I know what Cole smells like. I know his voice. What he sounds like when he coughs or clears his throat. He has a scar on his chin about a centimeter in length, likely from a deep cut. One of his ears is a tad lower than the other. When he’s concentrating, the tip of his tongue presses against his top lip. I know his stride and how he carries himself—his right shoulder dipping slightly as he thrusts his leg forward and then the other. He walks tall and confident but loose. I can close my eyes and see him jogging off the field, and if there were no names and numbers, I’d still know exactly which one is him.
But I don’t know what his hands feel like.
I bite my lip harder, forcing my mouth open and choosing myself. “Can I. . .see your hands?”
One eyebrow arches. “You want to see my hands?”
“Yes, I know it sounds insane—”
He steps forward, extending them, palms up as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I glance at him and then his hands. He stands perfectly still, ready and waiting to help me. Two hands worth millions of dollars, and I’m treating them like they might be weapons.
Every muscle in my body contracts, and I want them to calm the storm of nervous humiliation rolling through me.
I run my fingers delicately over his, easing over the calloused patches. When I flip them over, two of the knuckles are rough with scabs.
“I feel like a pitcher letting the umpire inspect.”
I peek at him from underneath my heavily coated eyelashes, and there’s a slight smirk on his face that reaches in and loosens the fear that’s holding tight, attempting to strangle me from within. His calm, assured gentleness warms those cold, desolate places, and my body begins to stand down.
I hold his hands, our palms pressed together. They aren’t sweaty or clammy. I close my eyes, memorizing every detail.
What his grip feels like—firm but gentle. Where his thumb rests against the back of my hand. The way his long fingers surround my hand completely.
I release them, but he doesn’t move as if he’s waiting for direction.
“Can you. . .put them on my shoulders and then—”
I don’t even need to finish.
His large, yet tender hands fall lightly on my shoulders, cupping them. “Is this ok?”
I nod, remembering to breathe as I let my eyes fall closed to absorb everything. The weight of them. The gentle pressureof his fingers spreading over my shoulder blades. His thumbs subtle back and forth over my deltoids.
He begins to slowly trace them down my arms. Not in a sensual way, but giving me time to tell him apart from others.
When he reaches my hands, he takes hold of them. Then, after a moment, his fingers slip between mine.
My instincts charge forth, and it’s too much. I yank them away, taking a step back.
Cole remains perfectly still, looking at me like he’s trying to understand. I don’t want him to.
“Are you ok?” It’s only a whisper.
I nod, waiting for my body to catch up with my mind and settle the hell down.
“We don’t have to go.”
“No.” I didn’t go through that to have this beat me. “We’re going. This is important, and maybe we’ll see or hear something that will give us a lead.”
He rubs his forehead. “Ryder, I don’t want—”
“Matthews, we’re going, and you’ll show me your world. That might help me figure out who’s doing this.”
He stares at me, blinking once, twice. “Ok.”
I can do this.
