Not loud.
Not showy.
Just enough that I felt it in my bones.
When he pulled back, his forehead hovered close to mine. For one second, neither of us moved.
The training room noise returned slowly.
Towels. Voices. The slap of tape. Somebody laughing too loudly.
I opened my eyes.
His were already open.
“Was that for them?” I asked.
His thumb brushed once along my jaw.
“At first.”
My stomach dropped clean through the floor.
Then he stepped back, like he knew exactly what he had done and did not trust himself to stay.
“I’ll wait,” he said, voice rougher now. “Finish your PT.”
I stared at him.
He walked back to the chair beside my table and sat down like nothing had happened.
Like I was supposed to go back to hamstring exercises after a man admitted the fake kiss stopped being fake halfway through. Like the heat burning low in my belly and my thighs didn’t remember the dirty things he did to me before.
I wanted to throw something at him.
I wanted to crawl into his lap.
I wanted to call my mother and scream that I had a fake boyfriend who was better at being real than the boy she had told me to catch.
Instead, I went back to the table and finished my rehab with shaking legs that had nothing to do with my injury.
The next home game was two days later.
I told myself I was not going.
Then Drew texted me a picture of his jersey lying on what looked like his bed.
Drew:Wear it.
Me:No.
Drew:That wasn’t a request.
Me:I’m not one of your little football fangirls.
Drew:Good. They don’t get my jersey.
I stared at that one too long.
