Page 5 of Touchdown
But trying to shut him down only encouraged him.
“Maybe he’s just tired.” Micah grinned. “You old now, Sax?”
I ignored them and bent to grab the sled handles, my muscles flexing as I pushed it down the length of turf. It should’ve cleared my head. But it didn’t. Every stride just wound me tighter.
When I reached the end of the line, Nixon was leaning against the wall, watching me like he was trying to figure out what was going on with me. “You’re somewhere else today.”
“Nowhere important.” I turned the sled around, ready for another run.
“Bullshit,” Nixon retorted with a short laugh. “I know that look. That’s not game film running through your head.”
Huck grabbed a towel and wiped his face, smirking. “Seriously. You’ve been pacing like a damn tiger since we started. What gives?”
“Nothing,” I muttered, setting my stance.
“Nothing?” Raiden echoed. “That why you missed your rep count on bench?”
Nixon’s smile was slow and knowing. “He’s thinking about a woman.”
Micah paused mid-stretch, eyebrows up. “Seriously?”
“Yep.” Nixon tapped the side of his head. “I can see it. He’s got that laser focus, but it’s not football. It’s definitely a woman.”
I didn’t respond, mostly because they weren’t wrong. And I wasn’t in the mood to pretend otherwise.
Micah grinned, tossing the football from one hand to the other. “Saxon? Twisted over a woman?”
Huck barked out a laugh. “No way. Sax doesn’t get twisted. The man barely talks.”
Nixon chuckled and pushed off the wall. “That’s exactly how you know. When the quiet ones start acting off, it’s always a woman.” He tipped his head toward me. “She’s under your skin, huh?”
I didn’t respond, just shoved the sled harder, putting my weight into it until my quads ignited.
Nixon smirked. “Thought so. You’ll figure it out. Just don’t blow a hamstring trying to impress her.”
I grunted, focusing on the sled instead of the heat crawling up the back of my neck. It wasn’t embarrassment—it was restraint. If I opened my mouth, I’d probably tell them to fuck off, and that would only further convince them that they were on the right track. I wasn’t in the mood to deflect their shit anymore.
I didn’t want to talk about Ivy. I wanted to see her.
After the workout, I showered and changed in the locker room, barely hearing the tail end of their banter as they left. My reflection in the mirror looked the same as it always did—cool, collected, and sharp-edged. But inside, I was restless. I’d already decided what I would do before I even grabbed my keys.
I was going back to the salon.
By the time I reached the parking lot outside, the sky was painted in streaks of navy and burnt orange. The frigid winter air bit against my skin when I stepped out of the facility, buttonight, it felt good. Cooling the fire licking at my skin whenever I thought about my Ivy.
I drove toward town, stopping about a block away from The Color Loft and parking in a shadowed spot where I could see the front windows without being obvious.
Through the glass, I saw Ivy moving around inside—her dark hair swept up and head bent as she cleaned her station. Even from this distance, I could see the line of her shoulders, the way she moved with a mix of focus and grace.
I watched the light in the salon shift as the other stylists left, until she was the only one still inside. When she finally headed to the front desk, checking something on the computer, I pulled out of my spot, circled the block, and parked right in front.
The bell above the door chimed when I stepped inside. She looked up, startled, then smiled—small but real.
“Saxon.” My name sounded good on her lips.
I let a slow, easy smile settle on my mouth. One I rarely used. For some reason, it came easily when it was for her. “You’re still here.”
“Just closing up.” She reached for her coat, and I saw the fatigue in her face, the faint slump of her shoulders, and the way her jaw relaxed when she thought no one was looking. “What are you doing here?”
