My muscles ache. It feels like a thousand tiny needles are pricking into my skin whenever I take a step. Training has been challenging, but I’m slowly getting used to it. My cardiovascular skills have always been pretty favourable, and even though I’m not at the top of my game, I’m gaining it back quickly.
It just sucks that it hurts so damn much.
My mother approved of our animal shelter photos. However, she did specify that Bennett’s hand was a little too low on Poppy’s waist.
With all honesty, it looked perfectly friendly to me, but Poppy received some choice words from my mother and I have a feeling that she’s going to stand with a bargepole-sized space between the two of them the next time we take a photo.
I see Nathan in passing during training. His glances always last a little longer than necessary before his face settles back into a glower, and he ignores my presence. Sometimes, when we leave practice, he’s out on the second field running extra laps. Sweat trickles down his bare chest, tanned skin stretching over thick, corded muscles.
I find myself slowing my walking pace down or fumbling around with my bag just so I can spend a few extra seconds with my eyes on him.
He’s just so fucking hot.
And I hate it.
After our conversation on the first day at the animal shelter, he completely shut off. He didn’t speak. And neither did I. There was tension lingering in the air, and he kept drifting off, seeming to be distracted by his own thoughts.
I told him he can sulk all he wants, but if he’s going to do that, then I’m going to make it just as uncomfortable for him as it is for me.
Because Mae Bexley doesn’t roll over for anyone.
I’ve been subjecting him to annoying questions at the animal shelter all day today, using it as a distraction from glancing at his veiny forearms when I know he’s not looking.
While cleaning the dog leashes, I asked, “So what do you do besides just throw a ball?”
While re-stocking the kibble in the pantry, I asked, “So what does your helmet actually do besides make you look silly?”
And while playing rope with the beagle-looking dog, I asked, “How old is too old for someone to play, if you catch my drift?”
I received minimal answers every time, but never silence. Nathan didn’t blank me. He responded, even if I was bothering the fuck out of him.
My insinuation about his age made him freeze, though, and I swear I saw the corner of his lip flick up the tiniest bit before he flattened them again.
It was all I needed to see to spur me on.
“So what do you do once you’ve caught the ball again?” I ask as we exit the animal shelter, putting on my best dumb girl voice, tilting my head to the side and blinking a few times.
He gazes down at me with that same old taut jaw, eyes flickering to Poppy and Bennett, who are already getting into their cars.
I’ve been questioning him about football all day, forcing him to talk to me, and it’s funny watching him frustrated as I pretend to still not understand.
“I told you, I run.”
My gaze flickers down his body. “With those legs?”
Nathan deadpans me.
If looks could kill.
“Wait, so how do you score a goal?” It takes all my strength not to burst out laughing once I see him press the heels of his palm into his eye sockets and curse. “What?” I question with fake innocence. “I’m a cheerleader now. I need to know these things.”
“A cheerleader who doesn’t like football.” He shakes his head, removing his hands from his face, mouth downturned.
“A cheerleader whose uniform still doesn’t fit her.” They didn’t have time to tailor me an outfit, so I had to wear a spare set a size too small at last night’s game.
Nathan shrugs. “Hadn’t noticed.”
A scoff falls from my throat. “Alright, MrI’m going to stare at you from across the field.”
