Claire turns to face me. Her dress has dropped now that she’s standing, and she’s entirely naked. My eyes trail over all theexposed skin, lingering on her chest. The skin is pale compared to her tanned arms and stomach from training outdoors. A reminder I get to see her like this. No one else.
“You are so beautiful,” I tell her, the rest of my English vocabulary falling spectacularly short.
Sex isn’t usually a conversation. It’s a physical act, a release that helps me perform at my peak. Sure, it’s fun, but it serves a purpose. It’s an outlet, same as eating well or running.
That’s not what just happened.
Claire tucks her bottom lip in between her teeth, a shy smile pulling up the corners of her mouth. She walks closer, shoving her hands under my shirt again. Her palms splay over my abs. “Is this a really good dream I’m about to wake up from?”
“If you are, I am having it too.”
She smiles, sliding her hands up and pulling my shirt higher. “Take this off.”
I do, adding my shirt to the pile of clothes on the floor. Her fingers travel from my biceps to my shoulder, then down the center of my chest, brushing the lines of muscle between my hips. My cock jumps.
“Can we do that again?”
“We can do it as many times as you want.”
“Well, I have a training session in the morning, so I need to be able to walk.”
I grin. “No promises, Boston.”
22
OTTO
She’s early.
“You are early,” I state, approaching the metal bench Claire is slouched on.
It’s quarter to ten, and I was expecting to have more time to prepare. Working with goalies or making general observations was one thing. But I’m not a real coach, and I’m not sure what magical purpose Eliza thinks this session will serve. Fifteen minutes wasn’t a ton of time to figure it out, but it was something.
“Ten isn’t that early,” Claire replies cooly, reaching for the thermos next to her thigh. She’s wearing shorts today, which is not as bad for my concentration as the revealing top she had on last night, but is not great for it either.
“You used to think so.” I pull keys out of my pocket, unlocking the equipment shed and grabbing a single ball out of the mesh bag.
When I turn back around, Claire is staring at me. There’s a crease in her forehead that smooths when we make eye contact. She asked me not to tell anyone about our past; she didn’t say not to mention it when we were alone. I’ve been hyperaware ofhow I act around her. If I’m looking too long, standing too close, commenting too much. She becomes a spot of brilliance amid a whole lot of gray, and pretending otherwise is exhausting.
I drop the ball to the ground, flicking the black-and-white sphere up with my foot and bouncing it on my knee a few times.
Claire doesn’t appear impressed by the trick. Her expression doesn’t change as she says, “Tommy doesn’t think so. Most days, he’s up around seven.”
“He lives with you?” I ask casually. At least, I hope it’s casual.
“He and Cassidy are staying with me for now, yeah.”
I want to ask more questions, but it’s none of my business.
“I thought he was yours. Your kid.” I kick the ball toward the field, avoiding her gaze after the impulsive confession slips out.
“A lot of people do. We look more alike than he and Cassidy do. We both got my dad’s nose.”
I glance at hers with an exaggerated wince. “Poor kid.”
She fights it, but the corners of her mouth quirk. “Is this part of your coaching strategy? Insulting my appearance?”
My eyes skim up the length of her exposed legs. “There is nothing to insult, Caldwell.”
