Page 121 of The Hot Shot
Gingerly, he moves to pull off his shirt, and I help him. My breath catches as we lift the shirt past his ribs. “Jesus, Finn.”
His sides and back are red and covered with a patchwork of nasty bruises. “Ugly game,” he says flatly. “Got sacked a few times.”
I rest my hand on his lower back, barely touching him, and he shivers. But when I try to snatch my hand away, he stops me by putting his hand over mine. “No,” he says. “It feels good when you touch me.”
“Finn...” My heart aches as I brush my lips over his shoulder blade, my other hand slipping around to his front to stroke his stomach. We stand in silence, Finn breathing slow and deep, leaning into me as I pepper soft kisses across the back of his shoulders.
I hold him as if he’s fragile.
In this moment, he is. And I resent every hit that he’s taken.
Another tremor goes through him and slowly, slowly, he disengages from me, turning to sit on the side of the bed. “Come here,” he whispers, taking my hand.
“Don’t you want to lie down?” I ask as he settles me on his lap.
“Gotta do this in stages,” he says with a grunt, then arranges me to his liking.
“Baby...” I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my forehead against his. “You are killing me.”
He touches my cheek, his blue eyes searching mine. “You worry for me, Chester?”
I run a finger over his jaw. “I ache for you, Finnegan.”
His hand slides into my hair, and he pulls me close. Our kiss is slow, easy, deep. There are words in the kiss: mine, yours, always. His lips cling to my lower one in a soft suckle before he pulls away to meet my gaze. “I don’t like the idea of you hurting. Especially if it’s for me.”
“Not something you get a say over,” I tell him, kissing his temple.
He makes a noise, half a laugh, half an objection, and his hand trails down my cheek to my collarbone.
We’re quiet then. I play with the short ends of his hair, kiss his cheek, his jaw, anywhere I can get. Finn strokes my neck, watching his fingers move along my skin as if the sight soothes him. I’m accustomed now to seeing him hobble home from a game. But this is different. He seems soul weary.
Cold fear and hot regret surge through me at the thought that I might be responsible for his mood.
“What happened?” I ask him as he finds the top button of the soft cotton work shirt I’m wearing.
He flicks open a button. “Dex totally lost it today. He’s been on-and-off all season, but some dumbass lineman tried to fire him up, and he fell for it.” Finn ducks his head and kisses the side of my neck. His breath is hot against my skin. “Don’t blame him, but everything went to shit after that.”
I rest my hand on the top of his head. “Why did he lose it?”
Another button slips free. Finn’s fingers trace his progress. “Press got compromising pictures of his girl. Dude started making comments about her tits—breasts.”
“That would do it.”
Finn grimaces. “My control of the game is falling apart.”
“I’m sorry.” I smooth my hand over his hair in an absentminded stroke.
“It’s all on me, Chess. Doesn’t matter who’s at fault. If we can’t get the job done, I look bad.”
His cheek touches mine. We’re so close, I feel the sweep of his lashes when he blinks.
“The pressure gets to me sometimes,” he says. “I tell myself that it’s all in my head. To ignore it. But some days are harder than others.”
“Maybe you don’t ignore those fears but just face them,” I say in a low voice. “Let them play out in your head and then let them go.”
Finn sighs. “I know I won’t play forever. But it’s one thing to retire, walk away with your head held high. Getting cut? Never finding a new team? How do I face people then?”
“You face them head-on because you, Finn Mannus, are fucking brilliant with or without football.”
