Tall is looking at them.
Correction: Tall is glowering at them. His blue eyes are narrowed, jaw tight, and he’s frowning like he’s deciding which wall to shove Carter through.
She’s still transfixed when someone nudges her elbow.
“Naomi?” Glen clears his throat, barely hiding a grin. “The mic pack?”
It takes her a second to understand what’s happening. Everyone—including Tall—is looking at her.
Because apparently she missed her cue to fix his mic.
“Right. Yes. Of course,” she stammers, grabbing the spare lavalier from the table. Her palms are already sweating.
She clears her throat and walks across the set, trying not to trip over her own feet. Or drool. That would be bad. Career-ending, possibly.
Tall is standing completely still, arms relaxed at his sides, expression locked in what could generously be called disapproval.
“Um, lift your jersey,” she mutters, flustered. “I’ve got to thread the cord.”
He doesn’t speak, just grabs the hem of his jersey and yanks.
Naomi blinks.
He doesn’t just lift it a little. No. He hauls the hem halfway up his torso, revealing a ridiculous stretch of lean, golden abs. There’s a scattering of freckles across his stomach. Several lines of script inked just under his ribs. A sharp indent at his hips that definitely shouldn’t make her feel lightheaded, but here they are.
She forgets what air is for a second.
“Still waiting,” he says, voice like gravel.
Right.
She steps in, threading the cord with shaky fingers, trying not to let her hands brush his skin and failing twice. He smells stupidly good—like cedar and soap—sending a shiver down her spine and heat curling through her belly. It's subtle, not cologne-y. Just…him.
God, this is a mistake.
“Hold still,” she says, because she has to say something.
“Am,” he replies, which is a lie because his muscles shift beneath her fingers, tensing slightly at her touch.
She clips the transmitter to his waistband. Her hand grazes skin. Electricity. Brain static.
“You okay down there?”
She nearly drops the mic pack.
“Fine,” she snaps, way too fast. “Just—technical stuff.”
Her fingers brush his shoulder as she adjusts the last piece, and for half a second, he doesn’t move.
Neither does she.
It’s like the air between them folds in on itself. Like the hum of a building just before the lights flicker.
She forces herself to step back, cheeks burning. “All set.”
Tall watches her closely, like he knows exactly how flustered she is and is silently cataloging every tell. His face is unreadable—classic goalie—but there’s the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Smug bastard.
