All the women I’ve fucked in this house — if they made it this far — never made it to the kitchen. They were walked out before the sheets even cooled.
I went full feral in my early twenties — breaking out from under my family’s grip with nothing but a black card and a short fuse. I was freefalling: drinking, fighting, fucking.
The first team I played for wasn’t happy with what the media was writing about me, and my parents were even less so. Which is why I did it to begin with, I think. The more I thought they’d hate something, the more I wanted to do it, knowing it’d reach them.
Until the PR team pulled me into a boardroom for an intervention and dropped a stack of preprinted NDAs in front of me, saying it was going to save my career. And honestly, they probably did.
But even when the chaos faded, the rules stayed. After that, I’d only hook up in places I controlled —my hotel, my house, my rules. And I never let them linger.
And now here she is. Not lingering, but living in my home. Covered in flour, dancing, wearing my house like it was built around her.
And all I can think is… fuck, don’t let this end.
“Making a mess again?” I finally say.
She jumps, nearly knocking the spoon out of her hand as she spins toward me. “Jesus, you scared me!”
I step farther in and lean against the island. “You have fun with the girls?”
“Mhm.” She tosses her ponytail back. “We showed Dannie the team roster and made her play Smash or Pass with your teammates.”
I blink. “I hope you told her which ones are married before she got too enthusiastic.”
“She was very respectful,” Jessica says, licking batter off her thumb. “We didn’t include you or Jace.”
“Oh?” I raise a brow.
“Besides, Dannie picked Matt and Zed,” she says breezily.
My eyes narrow. “Matt and Zed?”
She looks at me over her shoulder. “And I told her to stay away from your goalie.”
“Territorial over him?” I tilt my head.
She laughs. “I’m protective over Dannie. She might look tough, but I don’t think she’d survive Zed.”
I step around the island and glance at the tray she’s pulling from the oven. The smell is sweet — some kind of chocolate situation. “What is that?” I ask.
“Cookies,”
“…For?”
“You. Your team. So you can bring them to practice or where every you hang out.”
My chest does something I don’t like.
She sets the tray down and grabs a glass container off the counter. It’s already full. She holds it up so I can read the label in bold Sharpie: ADDAMS.
“This batch is for Addams only,” she says seriously. “I used lactose-free milk for him. I heard someone mention he’s intolerant.”
I stare at her, not believing what I’m seeing. She goes back to the tray, humming softly.
This woman, who wasn’t even supposed to be here, is now in her pajamas in my kitchen at midnight,making cookies for my team, labeling them with Sharpie, adjusting recipes based on who might shit their pants.
But the truth is, she cares about the people I care about.
I might be done for.
