“Raw, unfiltered talent.” He winks, and I roll my eyes.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re still talking to me.”
“Because you won’t leave.”
“I could leave,” he says, standing and brushing dirt off his practice pants. “But then you’d be disappointed.”
“I’d survive.”
“Would you, though?” He climbs up two more rows, closing the distance between us until he’s sitting right beside me, close enough I can smell the faint scent of grass, sweat, and somethingclean underneath, probably whatever expensive cologne athletes get sent for free. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”
I turn to face him, and suddenly the space between us feels smaller than it did a second ago. His eyes are brighter up close, flecked with gold around the edges. There’s a small scar above his left eyebrow, barely visible unless you’re looking for it.
“I’m tolerating you,” I say softly. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” His voice drops lower, matching mine. “Because from where I’m sitting, you haven’t told me to leave. You could’ve shut this conversation down five minutes ago, but you didn’t.”
“Maybe I’m being polite.”
“You don’t seem the polite type.”
“Maybe I’m full of surprises.”
“Maybe…” he murmurs, his gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before flicking back up, “… you’re more interested than you’re letting on.”
The air between us shifts. It charges, crackles, and hums with something dangerous and electric. My pulse kicks up, and I’m suddenly very aware of how little space separates us. How easy it would be to close the gap. How satisfying it might feel to wipe the smirk off his face with—
“Ava!”
The voice booms across the field, and I freeze.
Reece’s head snaps toward the sound, and I watch his expression shift from confident to confused as my father strides across the grass toward the bleachers.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Dad calls, waving one hand. “Practice ran late. You hungry?”
“Starving,” I call back, standing and grabbing my tablet.
Reece stands, too, but slower and more mechanical. His eyes dart between my father and me, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head.
“Coach Bishop,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.
“Steele.” Dad reaches the bottom of the bleachers, his expression shifting from warm to wary in half a second. “What are you doing up there?”
“I…” Reece glances at me, then back at Dad. “I was talking to—”
“My daughter,” Dad finishes, his tone flat.
Oh, this is delicious.
Reece’s face goes through about six different emotions in three seconds—shock, realization, horror, panic, resignation, and finally something close to grim acceptance.
“Your daughter,” he repeats slowly.
“Ava,” I say helpfully, extending my hand with a sweet smile. “We met yesterday. You came into my shop?”
He stares at my hand for a second before shaking it, his grip firm despite the obvious discomfort radiating off him. “Right. Yeah. The tattoo shop.”
