He stares at me for a long, heavy moment, his eyes scanningmy face like he’s looking for a crack in my armor—which is about to do just that if I stand here, talking to him, much longer.
But I hold his gaze, smiling, refusing to let him see how much my lungs are burning from holding my breath.
Finally, a slow, dangerous smile slips back into place. The familiar competitive spark returns, and he leans down just enough so his breath brushes the shell of my ear.
“Right. A fun night,” he murmurs, his tone laced with a wicked challenge. “If that’s how you want to play it, Honeybee. But I think we both know it was more than that, and I have the ripped panties to prove it.”
I feel a shiver run straight down my spine, but I force my smile to stay intact. I step back, breaking our closeness before I do something stupid, like reach for his jersey. “Go get a shower. You smell like ass.”
“Will do.” He grins, pulling the towel from his neck as he takes a step backward toward the tunnel. He pauses, looking over at me, his eyes full of intent. “So, I’ll be seeing you around this season, or are you gonna hide behind that headset?”
I let out a soft laugh, pulling the headset off my neck. “You’ll be seeing me. I’ve been assigned to the East Coast games for the season. So, this field here will practically be my permanent residence.”
Aston’s smile widens—a genuine Griffith smirk that makes you want to drop your panties.
“Good,” he says simply.
He turns and swaggers into the tunnel, his broad shoulders disappearing into the shadows of the stadium interior.
I stand alone for a long minute, the cool evening breeze finally cutting through the heat from the field, watching the empty tunnel entry.
“Good,”he said.
I let out a shaky breath, rubbing my temples as a heavy realization settles deep. This is about to get incredibly, terribly complicated.
CHAPTER THREE
ASTON
The humof the V8 engine in my truck does nothing to drown out the thoughts in my head.
We won our season opener tonight. I clocked in two sacks, a forced fumble, and a handful of quarterback hurries that will look real pretty on film tomorrow. By all accounts, I should be celebrating with my teammates with a nice steak and a few beers. Hell, Brody was guilt-tripping me to go out with him, and I almost gave in, but I’m just not feeling it tonight.
Instead, I’m gripping my steering wheel, and I feel like I’m losing my mind.
Seeing Eva on the field tonight was a swift, brutal kick to the ribs. For two solid months, I’d been trying to convince myself that Alie and Liam’s wedding reception was just a momentary lapse in sanity. A fluke. A beautiful, alcohol-fueled mistake, triggered by memories and having the whole Walker University crew in the same space.
I told myself that once the season started, once the grind of the playbook and the physical toll of practice and games tookover, the memory of the feel of her skin under my hands and the taste of her lips would fade.
But then she looked up from behind that camera tonight, looking completely unbothered, and casually reduced the hottest night of my entire life to a fun night. No big deal.
I’m a fucking idiot. I have absolutely no right to be annoyed that she blew me off or treated me like a casual hookup. I was the coward who had slipped out because the sight of her naked under the sheets made me panic. I didn’t even leave a note. I’d left her to wake up alone in a room that still smelled like sex.
She put up a flawless armored front on the field tonight, and I took it on the chin because I was the one who had practically handed her the shield in the first place.
Just as I pull into my driveway, my phone lights up, the screen flashing with a face that looks exactly like mine.
Ace.
I stare at the console for a solid three seconds, a wave of guilt rushing through me. But Ace is my twin. My built-in best friend. We don’t go a day without talking or texting, and if I ignore his call after a win, he’ll know something is up within ten seconds and not leave me alone until I answer him.
I turn off my truck, open the door, and step out, then answer the call. “Sup, Acer?”
“There he is!” Ace’s loud voice booms through my phone. I can hear country music in the background and voices I don’t recognize. “QB terror. Brother, I watched that fourth-quarter strip sack from the locker room after my game tonight. You leveled that rookie. I bet the kid is still looking for his soul out there on the field.”
I let out a genuine laugh, the familiar comfort of my brother’s voice easing some of my tension. “Thanks, man. That kid was leaning all night, anticipating the outside rush. I just waited for him to overset on the third down and took the inside track.”
I grab my bag from the back of the cab and walk to the door as I talk.
