I jog back on defense, breathing hard, and she’s still watching.
Then she moves.
Slow. Deliberate. Crossing the sideline like the court belongs to her too.
She stops just inside my peripheral, close enough I can smell the faint citrus of her shampoo mixed with sweat and rubber.
I don’t look.
I won’t.
But she steps closer.
“Vale.”
Her voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that cuts through everything.
I plant, ready to drive again.
She steps right into my path.
No warning.
Just her body—close, warm, alive—blocking my line.
I freeze.
She tilts her head, braid sliding over her shoulder, red bow catching the light like blood.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says, soft, almost sweet.
I swallow. Jaw locked.
“You put me on ice first,” I manage.
Her lips curve. Not quite a smile.
“So what? Now you’re punishing me and torturing yourself?”
She lifts a hand, slow, fingertips brushing the damp fabric over my chest—right where my heart is slamming.
“I want you. Want this.”
The words detonate.
Everything I’ve locked down—the restraint, the routine, the control—cracks wide open.
I grab her wrist. Hard.
She doesn’t pull away.
She leans in.
And I break.
I haul her against me, mouth crashing into hers like I’ve been starving for years. She tastes like cherry lip balm andvictory and every single night I’ve spent wanting her—sweet, addictive, impossible to get enough of.
I yank that ponytail hard, wrapping the braid around my fist and tilting her head back so I can claim her deeper, growling low against her lips like the sound has been trapped in my chest for months. She gasps into my mouth, and the vibration of it shoots straight through me.
