Page 62 of Dump Tackle My Heart
Tank snorts from beside me, answering Koa.
“Honestly, I expected at least one of ‘em to be hanging off the tailgate.”
“Nah. Coach takes that personal bubble of space thing very seriously. Gotta respect a man who’s got respect for boundaries,” he replies with a shrug.
He turns on the AM radio station, then shuts it off quickly. There’s nothing but static up here, anyway.
The brothers chat about the upcoming tourney, and my mind wanders a bit.
It took us all of an hour to clean the cabin top to bottom, pack up the leftovers and nonperishables, and make sure we didn’t leave a single stray sock or spoon behind for Mr. Knight to find.
Professionalism matters.
Even after everything that happened.
Even after we sort of fucked like bunnies all over his cabin.
I clear my throat, suddenly picturing Tank in a pair of bunny ears and silk black thong like a Playgirl model, and I’m trying not to laugh hysterically at the image.
“You alright?” he whispers.
I nod.
I mean, I should be alright. Here we are, heading back down the mountain. The roads are a glistening mess of black ice and slush, and Koa is driving more expertly than I’d have given him credit for.
But I can’t really think at all because my brain is all full ofwhat nowquestions.
I clutch the coffee cup in my hands and stare out the window as if it’ll offer answers.
“Um,” I clear my throat. “Koa, will you drop me off at my place?”
Hudson stiffens beside me.
I don’t look at him.
“Sure. Sure,” Koa murmurs, shifting smoothly around a bend in the road like this isn’t the most emotionally fraught truck ride in history.
Small talk fills the silence—mostly me and Koa talking about the holiday, the storm, Finley’s panic texting, and whether Mitchell Knight’s beard is real or a topiary.
Hudson stays quiet.
Watchful. His thigh pressed against mine like a heated question I don’t have the answer to.
By the time we roll up to my small townhouse just past that faded old sign that readsWelcome to Consequence, my stomach is a twisted mix of nerves and caffeine.
I open my mouth to say goodbye, maybe thank them for the lift, maybe offer a casual see you at practice, but Hudson beats me to it.
He’s already out of the truck.
He grabs my overnight bag—and his—and walks straight to my front door like he’s been there a hundred times before.
Then he stops.
Turns.
Holds out his hand. “Keys?”
I stare.
