Page 62 of Cheap Shot
She swallows, throat working as her eyes search mine like she’s still trying to find a reason to run. “Cole…”
“Tell me you don’t want me,” I say. “Tell me that, and I’ll let you go.”
She blinks, and her voice is barely audible. “I’m terrified.”
I exhale slowly, my thumb grazing the edge of her jaw. She leans into it—just barely—but enough to make my chest ache.
“I know,” I say, brushing my thumb along her jaw, the barest graze of skin on skin. She leans into the touch like she’s been starving for it. “So am I. But I’m still here.”
And that’s all the warning either of us gets before I kiss her. Not gently or slowly. I probably should’ve asked permission before I kissed her, but I couldn’t wait another minute to feel her lips pressed against mine.
I kiss her like I’ve been waiting my whole damn life for this moment. Her clipboard clatters to the floor. Her fingers fist in the edge of my towel like she needs something to hold on to or she’ll shatter. Fear and desire and everything we were afraid to want—now burning too hot to ignore.
Her lips are soft, hungry,real, and everything I’ve been dying for since the second I met her. She’s fire in my arms. All the fear, the restraint, the tension—it ignites into something unstoppable.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know there’s no going back. But God, for the first time in days, I can breathe.
ChapterSixteen
Michele
The training room is warm with the kind of low-level chaos that always follows a hard practice. There are damp towels draped over benches, and the sharp tang of liniment fills the air as the low, rhythmic thud of weights hitting mats or discs clanging against each other echoes around the room.
It's warm, too warm for the sweatshirt I have on, but I don’t dare remove it. The last time I did, I got blamed for being a distraction and being the reason a certain someone had to restart his reps. But I don’t know how much of this I can take. Sweat clings to my skin as I lift my hair, waving my tablet back and forth in an attempt to cool off.
“You should just take it off, you know.” Sammy slides up beside me, resting his elbows on the bench in front of us.
“You just want to cause trouble. Cole hasn’t had an explosion in the last few days, and you’re bored.”
“You know me too well, my friend, but I think he’s more worried about you overheating than anything else.”
Sammy and I have spent a little more time together than necessary, mostly because he has become Cole’s and my unofficial lookout whenever we want some time alone together. Dad has increased the number of practices each day from two to three in anticipation of the veterans starting camp next week.
“Go away so I can get these reports finished and turned in, or you won’t be doing anything but speed drills next week.”
Sammy raises his hands in surrender as I pull my sweatshirt off my shoulder, laying it on the table with a wink.
“Thank you,” he mouths as I try and fail to focus on reviewing the injury logs and monitoring recovery progress. Instead, my gaze keeps betraying me, drifting to where Cole is doing lateral shuffles like he’s starring in a slow-mo fitness ad.
Cole is focused and moving quickly across the small piece of turf we have tucked into the corner for these drills. Every movement is fluid. His shirt clings to every inch of muscle, and there’s a glint of sweat on his neck that makes me forget how to blink.
It’s entirely unfair how fucking delicious Cole looks doing such a simple drill. I may never be able to watch him in all his glory on the ice at the threat of a potential heart attack. How can someone be that annoyingly beautiful while also being the exact person I shouldnotbe thinking about? But Iamin fact thinking about him. Nonstop.
Ever since the locker room incident—the kiss, themoment—I haven’t been able to get my bearings. It didn’t just rattle me. It detonated something inside me. But I haven’t figured out how to put it back together yet, and to be honest, I’m not 100 percent sure I want to either. Unfortunately, we’ve barely had a chance to have a meaningful conversation. Although that might be because we can’t seem to keep our hands off each other.
He starts toward me now, towel draped around his neck, eyes locked on mine like he’s got something to prove. That same damn smug, devastatingly handsome smirk tugs at his mouth. “Where’s your sweatshirt?” he growls, grabbing it off the table and trying to discreetly wrap it around my waist.
The moment his fingers touch the bare skin of my waist below my crop top, my knees buckle. I bite down hard on my bottom lip, swallowing the loud moan bubbling in my throat. “You did that shit on purpose.”
“I did,” he whispers, nibbling down the curve of my neck before knotting the sleeves in front of me. “No one gets to look at what’s mine.”
He plants a kiss below my ear before walking back around the table, putting some much-needed space between us. Cole winks at me, wiping sweat from his neck, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips. “Besides, you were staring, Doc.”
I scoff, trying harder to focus on the screen in front of me. “I’m assessing your form. That’s literally my job.”
“Yeah?” His voice dips, smooth and dangerous. “How’s mine?”
“Sloppy footwork. You’re favoring your left knee again.”
