“Thinking about the internship. I should have applied to more. Gotten at least one other interview. I would have heard back by now if they selected me. Right?”
“It’s been a week?—”
“They said they were making a decision quickly. A week, two tops. What am I supposed to do if I don’t get it?”
“Stop thinking about it. You are stressing yourself out,” he presses.
“Because—”
“Nope,” he cuts me off. “I’m not letting you talk negatively about yourself. There’s nothing about you that should,or deserves, to be spoken about like that.”
I roll into a seated position, knees tucked up into me. I pull his sweatshirt over them and play with the drawstrings. Cooper dotes on me, and because he knows me as he does, each positive affirmation feels like a kiss on my skin, an invisible tattoo, and is the exact opposite of what I was about to say about myself.
“You understand?” he asks after he finishes what could be a new encyclopedia.
“Yes.” I roll my eyes. Lovingly, of course. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I never want you to question how I see you, Sutton.”
Cooper rubs the back of his left shoulder. A wince creeps out every so many touches.
“You okay over there?”
“Just sore.” My eyes must be communicating with him, because he adds, “I’m not overtraining again, I promise. Coach is pushing us hard in practice. The teams we are going up against are some of the most physical ones. He wants us prepared for the pressure and hits we can expect.”
“Weren’t you supposed to go to the trainers after practice”
“Yes,” he hisses. “They we’re busy.”
“That’s not a good enough excuse.” I pat the bed. “Come here.”
Having been around enough athletic training rooms and gone through my fair share of therapy, I’ve picked up a few tricks.
Cooper stands, stalking intentionally to the bed. I should be clearing my things, but my attention keeps getting dragged to him.
I don’t think he’s purposely moving like a snail. The distance between his king-sized bed and the desk is maybe seven steps. Four for his long stride.
Long fingers, decorated with calluses where they meet his palm, curl into the hem of his self-cropped team shirt. The hem rolling up, teasing the tanned muscles underneath. Arms crisscrossed, biceps bulge against the sleeves—have they gotten bigger?—as he tugs it upward.
It’s as if I’m cutting a cake and slowly pulling the slice back, revealing the layers of deliciousness underneath. Each layer of abs is displayed as the shirt works its way up his abdomen. Over his pecs.
I tug my bottom lip between my teeth. It doesn’t matter how many times I see it, I can’t believe his left nipple is pierced. A dare between his housemates that resulted in Jaxon and Cooper with the bling.
Once his shirt is flipped inside out, face hidden, I let my gaze wander. Map out his torso, even though I have it memorized.
The bruises from his most recent games are still visible. One rimmed in yellow, the other still purple and blue.
I grind my teeth, cringing at the sight. Can’t say I miss those. The scar on my thigh is already bad enough.
Brown, shaggy hair pops through the neck of the shirt. A Cheshire cat-worthy smile on his face. Cooper tilts his head up to make eye contact with me.
I pat his bed again.
He closes the remaining inches. Cleans up my belongings. Tucking bookmarks into my textbook and stacking everything neatly on the ground. Gives me a quick kiss.
On his stomach, I straddle his back and start pushing into his knotted muscles.
“A little lower,” he requests, voice muffled in the comforter.
