Page 36

I shake my head. "Nah. I should skip it. Ice this thing, get some sleep. If I want any shot at practicing tomorrow, I can’t be worthless."

Relief flashes across her face so fast I almost miss it.

She’s happy that I’m going home to take care of my shoulder.

She unlocks her car, hesitating.

"Do you want me to drive you home?” she asks.

I shake my head. "Nah. I’m good. Can’t leave my truck here overnight anyway. I won’t have a way to get here in the morning, and Kendall wants to see me early."

She nods, chewing her lip like she wants to say something more but holds it back.

I toss my gear bag into the bed of my truck, grimacing a little as the movement tugs my shoulder.

Peyton’s still standing there, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets, watching me.

The temptation to just pull her into my arms and say fuck it—to let whatever this is between us snap free—is harder and harder to ignore.

Instead, I flash her a small, crooked smile.

"I'll see you at home, Collins."

Her face lights up in a way that makes the ache in my shoulder feel like nothing.

"Yeah," she says softly. "See you at home."

The second we step inside the townhouse, Peyton flicks on the entry light and turns to me, hands on her hips like she’s ready for a fight.

"You. Go change into something comfortable, then the couch. Now," she orders. "I’ll get everything."

I smirk, cocking a brow. "Bossy."

"Necessary," she fires back, already kicking off her shoes and heading for the kitchen.

I chuckle under my breath and head for the bedroom, peeling out of my jeans one-handed and tugging on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.

Every movement tugs at my sore shoulder, but I ignore it. Ice, rest, skate tomorrow—that’s the goal.

Barefoot, I make my way back into the living room.

Peyton’s moving around the kitchen with quick, focused efficiency—grabbing a pint of ice cream from the freezer, tossing a gel ice pack over her shoulder, refilling my water bottle.

She’s everywhere at once—like this is second nature—like taking care of me has always been part of our story. There’s a natural ease between us I’ve never had with anyone else, not this fast.

I lower myself carefully onto the couch, grunting a little as I shift into the cushions.

Peyton plops the ice pack onto my shoulder, wrapped in a hand towel, the cold shocking a grunt out of me.

"Sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "Ice first, pizza second."

She snags her phone, already pulling up the pizza place’s app.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

I snort. "Always."

"Hawaiian, add bacon and extra pineapple?"

"You know me so well," I say, and it slips out before I can stop it.

She ducks her head but smiles.

God, that smile.

A few minutes later, she pads back over and sets the water bottle on the coffee table.

She grabs the remote, and with a few quick clicks, 10 Things I Hate About You starts playing.

“You’re kidding,” I say, teasing.

She shrugs, all innocence. “House rules: Nights in require chick flicks.”

“Is that a scientific fact?”

“You’re the one who started this new tradition…so you tell me.”

I huff out a laugh, sinking deeper into the couch as she drapes a blanket over my legs. It barely covers them—most throw blankets are too short—but I don’t care, as long as she climbs in under it with me.

And she’s right. I’ve been doing this for her since I moved in. Now, she’s doing it for me.

It’s not lost on me that she picked up my habit.

My mom would be doing the same thing right now if she were here.

Shit.

Mom.

She called after the game, but I was too busy getting out of there with Kendall patching me up.

I grab my phone from the cushion beside me and check.

One missed call. One text.

Mom: I saw the hit tonight. Please tell me you’re okay. You were sitting on the bench, but they didn’t show you enough.

With the time difference, it’s too late to call now. But she’ll see my text in the morning if I send one.

I hear Peyton on hold with the pizza place. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this domesticated with someone else.

I exhale slowly, thumb flying over the screen.

Hunter: I’m sore but I’m home now. Peyton’s taking good care of me, you don’t have to worry. I’ll call you tomorrow after the morning skate.

It’s not long before I see her reply. Now I feel bad. I probably woke her up.

Mom: About how you’re finally going to settle down and give me grandkids?

I shake my head. Of course, being with Peyton is her only takeaway there.

Hunter: No but nice try. About the doctors. Bethany thinks you’re hiding something.

Mom: It’s nice to see you and Bethany getting along. She’s been through a lot. I know that she hurt you but forgiving her could be good for you both.

I’ve heard this before. My mom is making excuses for Bethany’s behavior.

And I get it, because I used to do the same, but Bethany treated me like a stepping stone to get what she wanted when I was there for her, thinking we were building a life together.

I don’t owe Bethany anything, and if it were my choice, I’d never see her again.

She fucks up everything she touches, and I’d rather not be in reaching distance.

Hunter: This isn’t about Bethany. This is about you.

Mom: Nothing to tell. And bring Peyton home for Christmas.

I stare at the screen a second longer than necessary, my gut twisting with something sharp.

Nothing to tell.

Bethany might be wrong...or she might not be.

Either way, the thought of bringing Peyton home for Christmas sends a rush of panic through me—sharp and immediate.

But just as fast as it hits, it fades. And in its place, a different thought takes hold.

One that whispers about what it might look like if Peyton and I don’t end this in three weeks like we agreed to. If, instead, we let it become something more.

