“I’m not trying to be. But you can’t deny that he would do anything to spare my feelings.”
“You’re right. I still don’t think he’d have gone on with it unless all you did was give him a peck, which it doesn’t seem like that’s the case.”
“It wasn’t a peck,” I say, flushing.
Far, far from it.
“Exactly! Honestly, Aubrey, you need to just yank the Band-Aid off. The sooner you get it over with, the better it’ll be.”
“And how do I do that?”
She releases my hand with a soft pat and palms her drink, holding the disco ball cup instead. “You tell him you liked kissing him. That way, he can either tell you he feels the same, or you can move on. What’s the worst thing that could happen? You two kiss again to see if it was a fluke and then both decide you never want to do it again?”
“That sounds more like the best-case scenario,” I mutter.
Her eyes roll. “You say that now, but we both know you want him to tell you how much he loved kissing you.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a know-it-all?”
“A handful of times, actually.”
I snort a laugh and straighten a bit. Some of the weight has lifted from my shoulders, but not enough for me to gaslight myself into thinking I’ve fixed the problem. Brielle is right, as much as I wish she weren’t.
Finn and I need to talk.
Sooner rather than later.
23
I haven’t been pulledout in the fifth inning since my second season on the team.
I’m consistently out on the mound for seven, even eight innings, before I’m forced off and replaced with a closer. Relievers are needed less and less when I’m pitching, and I’ve taken more pride in that accomplishment than the three league titles I’ve won. I stand out in not only our division but the entire MLB for my talent, but tonight?
I fucked up.
Two home runs have toppled my stats, and I left the game with my head between my knees. I’m not even surprised, either. That’s got to be the worst part. I knew I was going to play like shit, and that’s exactly what I did.
Inning after inning, I listened to the silence that filled our home arena when I let hit after hit come and allowed more runs in one night than the first three-quarters of my last season. The worry in Roman’s eyes when I went to the dugout was worse than if he’d been pissed at me. I knew what everyone was thinking, and I wish I could have told them the truth.
Instead, I chalked it up to my shoulder and let one of the trainers stretch it out far more than I needed.
After that game, I should be home in bed or forcing Wes to spend the night throwing with me. We’re both exhausted, but he’d still have come. I know that as well as I knew there wasn’t a chance I was going to make plans to do anything other than come right here once I worked up the confidence.
I pound my fist on Aubrey’s door, not caring if it wakes her neighbours. It’s well past eleven, but I know she isn’t asleep. There’s no way she’s been sleeping better than I have, which is like absolute crap. It’s what we both deserve after the other night.
That’s why I’m here. To fix it. Fixeverythingthat we’ve messed up.
The door swings open, and my head empties, my courage draining. Clearly dishevelled, Aubrey stares at me in confusion before her expression softens, exhaustion lowering her defenses. The thin silk robe she’s wearing is short. So,soshort. It hitches at her upper thighs and pulls tight across her chest. The fabric does nothing to hide the sharp peaks beneath it. She’s done the tie tight, but I know with one slight tug, it would fall.
I swallow so loudly it sounds like a drumbeat in the otherwise silent hall. Her bare lips spread just enough to draw my attention. When I focus on them, the memory of that sweet strawberry taste hits my tongue. I’ve been reminded of that slippery gloss for days now and even considered making a trip to the store just to buy a pack of strawberries to try soothing the itch.
Reaching out, I grip the door frame and lean forward, suddenly desperate to close the gap between us. She bunches the front of her robe in her fingers and twists. The scent of nail polish is heavy in the air behind her, and I look to her other hand, finding it rubbing up the outside of her left thigh. Her nails are a deep, glossy red colour that matches her tiny robe and the blush climbing up her neck.
She’s got her hair held up at the back of her head with one of her giant clips. Rogue black strands fall along the soft, round curves of her face. There’s not a speck of makeup on her cheeks or eyes, only the sheen across her forehead from whatever skincare product she must have been applying when I interrupted.
My cock throbs as I shift my weight, pressing back on my heels instead of my toes.
“What are you doing here, Finn?”
