I built this entire life on being undeniable. On being so good at my job that no one could ever reduce me to anything less.
Which is a real problem, considering I just spent the night letting the captain of my team reduce me to a whimpering mess against his headboard.
Fuck.
My biggest secret used to be the career I hide from my mother.
Now it's the one that could end it.
Four days later, I'm staring at the single most beautiful catering spread I have ever seen in a professional setting.
Goldie's outdid themselves with the order I placed late last night.
Right in the center of the table in Conference Room A, there's a tray of warm cinnamon rolls the size of my fist, glaze still glistening and dripping down the sides in slow golden rivers. There's a pyramid of fruit danishes with edges so flaky they shatter when you look at them, and a basket of those famous brown butter cookies that Luna swears can fix a marriage.
I help myself to the sleek silver carafe of cold brew sweating beside a French press of something so dark and aromatic it's making my mouth water already.
Kai dropped it all off twenty minutes ago, walking to The Bear Cave barefoot, calling everyone 'brother' and 'sister,' and then drifting out like a benevolent surf ghost.
Colin Holden is currentlyruiningit.
"Nowthis," Colin says around a mouthful of cinnamon roll, leaning so far back in his chair I'm genuinely worried for his spine, "is what I'm talking about. Josie.Josie.Did you taste the cookie?"
"I'm aware of the cookie, Colin."
"Thecookie," he repeats, pointing at me with the remains of his pastry. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt patterned with tiny surfboards and looks like he wandered in from a family beach barbecue. "If we lose this franchise, I want it on record that the cookie was the only thing that made this season worth it."
Coach Pearson, sitting at the far end with his coffee, grunts. "We're not losing the franchise. We won again last night. We're on a roll."
"Iknow! That's why I'm enjoying the cookie." Colin licks glaze off his thumb. "Stress-free workplace, baby. Stress-free."
He kicks back and lays his feet on the table.
Yes. Last night was a win, technically. A scrappy two-one squeaker we only got because the ref missed a high-stick so obvious my dad would've been turning in his grave.
Declan played okay last night.Okay.
Not the way he played last Saturday. With that smooth, predatory flow, reading plays before they happened in front of the packed crowd.
But it kind of adds up. He's beenoffall week.
"Sorry I'm late." Declan's voice rumbles from the doorway, and my whole body lights up like the jumbotron. He looks at me sheepishly. "Lateagain."
He drops into the chair across from me—not beside me, of course, becausesecrets—then reaches for the black coffee.
And God help me, I have to look back down at my notes before I do something insane, like climb across the danishes just to kiss him.
Becausefuck.Imisshim.
And here's my problem.
I've barelyseenhim.
Oh, we've talked. Texts at midnight that turned filthy fast. A stolen ten minutes in the equipment hallway that I'm still not recovered from. But between his practice schedule, game night last night, and my fourteen-hour days trying to salvage this franchise, we've been two ships passing in a very horny, unsatisfied night.
It's now been four days since he made me feel like the only un-broken thing in the world, and I've gotten exactly one half-clothed grope out of it.
It's not enough. It'snowherenear enough with a man that looks likethat.
