We settle back into eating, but something’s shifted. The air feels electric, like during a powerplay when everyone’s on edge, waiting for something to happen.
My phone buzzes again. Coach’s name flashes on the screen.
“You should take that,” she says, noticing my hesitation.
“It’s fine. He can wait.”
But we both know it’s not fine. It’s a reminder of who we are, what we both have to lose. A warning we ignore as the conversation drifts to safer territory. We talk about books, the pressure of playoffs, her college soccer career, and my off-seasontraining. Easy stuff. But I catch her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking. And I know she spies me doing the same.
By the time we’re cleaning up, it’s after ten, and I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone for three hours straight without thinking about tomorrow’s practice or Friday’s game.
“I should go,” she says, carrying plates to the kitchen. “Early morning tomorrow.”
“Yeah, me, too.” But neither of us moves toward the door.
We’re standing in my kitchen, McKenna so close I pick up the faint spray of delicate freckles across her nose and the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes I’ve never noticed.
“Thank you,” she says, not meeting my gaze. “For tonight. For the condiment-safe zone.”
“Anytime.”
She freezes as if she heard the honest truth in my tone. I should step back. Should remind us both why this is a bad idea. Instead, I trace the small scar on her chin. “How’d you get this?”
“Soccer. I was twelve and completely fearless.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Terrible combination.”
“I like fearless.”
The space between us disappears. I don’t remember moving, but suddenly, my hand cups her face and I’m kissing her. Really kissing her. Like I’ve been dreaming about for two goddamn years.
She tastes like possibility, warm and addictive, and when her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, every protective instinct I have wars with the need to claim her. She’s not fragile. She’s fierce. And she’s kissing me as if I’m the answer to a question she’s been afraid to ask.
This is insane. And could destroy both our careers. Coach would bench me in a heartbeat, and McKenna… Hell, she could lose everything she’s worked for. The career she loves.
But she’s kissing me back like she’s drowning and I’m air, and I can’t bring myself to care about anything except the way she feels in my arms.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and there’s a flush spreading down her neck that I want to trace with my tongue.
“Oh God,” she whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh God, we can’t… I can’t…”
Reality crashes over me like getting checked hard into the boards. I should apologize. Should tell her it was a mistake, that it won’t happen again. Except I can’t speak. And I’m not sorry. I sure as hell want it to happen again.
“McKenna—”
“I have to go.” She’s already moving, grabbing her purse from the counter, not meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“Wait, just—”
But she’s already at the door, her hand on the knob, panic visible in every taut line of her body.
“This can’t happen again.” She glances over her shoulder. “You know it can’t.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me standing there with the taste of her still on my lips and the sinking realization I’m completely fucked.
Because McKenna Ryan just kissed me as if her life depended on it, then ran away like I was her biggest mistake.
And I’m already plotting how find a way to be with her and change her mind.
McKenna
