He spins, eyes blazing, his glare pinning me in place. "Why do you even have Clinton Wright's jersey, anyway?"
And there it is—that edge in his voice. Harsh, hot, jealous like the jersey's existence alone is an insult.
It almost makes me laugh, because wow, jealous Zach? That's a whole new species.
But the urge to roll my eyes hard is just as strong, because really—who does he think he is? He's not my boyfriend. He doesn't get to act like one.
"Ugh, for the love of God, Zach Westbrook—take your shirt off and put this on!"
My voice comes out sharp, commanding, like I'm not entertaining even a whiff of argument.
He stiffens, caught off guard, then lets out a low grumble. "Fine."
His arms fold across his chest, and the movement makes his biceps flex hard enough to test the seams of his shirt. Like that's supposed to intimidate me.
Spoiler: it doesn't.
"But," he presses, eyes narrowing, "why do you even have Clinton Wright's jersey? Did you two date or something?"
"So what if we did?"
The lie tumbles out before my brain can slam on the brakes.
Why the hell did I say that?
We didn't. Clint was my old roommate Cara's brother. Pretty sure it was his jersey—Cara probably borrowed it and left it lying around our dorm, and it must've ended up in my stuff when I was packing.
Total accident. But it's too late to return it now.
Zach just...stares at me. And in that stare is something I almost wish I hadn't seen—his face goes slack, his shoulders dip, and for the briefest moment, he looks like I just ripped the ground out from under him.
The same kind of wounded expression I used to swallow down every time I saw him with someone else.
Then, like a curtain dropping, the look's gone. Replaced with that maddening smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Well," he drawls, tilting his head, "he's lucky New York is far away. Otherwise, I'd march right up to his school and—"
"And what?" I arch a brow, crossing my arms to mirror him.
He squints at me, exhales hard through his nose, then mutters like a sulky kid, "And give his stupid jersey back."
After a beat, Zach sighs like he's surrendering to the inevitable, grabs the hem of his shirt, and peels it off. My eyes betray me instantly.
I spin around so fast I nearly trip over my own feet—because nope. Not today.
My sinful eyes don't get a free show of his deliriously sinful body.
"I'm decent," he calls, voice carrying that lazy edge that makes it sound anything but.
When I turn back, he's tugged the NYU Violets jersey over his head.
And, damn it, it looks good on him. Too good. Still, nothing will ever beat him in Ridgewater Warrior colors. I catch myself smiling anyway, giving him a quick once-over before nodding in mock approval.
He holds out his damp shirt, brows raised. "You know you owe me for this, right?"
"Owe you? How so?"
"Because it's humiliating," he deadpans. "Wearing another team's jersey? That's like...sacrilege."
