I square my shoulders.“I don’t trust you either,” I say, proud that my voice no longer shakes.“You pull me close, then push me away like you’re allergic to wanting anything.”
His jaw ticks.The air becomes charged again.He takes a single, slow step back into my space, giving me a thousand chances to retreat.I don’t take any of them.My spine finds the wall, his palm plants beside my head, the other hovering at my waist like he can’t decide whether he’s allowed to touch me.
“We need to stop,” I whisper, even as my traitorous body arches toward him.
The words taste like a dare.
He leans in, the brim of his hoodie shadowing us both.His breath warms my cheek.“We should,” he agrees, voice low and wrecked.
But he doesn’t.
His mouth finds mine again, not a collision this time but a slow, devastating slide that steals my balance in a different way.He kisses me like he’s cataloging me, learning what makes me shiver, which angle coaxes the little breathy sound he likes so much.My hands end up fisted in his jersey under the hoodie without my permission.He pulls me closer, chest to chest, like he wants to memorize my heartbeat through fabric.
Everything else blurs.The cold floor beneath my boots, the buzzing exit sign, the distant clatter of equipment way down the tunnel, none of it matters.It’s just his scent, his heat, the way he’s careful even when he’s desperate, giving me room to say no and losing his mind when I don’t.
“Ahem.”
We jump apart like we’ve been doused with a bucket of ice water.Declan’s glare snaps to the end of the hall, where CJ is openly grinning, and Logan looks like someone just handed him a PR nightmare with a bow on top.
“Locker room,” Logan says, all captain, all command.
Declan’s shoulders become granite.For a second, I think he’ll tell his captain to take a number, but then his gaze flicks back to me—one hot, helpless pass that says everything he won’t—and he jams his gloves under his arm.
“Hayes,” CJ sing-songs, delighting in the carnage.
Declan doesn’t break eye contact with me when he answers.“Coming.”
I press my back to the wall until the three of them disappear around the corner, and the pounding in my ears slows from drum solo to normal human heart rate.My mouth feels bruised.My notes are a disaster.My life, apparently, is a minefield I strolled into wearing heels and a smile.
Get back to work,I tell myself, following a reporter into the press room.
I can’t stop thinking about what those girls said as I take a seat in the back.
My notebook shakes in my hands when Declan strolls in a few minutes later, hoodie pulled over his head, shoulders filling the doorway like he owns the air I’m breathing.
I manage to avoid looking at him and ask a few questions without anyone laughing at me.That feels like a win.
“All right, that’s it,” Coach says.
I stand, eager to head home.A shadow falls over me, and I look up, already knowing who it is.
“Martin,” Declan says, voice low, gravelly, and way too distracting.
“Hayes,” I clear my throat, forcing professionalism I don’t feel.“Thanks for fixing my car.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, drops into the chair next to me, legs spread wide, arms crossed.
“Um, I was just heading out,” I say, trying to sneak past him.
I see a few other reporters watching us, and my cheeks heat with a blush.
Declan studies me before his eyes flick to the last few journalists in the press room.“Let’s go.”
He stands and walks out.
I blink, wondering what to do, and decide to follow after him.
Declan grabs his things, and we head out to the parking lot.I wait as he tosses his bag into the back of his car, and then he’s leading me over to my car.
