I smile at him, but then turn away. We all walk into the small shop, and the teens working behind the counter go nuts.
“Oh shit, it’s the Louisville Stallions,” one boy announces.
“Can we get your autographs?” another guy asks.
We pile into the tiny shop, order our food, sign memorabilia for the kids, and then leave. It would be nice to sit down and enjoy our dessert, but the shop isn’t big enough to accommodate all of us.
As we walk and eat, I look at Nash.
“What flavor did you get?” I ask. Peering into his cup, I only see one pink scoop.
“Strawberry,” Nash answers.
Other guys start sharing their cups, showing stacks of various flavors with multiple toppings.
I scoff. “Who orders plain strawberry ice cream? Don’t you want other flavors or sprinkles, or some shit like that?”
“No,” Nash answers.
“Are you a sadist?” I ask. I show him my cup filled with chocolate, mint chocolate chip, and cookie dough. Colorful sprinkles and gummy worms top it, and gooey caramel sauce drips all around the scoops.
Nash laughs. “No, I like it plain.”
I can’t help but smile at that. Nash is unapologetically himself, and it’s cute. He’s sweet.
Damn, I wish I could stop thinking about him.
Chapter 11
Nash
It’s night two of our away game series.
The atmosphere buzzes with energy as Leo and I step back into our hotel room, the weight of our pre-game practice lifting with each shared glance.
“Man, did you see that last play?” Leo exclaims, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “I thought for sure I was going to trip over my own feet.”
I chuckle, the sound warm and genuine. “I’d say you executed that last shot like a pro,” I reply, still riding the high of our success. There’s an unspoken understanding simmering between us—something that feels different. I no longer just seeLeo as the cocky player who rubs me the wrong way; there’s a spark of respect nestled in the fray, slowly weaving itself into our dynamic.
He shuffles over to the small kitchenette and pulls out a bottle of whiskey, its rich amber liquid glowing against the dim light. “I think we need to celebrate this victory properly.”
“Leo, I—” I start, my instinct screaming at me to stay responsible. Coach wants us to be clear-headed.
“Just a shot,” he insists, pouring a generous amount into a glass and raising it toward me. “Let loose for once. You’re way too serious, Nash.”
The sight of him, so relaxed and cocky, reignites something inside me. I find myself hesitating, caught between responsibility and the seductive pull of the night.
Finally, I relent, joining him at the kitchenette and accepting the glass he pours for me. “Fine,” I say, my heart racing with excitement as I clink my glass against his. “One shot.”
“To new beginnings,” he says, a wicked smile curling at the corners of his mouth, and I can’t help but return the grin as I down the whiskey. The burn glides smoothly down my throat, igniting a heat that courses through my veins, loosening the tight knots of tension wrapped around me.
As the night unfolds, we share stories, the liquid courage gradually weaving threads of intimacy between us. I find myselfrevealing the pressure I face—being the face of the franchise is no small feat. “It’s like I can’t have a moment of weakness,” I admit, my voice softer now. “Everyone expects me to win. It’s exhausting.”
Leo nods, understanding glowing in his gaze. “I get that. People look at me and see this cocky forward, but they don’t know what comes with it. I’ve had relationships fail because of my career. It’s tough.”
“I can’t imagine,” I reply, a pang of empathy settling in my chest.
As the whiskey continues to flow, the tension in the room transforms, our shared laughter mingling with deeper conversations, weaving a tapestry of vulnerability that pulls me in. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bed, I can feel the warmth radiating from him, a flickering intimacy igniting between us, and the heat swirls in my chest, threatening to tip over.
