“Mmm, Beckham,” she murmured, still half-asleep as I fished her keys from her purse.
“Shhh, trouble. Almost there.” I shouldered open her door, navigating through her small apartment to what I assumed was her bedroom.
The restraint it took not to crawl into that bed with her nearly broke me. But I'd laid her down gently, pulled off her heels, and covered her with a blanket. Then I stood there like a fucking creep, watching her sleep for a full minute before forcing myself to leave, locking the door behind me.
Now I'm staring at my ceiling, cock throbbing and mind racing with images of what could have happened if I'd stayed.
I need a cold shower and about ten miles on the treadmill to get my head straight.
She was supposed to be my rival’s daughter. My one night to give in to everything I’ve ever wanted. Instead she’s my religion, and I’ll burn the whole fucking league to worship her.
I'm halfway through my pre-workout shake when my phone buzzes on the counter. My heart rate spikes when I see her name on the screen.
Troublemaker
I am SO sorry for falling asleep on you last night! Most embarrassing date move ever.
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips as I type back.
You were tired.
Still mortifying. Did you seriously CARRY me to my apartment??
You weigh nothing. Wasn't a big deal.
My hero But seriously, thank you. Most guys would've just woken me up.
I'm not most guys plus you’re cute when you’re unconscious. Quieter, too.
Fuck you, Kingston.
I stare at my phone, trying to figure out how to respond without sounding like a desperate teenager. Before I can decide, she texts again.
So…I was thinking about how I could make it up to you.
My pulse quickens at the implication in those words.
Is that right?
Mmhmm. I'm a big believer in proper apologies.
And what exactly does a proper apology look like?
I have some ideas. I’ll text you later, Coach King.
I stare at her message for a moment, trying to ignore the heat pooling in my groin. With a grunt, I toss my phone onto the counter and head for the shower. No point in overthinking it—I've got a full day of practice and meetings ahead.
By the time I get back to my apartment, it's past eight and I'm fucking exhausted. Three hours of practice followed by film review and strategy sessions with my coaching staff has left my body drained and my patience thin. I kick off my shoes at the door and head straight for the fridge, grabbing a beer and twisting off the cap.
The first sip hits my throat just as my phone vibrates in my pocket.
You home?
Just walked in.
I take another swig of beer, waiting for her response. Three dots appear, then disappear, then reappear again.
Good. I'm outside your door.
