Page 70 of The Last Guy On Earth
Did that really just happen?
“Clay,” he says, grabbing a bottle of body wash. “Get your ass in here.”
I do it because I’m weak. There’s water sluicing down his hard body, and it’s easier to step into the shower than to argue. Also, I’m kind of fascinated by the sight of his hand washing his abs clean.
“Huh. You told me I’m a mess tonight,” he says. “But maybe I’m not the only one.”
Another good point. “We shouldn’t have done this. And we can’t do it again.”
“Why?” He adds more body wash to his palm and runs a firm, soapy hand all over my chest.
It feels so good that it takes me a moment to respond. “Because it’s inappropriate! A coach and a player?”
“We’ve been over this,” he says. “Morally, there are no gray areas here. This isn’t the same as if you hit on Walcott—call me The Wall—or something.”
“Gross.” I give him a murderous glance. “Thanks for that image in my head.”
He chuckles. Then he spins me around until I’m facing the tiles and grabs the meat of my shoulders. “I never finished my massage.”
I drop my head and notice that my shoulder stiffness is largely gone now. “I think I’m cured.”
He kisses the center of my neck. “I care about you, Clay. I hate to see you tied in knots.”
I lean my forehead against the tile and sigh. “Your timing is terrible. I’m not kidding that we can’t be a couple. It’s not a moral issue—but my career would not survive the gossip, Hale. If I’m fucking around with a player, the owner will fire me. He’s about a hundred years old, for starters. But honestly—he’d have no choice. Everything the team has achieved would be swallowed up in a big, salacious story. The PR guy would probably burst a vessel just thinking about the headlines.”
“Hell.” He leans his cheek against my shoulder and wraps his arms around me. “I’m not here to ruin your career.”
“I know,” I mutter, my throat closing up.
“And it’s only fair.”
“How do you figure?”
He kisses my neck. “Back in New York, it wasmewho said we couldn’t be a thing. I chose hockey. So why shouldn’t you?”
“Jethro,” I gasp. “I’m not trying to get even with you.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says gruffly. “So how about we don’t waste time talking anymore. Not tonight, okay? If this is all I get, then I need to make the most of it.”
My heart clenches. “Okay,” I whisper. “It’s a deal.”
He turns me around again and presses my back against the tiles. His expression is as vulnerable as I’ve ever seen it. Fifteen years ago, I would have shaved a whole year off my life to get him to look at me the way he is right now.
His green eyes close as he kisses me slowly.
I meld my body to his. The warm water rains down on us. And for one night at least, I have everything I ever wanted.
THIRTY-THREE
Jethro
I wake up slowly,because I don’t want to wake up at all. I’m sleeping on my side, naked on soft linens, my hand curled around Clay’s hip.
It’s perfect. Except that his phone alarm is playing a tune that’s slowly becoming louder and more insistent.
Beside me, he groans and rolls over. Blue eyes flip open and regard me through a sleepy haze. It’s like looking straight into my past. All those dreamy mornings waking up in Busker, eating breakfast in our kitchen before morning skate.
But only a moment passes before his gaze slides away from mine. He sits up, grabs his phone, and silences it. “I need another shower,” he announces.
