Page 69 of Dump Tackle My Heart
“Nooo!” I squeak, clapping my hands over my mouth because this one shows us in the doorway.
After the whole snow angel thing. The picture is fuzzy, but you can definitely make out Tank’s face as he’s kissing me, histongue down my throat, meanwhile my hands are obviously between us and stuffed down the front of his sweatpants.
“Hot,” Finley says with an eyebrow waggle and zero shame.
Heifer.
“Dani, the whole world is falling in love with the fantasy of you guys, but I have to ask. How are you doing?”
“Me? Oh, I’m just dangerously close to falling in love for real. If I’m not already there,” I murmur.
“Oh, that’s great! Congratulations,” she says, and I accept her hug, because I kind of need it.
Great? I’m not sure.
In theory, it sounds great, but no matter what Tank says, relationships that start with magical snowed-in weekends might not work in reality.
I hope I’m wrong, but the truth? I’m scared shitless of being right.
CHAPTER 23-TANK
The soundof cleats on turf echoes through the indoor paddock as the team wraps up drills.
My lungs burn in the best way, sweat dripping down my back beneath my training kit.
I needed this.
Needed the movement.
The focus.
The brotherhood of the team to burn off the coiled tension that’s been riding me since I left Dani’s place this morning.
Not because anything was wrong.
But because everything felt too right.
I want to marry this woman. Claim her in the loudest way to the whole damn world.
But she needs some time to trust in this, in us, and I’m doing my best to give it to her.
I grab a towel off the sideline rack, rub it over my face, and try not to think about how good she looked in nothing but my shirt, standing in her tiny kitchen, trying not to meet my eyes while I kissed the breath from her lungs.
I almost make it to the locker room without thinking about peeling her sweats down over her hips and bending her over the table again.
Almost.
Then I hear her voice.
Light. Controlled. Professional.
And not talking to me.
“Fin, I don’t know if I’m the right face for this kind of piece?—”
“Oh, shut it, you’re perfect,” Finley says from her perch just outside the media wing.
She’s waving a tablet like it’s a wand.
