Page 58 of Playing for the Hat Trick
She digs into a knot behind my knee, and I hiss. Her fingers ease up, rubbing the tension out. Her touch is slower now.
Softer.
“Still with me?” she asks, voice low.
“Barely.”
She moves closer. I can feel her thigh brush mine, her breath at my back. Every part of me goes still as her hands trail higher. Over my glutes. Back to my waist. Not sexual—not exactly—but fuck, it’s close.
My cock is already hard. There’s no hiding it. Not like this.
“Jason,” she says, not moving. “You good?”
I lift my head. Turn just enough to catch her expression. Serious, flushed, but not exactly unreadable. She knows what she’s doing to me.
“I’m not good,” I say. “I’m fucking wrecked.”
There’s apause, a long one. She doesn’t pull away—and that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
When she adjusts my form, her body leans over mine. Her hoodie rides up. My thigh brushes hers. Our breath tangles in the air between us. And it’s all I can do not to reach up and cup the back of her neck and pull her mouth down to mine.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
I just lie there, muscles tense, cock hard, heart thumping like I’m gearing up for game seven. I know I’m gonna lose. Her palm is resting at my waist now—not quite gripping, not quite pulling away—just there. Warm. Dangerous. Inches from everything I want her to touch.
I could lift my hips. Just a little. Give her a reason to close the distance. It wouldn’t take much. One shift and her hand would be right where I need her. One shift and this professional line we’ve been pretending to balance would immediately go up in fucking flames.
Her hand twitches.
Not like she’s startled. Like she’s thinking about it. Maybe she’s wondering what it’d feel like to wrap those fingers around me and end this pretense we’ve both been barely surviving.
The air between us stretches—tightens—and cracks.
Then she pulls back.
Of course, she does.
Her touch leaves like it regrets it, slow and uncertain, but the loss hits anyway. I feel her fingers’ absence like a hot and lingering bruise. And then she’s standing, rising to her full height like that didn’t just mean something.
As if she didn’t just get closer than anyone has in a long fucking time.
I shift onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow, watching her walk away like I haven’t already memorized thesway of her hips in those joggers. She doesn’t look back. Just grabs her tablet like a shield, like maybe she can program professionalism back into her hands after they almost betrayed her.
“You’re always running away from me, Scottie.” My voice is rough. It lands harder than I expect. “Maybe one day you should find out what happens when you stay.”
She freezes. I see the pause. One interrupted step, one held breath, she’s probably not even breathing at this point. Her spine stiffens, and I bet she’s holding onto her table like it’s the only thing saving her from me.
However, she doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. I sit up fully, my legs stretched in front of me, and the ache in my knee flares like it’s reminding me that this whole thing started because I needed fixing.
Spoiler alert: the injury’s not the part of me that’s broken anymore.
“I’m not trying to fuck this up,” I say quietly, voice low, just for her. “But you keep pretending this isn’t happening, that you don’t want it. And you know what? I’m fucking tired of pretending.”
She still doesn’t face me, but her shoulders drop. It’s just a fraction. That’s when I know I got through. Not all the way. Not yet.
But something cracked open.
Just enough for hope to wedge in.
