Page 30 of Sliding into Love
“Here.”
They take it, their face giving me a look that screams confusion.
I open another bottle for myself and lift it to my lips, chugging it back. It’s refreshing in the way I needed—so cool against this heat.
Royce mimics me, drinking from their own bottle.
When they finish a few minutes later, I hand them the third bottle I brought.
“I thought that was for you,” they tell me.
I shake my head, eyes trained on the field. “No, I’ve had plenty today. But you haven’t.”
As they take the bottle from my hand, their fingers graze mine. Their cool fingertips graze my wrist.
Another shiver moves through me.
This time, it’s got to be visible—I know because Royce sucks in a breath.
I don’t dare look at them. It’s too much. Too many emotions are pushing against the surface. One look at my eyes, and they’re going to know how I feel.
They’re going to see more than I’m willing to give right now.
Play it cool, Kenny. Play it cool.
The minute we pull apart, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Another challenge survived.
Now, to just get through a couple more months, and this won’t be such a big deal anymore.
Sleep is a crucial function of life. Without it, we're all monsters ready to torment one another. I’m one of those people who simply cannot function without enough of it. It’s not good for me—or anyone near me—if I don’t get my solid seven hours.
So imagine my surprise when it’s eleven at night, and I’m still wide awake, staring at the ceiling as the day replays in my head. I think about how Royce looked in their jean shorts and flowy blouse, how their hair was pulled back into a high ponytail that whipped every time they turned their head. I think about how I wanted to run my hands through that hair—how I wanted to wrap myself around them, breathing in the scent of their skin like it was my lifeline.
My body aches with want. My cock is tense under the sheet, and it’s only by sheer willpower that I don’t give in and touch myself again, not after how often I’ve already thought of them today.
Grabbing my phone, I decide to kill time the only other way people do—scrolling social media. I check the usual suspects first, seeing if there are any updates from friends or extended family. My immediate family doesn’t use social media. When nothing catches my attention, I switch to my favorite—Pinterest.
I’ve spent countless hours there looking up ideas for team promotions or decorating my house. There’s always room for improvement, which is why I’m constantly scrolling. But tonight, something’s different. Instead of baseball themes and Korean BL illustrations filling my feed, I find clothing suggestions. Outfits that look exactly like what Royce would wear.
I blink at the screen, wondering if my phone heard me muttering earlier about how attractive Royce is—and how tempting their clothes can be. These things listen to us all the time, so it would make sense. Jokes on it, though, because now I can’t stop thinking about Royce again.
Would they actually like any of this? Is this where they get their inspiration?
I have too many questions and not nearly enough answers. Then I spot an outfit that’s far too perfect not to share. Before I can stop myself, I hit share, copy the link, and open our text thread.
Saw this and thought of you, I type, paste the link, and send it.
The message shows as delivered, and a wave of drowsiness washes over me, like all I needed to do was close out my day by reaching out to them.
As my eyes grow heavy, I see the message change to read, timestamped, and my last thought before sleep claims me is: I wonder if Royce would actually wear it.
What I should have been thinking was how deeply personal that message might seem. Because sending that—telling them this reminded me of them—was more than what two people trying to keep their distance would ever do.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROYCE
