“It’s fine.” I put my weight on both feet to end the conversation.
Max steps closer, scrutinizing me. “Bullshit. What’s the problem, Kellan?”
Sweat courses down his face, and I can’t help but watch one of the droplets as it slides down the deeply tanned skin of his neck and into the collar of his jersey. He’s not going to let this go. Stubborn, this one. “Fine.” I shove the word through stiff lips. Three heartbeats pass before I manage, in a halting tone, “I don’t like being touched.”
It’s a slow thing, the way his features morph into deep confusion. If there’s anything I know, it’s Kellan’s love of the game. I’m not talking about soccer. I’m talking about the revolving door of lovers he’s had since high school. Too late, I realize my mistake. Why would a man who has hook-ups every week hate being touched? He wouldn’t. Not Kellan.
Max doesn’t say anything, but I feel his curiosity as we escape the indoor turf to the quieter locker room. His strides are longer than mine, and he pulls ahead to slip into Coach Wheeler’s office. I stand in the middle of the locker room awkwardly, waiting for him to return, and trying not to freak out over the fact that Max and I are alone.
“Sit.” He gestures to one of the benches.
I perch on the end of one, gripping my knees.
“Turn toward me.”
The only way to turn toward him is if I straddle the bench that we sit on. Max already straddles it, like it’s no big deal and he and the guys do this all the time. I’m sure they do. Kellan wouldn’t have a problem facing him, so I shouldn’t either.
I do what he says while he digs through the first aid kit. His dark head is bent, strands of sweaty hair falling forward. The thin, damp fabric of his jersey is plastered to his beautiful torso. I snap my eyes upward as he lifts his head and reaches forward.
The soft edge of a triangular bandage touches my lip. “Is this okay?”
He’s taking in the fact that I’m not comfortable with being touched. For that, I’m grateful. It’s such a light sensation, the brush of the soft fabric from the pad, but it makes my entire mouth tingle.
With a hard swallow, I nod.
He wipes away the blood that hasn’t yet dried. “Looks like your tooth cut into your lip.” His voice is lower, not quite a whisper, but of a volume that suggests an intimate space. I’m aware of how we’re sitting: each straddling the bench, facing one another. An inch of space separates our knees.
“This might sting a little.”
I’m mesmerized by his movements. The way he dips the pad into a bottle of clear antiseptic. How the bandage hovers over my mouth. The directness of Max’s gaze. It doesn’t feel like he’s looking at me. It feels like he’s falling into me.
Tears prick my eyes as he applies the antiseptic. I bite back a curse and jerk away. “Only a little?” I say, wincing.
A corner of his mouth quirks. He returns to dabbing at the wound. “The unspoken truth about all athletes is that we’re babies. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Really not sure what’s happening right now. His posture is loose, his expression touched by a softness. Affection? I’m fascinated by the crinkles that appear at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, and I shouldn’t be.
He removes the bandage, and I think that’s that, except the tip of his index finger returns, touching on the hurt.
I suck in a sharp breath. He doesn’t move it away.
My heart is pounding.
Slowly, so slowly I think I’m imagining it, Max coasts his finger along the length of my bottom lip, skirting the cut. He makes a second pass. My breath puffs out of me, warming his fingertip. My stomach bottoms out as he shifts that touch to my upper lip, dipping into the corner of my mouth. My lips part of their own accord.
He’s mesmerized by the leisurely back and forth motion, as if not even aware it’s his hand touching me, and I’m mesmerized by the change in his eyes. A deepening of emotion I can’t read. It’s edged, dangerous. A shudder begins in my core and spreads low through my groin, causing my balls to tingle and my cock to grow heavy. I’m afraid to look down and see it swelling. There isn’t a lot of coverage in these exercise shorts.
The stadium door bangs open in the distance, the echo from the hall reaching us. Max allows another few seconds to pass before he removes his finger. It’s as if he takes all the breath in my body along with it, pulling it from my mouth and throat and lungs. My chest feels hollow.
Snapping the first aid kit shut, he gets up, hesitates at my side, no longer looking at me. Once the locker room door bangs open, that’s his cue to leave.
Me, however—I remain straight-backed on the bench, shocked by the desire in his eyes, and even more shocked by my reaction to his touch. How could something so subtle be responsible for that level of heat?
As the guys crowd in, I push aside the hair flopping over my face with an unsteady hand and order my erection to deflate. The last thing I need is for everyone to question why I have a boner.
The scary thing?
I thought Max was going to kiss me.
