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That’s when I shoot off the text.

SOS.

“Thanks,” I say, sliding my phone back in my pocket, and taking the cup. I can’t help but inhale the spicy liquor. God, it’s the scent of a thousand bad decisions and best nights ever. I miss it. “But I’m not drinking tonight.”

“Oh,” she says, giving me a pout. There’s defensiveness in there too. People get weird if you’re not drinking at parties, like it’s a statement about them and not just a choice you’ve made for yourself.

Murphy, one of the younger guys on the team, walks by and I hand him the cup. “Go crazy, brother.”

He grins, eyes darting to Chantelle. “Thanks, man.”

I have a glimmer of hope that maybe she’ll decide to go off with him, but her gaze shifts back to me.

“I thought for a minute you guys may not pull it off, but then Kirby scored,” she says, letting me know she was at the game. “I jumped to my feet so fast.”

“You should tell him. He’d love to hear it.” I gesture to my teammate doing a keg stand on the back porch. Reid is cheering him on, wearing only his boxers. The urge to strip off my tank and join them in a night of debauchery is strong. Even though I’m still pissed about missing that breakaway, the old me would have wanted to celebrate the win. The new me knows I can’t risk it. I’m so close to being off probation.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she continues, while I unscrew the cap of the sports drink bottle and take a long sip. “I’d be so scared to have those pucks coming at me so fast.”

While she talks, my eyes search the room. Maybe she’s not going to come. I check my phone and see a message. It’s not from Nadia but my Dad.

Rev: How’s the sermon? Make any progress?

Nope. Not dealing with that now. The closer we get to the break, the more often he’s going to bug me about the talk he wants me to give over the holidays.

I check again, making sure Nadia’s message didn’t get bumped. Maybe she didn’t get it? Or maybe she’s tired of holding my hand, but this wasn’t a cry wolf. This is a code red.

“Axel?”

I look down and see Chantelle gazing up at me. Fuck. “Sorry, babe, I’m sucking the fun out of the room tonight. I just came down for a snack.” I give her a tight smile, one that has worked on letting down chicks in the past. “I’m not feeling up to a party tonight.”

“We don’t have to party,” she says, fingers curling into my waistband. Her nails drag over the still healing tattoo–no painreally, but it’s tender. “We could head up to your room, finish what we started last time.”

Wrapping my hand around Chantelle’s wrist, I’m prying her fingers off, when I hear, “What the fuck is going on?”

I smell her before I see her, that fresh, flowery scent that follows Nadia everywhere. I turn and see her standing just inside the kitchen, hands on her hips. She looks livid, those big brown eyes furious, and her mouth twisted in a scowl. None of that matters though. I’m stuck on the fact she’s wearing my jersey. Notajersey.Mine. I see the frayed hem from where I got in a fight three games ago. Her hot gaze flicks from me to Chantelle. “Are you hitting on my man?”

“Yourwhat?” Chantelle snaps.

I reach a hand out and grab Nadia by the hip, pulling her against my side. “Darlin’, thought you were never gonna show.”

She places her hand on my stomach and rises up on her toes, kissing the underside of my jaw. That simple touch is enough to make my pulse quicken and my dick get hard. “Sorry,” she says, holding up a canvas bag. “I had to get my things together.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Chantelle mutters, glaring at the two of us.

Ignoring her, I cup the back of Nadia’s neck and tilt her face upward. I see the flash of uncertainty in her eyes right before I kiss her, but that hesitation slips away when our tongues meet.

Jesus, she tastes so fucking good.

“Whatever,” Chantelle says, and in my periphery I see her flounce off, her little tennis skirt bouncing as she goes.

Licking her lips, I ask, “Is she gone?”

Nadia looks around my shoulder. “Yes.” She moves to pull away, but I hold tight.

“Don’t even think about it,” I say, running my hand down her back and nudging her out of the kitchen. I want to take herupstairs, lock the door of my bedroom, and strip every piece of clothing off of her, but Nadia answered my SOS, not a booty call.

I push her into the laundry room and kick the door shut behind us. I slide the lock, making sure no one can barge in. The room is dark other than the light coming in the window from the backyard. I stare down at her as I press her against the washer with my hips.