Chapter Seven
Sweet Dreams
Jordan
His fingers tangle their way through my hair. His lips move their way down the side of my neck. My legs wrap around his torso and pull him to me, his bare chest flush with mine.
‘Jordan,’ he murmurs contentedly, and the sound is music to my ears. I grip him so tight I’m scared my rings, my nails, or both will leave marks that won’t go away easily. His strong, tanned muscles shift beneath my hands. I manage an incoherent mumble when his kisses meet the sensitive spot behind my earlobe. One of his hands finds the hem of my tank top, and mine find the button of his jeans. He presses a reverent kiss to my sternum as we wriggle our way out of any piece of clothing that might stand between us. When his hands return to my hips, tugging me to him, I can’t help the desperate cry I let out. ‘Oh, Rod—’
‘Holy shit!’
I practically shoot up in bed so fast I think my head’s going to hit the ceiling. My fucking pulse is a mile a minute. O. M. Gosh.
What?What?
I do a quick full-body pat-down before inspecting every inch of my room in Rebecca’s guesthouse. I also make real sure I’m in Rebecca’s guesthouse. My eyes are about to fly out of my skull. The vicious beeping of my alarm that begins no more than a few seconds later is the cherry on top. I reach over to the bedside table and slap my phone to shut it off, followed by pressing both of my hands to my head.
‘Holy shit,’ I repeat. I let my hands fall to my sides. A dream. That was a dream. What kind of dream was that?
I’ve had my moments. I’ve been a horny college student. Hell, I’m technically still a college student owing to my master’s programme, but I’m pretty sure I’ve moved past the ‘horny’ bit. I had my fair share of wild weekends and ‘last night was a blur’ experiences. And yet never –never– adreamlike this.
He’s made it into my dreams.
I roll out of bed and check my calendar for the day. The groan is instantaneous. My brain couldn’t have chosen a better day to go off the rails. Not only do I get to dance around Rod all day at camp during the scrimmage, but I also have to deal with him after hours. It’s Parents’ Night tonight, and other than the dozens of camp parents who’ll be mingling all around the Wilson backyard over beer and hot gossip, I’ll be sharing the company of the man who’s evidently my very favourite person.
Screw Rodney Wilson. Metaphorically.
‘Crease, Theo!’ I call across the field. Theo, who’s about up to my waist in height and has a helmet that, despite being a kids’ small, still seems too big for his head, is absolutely wild. He connects with Ben, whips his stick around the crease, and whacks it into the net and past the goalie with little trouble. That’s game, 5–2, baby.
‘YESSS!’ I greet little Theo with a grin and a double high-five that he returns, the shark teeth on his mouth guard beaming back at me. I found out from his mom that he’s one of the youngest in camp – at just eight – and yet has started for
the tri-town U12 team for the past two years. It’s unfathomable to me, being in a town that is as small as Prosperity but is just so lacrosse obsessed. Of course, Prosperity loves the sport, but this is different. Whittaker is producing athletes like it’s a lax factory. The kids here live and breathe lacrosse from elementary school. It’s practically a way of life.
Our half-camp team rushes the sidelines for water as Benny, ref for the day, tweets his whistle a couple times with a hollered ‘BREAK!’ He’s already monitoring the cardboard box that just came in yesterday, full of little plastic participation medals.
‘We did the medals?’ Rod says sceptically, an eyebrow raised. Has he shaved? His stubble looks decidedly shorter today. He’s traded his Adidas training pants for football shorts that show off beautiful quads and calves. Evidently, some parts of my dream that were completely fabricated have, in fact, turned out accurate.
I blink away any thoughts of my unpleasant disturbance. Absolutely not. I probably look like I’m actively buffering, but I refuse to do this. Just get through today, and then I have the weekend to clear my head and figure out how I can deal with my fucked-up libido.
You could always get it out of your system, you know.
Funny. I choose to ignore that.
As the three of us make our way back to the bleachers with the kids to make sure everyone grabs all their stuff before pick-up, Rod dodges a flying cleat, his arm brushing mine when he leans away. It’s literally the smallest brush of skin ever, but my nerve endings light up just the same. Dream or not, this feels oh-so-familiar, and whatever it is isn’t enough.
‘Sorry,’ he says offhandedly, even though I know well enough that extremely slight contact wasn’t enough for most people to notice, let alone apologize for. It’s not helping that he seems as rattled as I am. This is a test in self-control.
‘You’re all good.’
‘Coach Jordan!’ Little Theo bounds up to me, his eye black all smeared, toothy smile huge as ever. ‘See you Monday!’
‘See ya Monday, Theo,’ I reply with a chuckle as he hustles over to his mom, who’s waiting for him.
His big duffel bag bumps along on his back, and I let out a laugh. ‘That kid is precious.’
‘Terrifying on the field,’ Rod adds. Then, with a nudge of his elbow my way, ‘You, too. That was some beautiful coaching. There are gonna be a ton of happy parents fighting to get a word in with you tonight.’
‘Oh.’ I will myself to brush the repeat touch off and wave a dismissive hand. ‘Nothing like that. They’ll be too occupied watching the championship, anyways, won’t they?’
