Page 108 of Changing the Playbook
“But right now,” his eyes darken again, “I want to get you out of that dress.”
Heat floods through me. “What’s stopping you?”
He’s out of the car and opening my door before I can blink. His hand steadies me as I step out, but I can feel the barely-leashed control thrumming through him, and I know he’s going to put in a performance for the ages tonight.
The elevator ride to his floor crackles with anticipation. He stands behind me, not quite touching, but I feel the heat radiating from his body. When the doors open, he guides me out with fingers splayed low on my back.
His hands tremble slightly as he unlocks his door—that small tell of how affected he is makes me bold. The second we’re inside, I press him against the closed door and kiss him exactly how I’ve wanted to all night.
His response is immediate and enthusiastic, hands gripping my hips as he spins us so I’m the one against the door. The wood feels cool through my dress, a sharp contrast to the heat everywhere Mike touches me.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all night.” He kisses down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“Show me,” I breathe.
And… he does.
thirty
MIKE
The hot waterdrills into the exact spots where my muscles have knotted themselves into rebellion. Each jet finds its target, working into the tissue with relentless pressure. 10:00 p.m. on a Tuesday, post-study cram session followed by leg day and skating drills.
I tip my head back, water streaming into my eyes. The place echoes with that particular late-night emptiness—just me, the night janitor who’s definitely asleep in his office by now, and whatever tortured souls haunt D-I facilities. Probably some poor freshman who died doing his five-hundredth burpee.
Great. A ghost who’ll critique my form.
The locker room door creaks open, hinges protesting.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper. Maybe it really is Burpee Boy coming for revenge.
Silence stretches. I snort at my own paranoia and grab the shampoo, but then I hear those footsteps again. The bottle fumbles through my fingers, bouncing off the tile with a crack that echoes. I’m bending to retrieve it when my stall door swings wide.
Sophie.
Wearing nothing but determination and a towel.
“What are you?—”
She hangs the towel on the door hook with the same focus she brings to clinical rotation, then steps into the spray. Water darkens her blonde hair instantly, creating rivulets that trace her collarbone, the valley between her breasts, the gentle curve of her hip. My exhausted brain fires back online.
“Hi,” she says, casual as a Sunday morning coffee run.
“Sophie—” The word comes out strangled as she wraps her arms around me.
“You texted that you’d be at the gym late.” Her fingertips find my abs. “So…”
“Consider me surprised.” My voice drops an octave. “How did you even?—”
“I have my ways.” She rises onto her toes and kisses me. “Any complaints?”
Instead of answering, I walk her backward until tile meets shoulder blades. The kiss tastes of her cherry chapstick mixed with steam and something electric that sparks between us whenever we collide. She hums approval against my mouth, arms circling my neck, pulling herself higher against me.
“Missed you,” I murmur into her mouth.
“You literally saw me six hours ago.”
“Six hours too many.”
