I don’t know who I run over while charging to her side.
I just know that the smile she’s giving the guy who’s grabbing her arm is herI don’t want to be smiling but smiling is better than making a scenesmile, andthis is done.
“Five minutes, Goldie,” the fucker’s saying a split second before I grab his wrist, twist, and shove it back against his chest.
“Keep your fucking hands off my girlfriend, you useless fucking cunt fuck.”
He staggers back.
She’s free.
Staring at me with eyes that have gone wide and surprised. “Fletcher—” she starts, but I grab her by the hand and tug her before I do something worse that’ll ruin every bloody bit of networking I’ve done with every bloke here since my ass landed back in the States.
“Dance with me,” I say roughly.
She blinks once.
Licks her lips.
And then nods. “I’d love to.”
15
Goldie
That was unexpected.
And I don’t mean Fletcher turning into a charging bison ready to ram his head into Miller’s midsection and toss my ex-boyfriend halfway across the botanical gardens.
I’ve caught highlights of Fletcher playing. He’s aggressive. He doesn’t tolerate bullshit. He’s possessive.
Makes sense that his on-pitch presence would translate to off-pitch relationships.
But my body’s reaction to Fletcher’s growledget your hands off my girlfriend?
That has me completely off-kilter.
There’s some squishy-squishy action happening in my chest. A dash of weakness in my knees. Unexpected thrill in my belly. And some wetness in my panties that doesnotget better when Fletcher sweeps his bulky, solid arm around me, pulling me against hiscrisp white shirt and hard body as we hit the edge of the dance floor.
“I was handling him,” I murmur as he pulls me tighter, our cheeks nearly touching. I can almost feel the edges of his short whiskers against my skin, and it’s making me wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
“And I was making a point,” he replies, low and gravelly right in my ear. “You’re bloody welcome.”
I barely suppress a shiver.
After growing up in sports, I’ve dated more Renaissance men than cavemen by choice, butI like this.
And it’s not just the priceless look on Miller’s face at being confronted by a guy whose forearm is bigger than Miller’s neck.
It’s also the scowl I glimpse on my ex’s face as Fletcher and I turn a slow circle on the dance floor.
And the mildly panicked look on Stefanie’s face beside him.
“Is that your ex, or is there another wankerella I need to deal with here?” Fletcher adds.
“That was my ex.”
“How long’s he been with your teammate?”
