Page 65 of Game On
“But we’ve only been training together for a few months.”
Ash just shrugs his broad shoulders, as if it’s no big deal. He’s always so calm and collected, even when I can feel my heart thumping like a drum in my chest. “You’re a natural.”
I roll my eyes at the compliment, though inside I’m glowing. The idea that Morgan—our hard-nosed veteran of a coach—thinks we have a shot at qualifying for Nationals is both thrilling and totally bonkers. Last year, only the top twenty-two pairs from across the country earned a spot at Daytona.
Somehow, in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve managed to stand beside one of the best bases in the college circuit, surrounded by the most talented team I’ve ever been a part of. I swallow hard, trying to push down the lump forming in my throat.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I finally manage to say, adjusting the strap on my bag again. Ash grins at me, his eyes twinkling with confidence. For a moment, it’s infectious.
And then there’s a noise at the far end of the hallway: the sound of sneakers against a polished floor. We both turn to Hudson emerging from the gym, dark hair clinging to his damp forehead. He’s in workout gear, muscles outlined in sharp relief against the tight fabric of his clothes. The sight has me taking a quick breath, the anticipation tugging a smile onto my face.
“Hey, Davies,” he calls out, his voice echoing through the empty corridor. He has a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, slate-gray eyes focused on me.
“Ella,” Ash nudges me lightly with his elbow, a knowingsmile dancing on his lips. “Looks like Mr. All-American is headed our way.”
I haven’t had the chance to tell Ash about our little tryst. Nor have I had the nerve to fully address it with Hudson, either. Ash seems to catch on quickly, though, and, with a chuckle that suggests he knows more than he’s letting on, claps Hudson on the shoulder.
“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he says before he saunters off down the corridor.
Hudson watches him go, then turns back to me. He lightly kicks at the toe of my shoe, a playful gesture that elicits a quick, nervous laugh from me. “Good to see you outside of class,” he says.
“Mm-hmm. Big game tomorrow?”
“That’s right.” His voice is low, a hint of something more lingering in the undertone. “I was thinking I might need to destress beforehand.”
I swallow, something heavy lodging itself in my throat. “Hence the gym.”
“Hence … me approaching you right now,” he counters, stepping a little closer.
“Ah, I thought that was just the gentlemanly thing to do.”
His eyes twinkle with amusement. “Well, that’s true. I’m not allowed to ignore you, nor am I allowed to use your first name.”
“Excessively,” I correct.
He tilts his head, studying me with a curious intensity. “Right, and who determines that?”
“I do,” I assert, lifting my chin slightly.
“Ah, of course. You make the rules here,” he says, still smiling. “Like with most things in life.”
“Sure do.”
“So, what do you say, then? You want to come over after I get cleaned up?”
“Depends,” I say, drawing out the word.
He lifts an eyebrow. “On?”
“Will Sourdough be around?”
His grin widens. “Well, he lives with me, so …”
“Right.”
“Moreover, he depends on me to live and breathe and eat.”
I pause, pretending to consider. “I’m not one hundred percent on this, but I’m fairly certain he could breathe without you.”
