“You were wearing my jersey?”
His voice is rough and scraped raw, making me pause.
“I—yes… it was a really cool one, too. I found a vintage one online from your rookie season. I even paid extra for expedited shipping so it’d be here in time for the game.”
“You…” He blows out a breath. “You bought a jersey from my rookie season.” He takes a step closer. “Online.”
“Well, yeah. They don’t sell them in stores anymore, and I wanted something unique.”
“And you paid for expedited shipping?”
I blink in confusion. Why does he care about that? “Yes, I paid for expedited shipping. I’d prefer not to talk about it because it goes against my personal belief that shipping should be free or at least baked into the price of the item so I don’t know I’m paying it. It?—”
“Kennedy.” He cuts me off, his expression heating.
Nerves rattled, I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
His green eyes are dark, nearly burning. “You bought a vintage jersey from my rookie year.”
“Yes… I think I’ve made myself clear about that. I didn’t want to keep borrowing Sophie’s jersey, even though I don’t care about being an outfit repeater, so?—”
“And you ripped offhisjersey the second you found out.”
I scoff. “Obviously. I wasn’t going to stand there wearing?—”
“In the middle of a hallway? You just took it off?”
“One, stop cutting me off. It’s really rude.” I sigh. “And two, it was technically the end of the hallway, but yes.”
Without warning, he closes the distance between us, and suddenly I’m pressed against the wall, his hands framing my face, his mouth on mine.
My hands come up automatically, gripping the shoulders of his chest protector. The equipment is hard and solid under my fingers. Fuck, I wish I could feel his skin right now.
He’s everywhere, crowding into my space, his body gear pressed against me from chest to thigh.
The kiss isn’t gentle or tentative or questioning. It’s fierce and desperate and tastes faintly of Gatorade and something that’s justhim.
A loud knock on the door, followed by “Davies, time to go!” has me pulling back.
Cameron’s not having it. He slides a hand into my hair, tilting my head back, then slips his tongue between my lips, teasing in a way that has me whimpering into his mouth.
The knock and voice come again, louder and angrier this time. “Davies! Coach wants you backnow!”
Cameron steps back, and the loss of his warmth is visceral. His hair is an even bigger mess thanks to my fingers, and there’s a dazed look in his eyes that probably mirrors my own. For a second, we only look at each other, both breathing heavily, both clearly trying to process what just happened and where we go from here.
The knock comes a third time, aggressive enough to rattle the door in its frame. “Davies, I swear to God?—”
Cameron stomps to the door and yanks it open just wide enough to stick his head out. “I quit,” he announces flatly, then slams it shut again without waiting for a response.
The sheer audacity of it loosens the anxiety in my chest, and I burst out laughing. Shoulders shaking, I bend at the waist, resting my hands on my thighs as my eyes water. “Go tell him you’re kidding. You have a game to finish, and I have free nachos waiting for me upstairs.”
He grunts. “Screw the nachos.”
“Absolutely not.” I snap up straight. “Never disrespect free nachos.”
His lips twitch despite the blaze still burning behind his eyes. “I’m coming to your place after the game.”
My pulse jumps at the declaration, but I tilt my head, trying to play it cool. “What about O’Leary’s? Isn’t that the postgame tradition?”