I shift to adjust the ice pack, and a jolt of pain flashes through my shoulder.

A hiss escapes me before I can stop it.

Peyton notices immediately.

"Hey," she says, crouching beside me. "Let me."

Before I can argue, she’s kneeling on the floor next to the couch, reaching for the ice pack.

"You want me to massage it a little?" she asks, voice tentative. "Might help loosen everything up."

I hesitate for a second—because the idea of her hands on me, while I'm half-broken and half-hard for her already, feels like playing with fire.

But then I nod. "Yeah. That sounds...good."

"How do you want to do this?" she asks. "Where are you comfortable?"

I shift, thinking.

"Probably better if I lie face down," I mutter. "Take the pressure off."

She nods, and I roll carefully onto my stomach, resting my cheek against the armrest.

A second later, Peyton climbs up onto the couch and straddles the backs of my thighs, settling low on my ass.

The weight of her—warm, solid, real—sinks into me like a brand.

I bite back a groan as her fingers start working into my shoulder, slow and careful.

"You’re good at this," I mumble into the cushion.

"Tennis has its own injuries," she says, her hands pressing into the tight knots of muscle. "I’ve had my fair share. Had to learn fast."

I grunt, half in pain, half in pleasure.

"Right. Of course," I say, my voice rough.

The movie plays quietly in the background—Kat Stratford telling Patrick Verona he’s not as badass as he thinks—and Peyton's hands work magic on me.

Slow, confident, devastating.

After a few minutes, she leans down close to my ear.

"How does that feel?" she asks.

“Better, but can you reach here?” I squeeze the inner part of my shoulder and bicep.

“Not from this angle. Can you turn over?”

I turn my head to look at her, my heart beating somewhere up in my throat.

"Yeah," I say hoarsely.

She shifts, and I carefully roll onto my back, grimacing as my shoulder twinges. And just like that—Peyton ends up straddling my hips, her perfect ass sitting on top of my pelvis.

My cock reacts immediately, thickening beneath the thin fabric of my sweatpants.

She notices. There’s no way she couldn’t in those thin leggings she’s wearing.

"You’re smooth, Reed," she says, laughing softly.

"You’re not moving," I point out, my voice thick.

She just smiles, wicked and beautiful, and leans forward to start massaging the front of my shoulder and down my arm.

Her touch is lighter now, more teasing.

Every brush of her fingers feels deliberate, and it’s driving me fucking crazy.

"Thanks for doing all this," I say, voice low.

She glances up, confused. "All what?"

"The movie. The pizza. The ice. The massage." I shift slightly, sliding my hand to the curve of her hip. "I’ve been on my own a long time. I guess I forgot what it’s like...having someone have your back."

A soft look crosses her face—sweet and a little sad.

"I’ll always have your back, Hunter," she says quietly. "Even after our time’s up."

I grin at the idea of it. "Yeah? Are we bonded for life now?"

"Obviously. Fake exes forever," she says, her smile widening. "And what about Sproutacus? We have to stay civil for the plant-child."

I laugh, the sound breaking something open in my chest, and my body shakes, which makes her laugh too and grip onto my chest for stability.

Without thinking, I reach up, pushing back the strands of hair that have fallen in her face when she leaned forward.

Her smile fades slightly, her eyes darkening—finally, we’re on the same page.

"Warning, Peyton," I murmur, giving her one last out.

But she doesn’t take it.

Instead, she makes the first move—she bends down, her mouth slamming against mine, and every thought scatters.

The kiss is rough, desperate, teeth and tongues and hands that can’t get enough.

Her fingers slide into my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me growl against her mouth. She pulls back at the sound, taking it for something else.

“Your shoulder,” she says, concerned.

“Fuck my shoulder. Come here,” I say and then pull her back down to my mouth.

I slip my hands under her jersey, finding the bare skin of her stomach first—hot and smooth—and then I push higher, cupping the soft weight of her breasts.

She gasps into my mouth, arching into my touch, and I nearly lose it right then and there.

She tastes like a home I’ve never known, and everything I didn’t know I was starving for.

I nip at her bottom lip, feeling her shudder against me, and then her hands are under my T-shirt, skating across my abs, dragging little sounds from the back of my throat.

My hands pull reluctantly from her perfect breasts and slide over her hips, gently rocking her over my cock to test her interest. She moans into my mouth at the friction.

I want her.

God, I want her.

I want—

The doorbell rings.

Peyton jerks back like she’s been electrocuted, panting, eyes wide. We stare at each other for one frozen second, chests heaving, the air crackling between us. Then she bursts into laughter—half hysterical, half mortified.

"The pizza," she gasps.

I groan, dropping my head back against the couch.

"Fucking perfect timing."

“It’s probably best. Rule number one…remember?” But even I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She wants this as bad as I do. I could already feel her dampening through her leggings.

She scrambles off me, her hair a mess, her jersey wrinkled and riding up.

I watch her go, dazed and more lost for her than I have any damn right to be.