Page 37 of Offside Secrets
Ben does his final head count, clipboard in hand, when Elle appears at the front steps. She’s got her coaching gear slung over her shoulder and that determined look she gets when she’s about to spend four hours analyzing game footage.
“Morning, boys,” she calls out, earning a chorus of good mornings and a few wolf whistles that she ignores with practiced ease. She settles into the front seat Ben always saves for her, spreading out her tablet and notes like she’s setting up a mobile office.
I’m back to scrolling through my phone—ignoring emails I should reply to, checking the weather and the local news,reading a text from Dad about his physical therapy appointment—when I hear familiar heels clicking up the bus steps.
My head snaps up just as Sutton appears, looking polished even at seven in the morning. She’s wearing dark jeans, boots, and a cream-colored sweater that makes her look soft in a way that slams me right dead center in the chest. Her thick hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s got that travel-day glow radiating around her like sunshine, and it makes her even more beautiful.
The entire bus goes quiet for about two seconds—the kind of respectful silence that happens when the owner shows up—before conversations resume at a slightly lower volume.
“Good morning, everyone,” she says, her voice carrying that easy authority she wears like a second skin. A few of the guys call back greetings, and she smiles, looking genuinely happy to be here.
My pulse kicks up a notch. I haven’t seen her sincethenight. Since the kiss that I’ve been replaying in my head like a broken record. We texted once—her thanking me again for being her plus-one, me saying it was my pleasure—but nothing about what happened in the back of that car or in front of her house. Especially the part in front of her house.
Delicious.
“Owner on board.” Elle looks up from her tablet, wagging a finger in the air. “Sutton’s joining us for this one, boys. Try to keep it clean.”
Sawyer grins from across the aisle. “Define clean.”
“No bodily function stories,” Elle shoots back without missing a beat. “I’m looking at you, Owen.”
Our goalie holds up his hands in mock surrender while the bus erupts in laughter.
I watch Sutton scan the seats, clearly looking for an empty spot. The problem is, there isn’t one. The team fills most of the bus, Elle’s crammed in with Ben so she can be near hercolleagues as they get ready for the game, and the only open seat is?—
Right next to me.
Our eyes meet across the aisle, and I am witness to the exact moment she realizes it, too. There’s a flicker of something in her expression—nervousness? Anticipation? An apology?—before she squares her shoulders and starts down the narrow aisle.
“Mind if I sit?” she asks when she reaches my row, gesturing to the empty seat beside me.
“Course not,” I manage, sliding over to give her more room. Which is a mistake, because now I’m pressed against the window with nowhere to go when she settles in beside me.
And…she’s close. Close enough that I catch a glorious hint of her perfume—it’s a sense memory that comes to front of mind when I catch the scent. The smell of gardenias makes me think of spring mornings, red roses at a black tie gala, and sprinkled with kisses that linger like secrets on my lips. She is close enough that when she reaches for her seatbelt, her shoulder brushes mine and I have to concentrate on breathing normally to get my heart rate down.
“Thanks,” she says softly, as Ben signals the driver to get moving.
The bus lurches forward, and we’re off. Four hours to Pennsylvania. Four hours sitting next to Sutton, pretending I’m not hyperaware of every shift she makes, every breath she takes.
This is going to be torture.
“Sleep okay?” she asks after we’ve cleared the city limits, her voice pitched low enough that it won’t carry to the other seats.
“Yeah, fine.” I turn slightly toward her, careful to keep my voice equally quiet. “You?”
“Like a rock.” She shifts in her seat, getting comfortable,and her knee bumps against mine. The contact sends a jolt of awareness straight through me, but she doesn’t pull away immediately. “I was worried I’d be too wound up after...everything.”
After everything. The way she says it, I know it’s meant for me to hear and to know, because I get it. Everything means the gala. The kiss. The way we left things hanging in the air that night between us.
“Any regrets?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She turns to look at me fully, and we’re suddenly much closer than I expected. Her eyes search mine for a long moment before she shakes her head slightly. “No. No regrets. You?”
“None,” I say, meaning it completely.
The bus hits a pothole, jostling us together. Her hand flies out to steady herself, landing squarely on my thigh. We both freeze, the contact burning through the denim of my jeans like a brand.
“Sorry,” she breathes, but thankfully she doesn’t move her hand right away. Her palm is warm against my leg, her fingers spread just enough that I can feel each individual point of contact, her fingertips along my inner thigh.
