’t supposed to do? I wasn’t supposed to wrap my legs around him, my fingers gripping his shoulders like lifelines, while he drove into me slow and deep, whispering my name like a prayer he didn’t deserve.
I wasn’t supposed to let him touch me like I was something precious. Something his hands had memorized even before he ever laid them on me.
I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep against his chest. The sheets tangled around us, my body aching in the best possible ways. His arm thrown over my waist like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go even in sleep. His breath warm against my hair, like a promise he didn’t know how to say out loud yet.
And I definitely wasn’t supposed to wake up to him looking at me like I was his entire goddamn world. Like one night had rewritten everything he thought he knew about us. As if he was already all in, even if I was still standing on the shore, terrified to dive.
And I certainly wasn’t supposed to hear him say he was just as scared but ready to fight for us.
Jason Tate doesn’t play small. He never has.
He wants everything.
And apparently, he wants me.
Which would be overwhelming enough on its own, but no. Of course, the universe wasn’t done.
Cue Leif, big brother, who appeared strolling by a mid-makeout session with Luna and enough fury to power a smallcity. If it hadn’t been for my baby niece blowing raspberries and looking adorable, he probably would’ve strangled Jason right there on the grass and made me watch.
Leif didn’t make a huge scene—because even he knows a fistfight in Central Park, in front of a stroller, would look bad for the team. He’s not stupid. He’s just . . . furious. And disappointed. And plotting my boyfriend’s slow and painful death.
Boyfriend?
Ella, what has gotten into you?
I can’t even think of that word without wanting to crawl out of my skin.
My stomach twists as I replay it all—the way Jason’s hands felt on my body, the way his voice went rough and low when he said my name, the way he kissed me like we had all the time in the world and none at all.
I drag my hands through my hair and let out a strangled sound that’s half groan, half whimper.
This is too much.
Too much wanting.
Too much hope.
Too much everything.
I’m Scottie fucking Crawford. I’m supposed to have a plan. I’m supposed to keep things clean, contained, and manageable. Not get dragged into whatever this is—this messy, gloriously-terrifying thing blooming between us like wildfire out of control.
And the worst part?
The really, truly horrifying part?
I don’t even want to control it.
I somehow want to dive into it headfirst like the reckless idiot Jason thinks I already am. Even when I shouldn’t, I want him.
Not just for one night.
Not just for a kiss behind closed doors.
