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ELEVEN

JACKSON

“This sucks,” I mumble to myself, quietly making my way to the kitchen to get breakfast started. Taking a few days off to rest my hamstring worked wonders, but it feels like I tweak it differently every game, so it’s still bothering me. I talked to the team doctor this morning and he wants me to come in to get it checked out again this afternoon, so we can decide whether I’ll need to be put on the disabled list for any amount of time. I hope not, since playoffs are right around the corner, but I also know the importance of taking injuries seriously to prevent them from becoming worse.

I walk gingerly to the cupboard, pull out a pan, and head to the refrigerator for some eggs. One by one, I crack them into a large bowl, assuming I won’t be the only one eating this morning. Hawk and I don’t have to be at the stadium until noon, but Arden will be out the door long before then for practice.

I busy myself, whisking and pouring the eggs into the pan, the low sizzle of them meeting the heat below filling the quiet room. I get lost in my thoughts, not realizing I’m no longer alone until I see Arden step up in front of the coffee maker out of the corner of my eye. She’s barely awake, wearing only a t-shirt and panties—and as usual—I have to actively will myself not to look. I may have gotten my shit together with the way I used to want more with her, but the physical attraction has only gotten stronger over the years. I wish there was a way to make it stop, but there just isn’t. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, and her body is as close to perfection as it gets. A guy would have to be blind or crazy not to think so—and I’m neither.

“Morning, Princess,” I say, startling her as she drops her empty mug onto the counter, taking a deep breath before looking at me with a tired smile. She looks like she was up all night, the dark circles under her eyes telling me I’m probably right in that assumption. I quickly make sure the eggs are cooked thoroughly before turning off the stove and walking over to take the cup, placing it under the spout of the machine just as hot liquid begins funneling out. She doesn’t say a word as she huffs a defeated exhale, putting her elbows on the counter and dropping her head into her open palms.

“Hey,” I mutter softly, pulling on her arm until she’s standing straight, then yanking her into a tight embrace. Her body melts into mine like it always does when she’s feeling anxious, and I revel in the fact that I can still be a source of comfort for her, even after all the years we had too much space between us. Space that I put there, but whatever. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just tired,” she replies, wrapping her small arms around my waist. “Rough practice yesterday, and I didn’t sleep well.”

“You sure?” I ask, loosening my hold just enough to lean back and study her face for any signs that something else is going on. I want her to know she can talk to me, even if I do overreact sometimes. I try not to, but my protective instinct toward her has been at the same intensity since I was eight years old. I can’t just turn it on and off, as much as I’m sure Arden wishes I could.

“Mhmm,” she hums quietly, resting her cheek on my chest as I tighten my grip on her again. We stand there for a couple of minutes until Hawk rounds the corner, stepping into the kitchen. He stops abruptly, his normal blank expression morphing into one of bewilderment as he takes us in.

“Eggs are on the stove,” I say, lifting my chin to where they’re still sitting in the pan. At my words, Arden stiffens in my arms, pulling away and clearing her throat before she turns. She takes her full cup from the machine and walks over to the table, sitting down in one of the wooden chairs. I notice the way the vibe in the room changed when he came in, and I hope he hasn’t said or done anything to upset her. He seemed more comfortable with her when we hung out last week, but that’s Hawk. One minute he’s fine, the next he’s shutting you out. I know it’s his upbringing that causes him to be so guarded around people, but I’m hoping eventually, he starts to trust her. They’d be good for each other. She’d open him up, and he’d provide another safe space for her here in Daytona. Someone who lives the pro athlete life and knows how full of ups and downs it can be.

“Thanks,” he grunts, rounding the island and preparing a plate before setting it down beside her at the table. She looks up at him, her eyes full of puzzlement as he lowers himself into the seat next to hers. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and the fucker returns it , making my jaw practically bounce off the counter as it drops. It’s not that he doesn’t smile because, as much as our teammates would like to disagree, he does. He just has to be in a situation where he’s comfortable enough to do it—which is why this is pretty big. Maybe he and Arden really are warming up to each other. Although I have a feeling he’d be more talkative if I weren’t standing here watching them.

“I, uhh…” I stammer, trying to come up with an excuse for why I need to leave, even though I just made us food. They both turn as I pick up my phone from the counter in front of me, flailing it above my head wildly. “I got a text! I have to go!”

“I can help you,” Hawk says, standing from his chair. But I cut him off, pushing my hand in his direction to stop him as I limp toward the door.

“No, no. I’m fine,” I rush out. “You two stay here and eat up. I’ll see you later…after the thing I have to do…from the text.” They both stare at me like I’m crazy as I haul ass out of the room, cringing at my own awkward exit and hoping I didn’t make things so weird that they don’t stay here together after I’m gone.

Because, more than anything, I desperately want my best friends to be best friends, too.

HAWK

“That was weird, right?” I say to Arden as Jackson hustles out the front door, leaving us alone in the quiet condo.

She looks into her cup of coffee with a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve learned to never expect anything less from him. I’d think you’d know that by now too.”

“Yeah,” I reply. “You’re right.” She’s avoiding eye contact, and I can feel the tension in the air as she fidgets with the handle of her mug, sliding the tip of her pointer finger up and down it while watching like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

I hate how awkward this all feels. I wanted to talk to her more last night, but when I returned to my room, she was already gone. I didn’t want Jacks to hear me knocking on her door, so I went back to bed, tossing and turning for hours because it’s all so fucking confusing.

I never should’ve kissed her. I was stupid to think I could convince myself it was a one-and-done thing to help her through the panic attack she was having. Because as soon as she walked away, I knew I wanted more. Her coming to my room to talk to me hours later only made things more complicated, since I couldn’t restrain myself then, either. Kissing the way we were, with only a couple of thin layers of fabric separating us, had me ready to risk everything—because I wasn’t even thinking about Jacks. All I cared about was that Arden was pressed against me, and I craved so much more than I could ever allow myself to have. I wanted to tie her up. Whip her. Spank her. Fuck every hole in her body until she was passed out, her exhausted limbs hanging from each one of my bedposts while spit and cum dripped from her skin. Instead, I pulled away like she had the plague when I heard him coming up the stairs, and that was the end.

I fucking hated leaving it like that, especially when she was vulnerable.

“About last night,” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“It’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it. I don’t know what got into me. I just had a really stressful practice. I need to learn how to handle stuff like that better. Let’s just forget it ever happened. Please?” She looks my way with a pleading expression, and my heart cracks beneath the wall of ice that protects it. I hate that she’s downplaying what she went through because she doesn’t think she can talk to me about it. I get her apprehension because we don’t truly know each other—but I don’t want it to be like this. There’s only one way to make her understand that I see her, and it’s not going to be easy for me, since it’s the one thing I normally avoid at all costs. I need to let her in.

I turn my body so I’m facing her, keeping my eyes trained on the mug in her hand because, as much as I know I have to say the words, I can’t look at her while I do. “I get them too,” I say quietly.

“You get what?” she asks, abandoning her coffee and turning toward me. Her bare knee brushes mine with the movement, and my eyes are drawn to the barely-there connection as warmth ghosts over my skin.

When I came into the kitchen and saw Jacks holding her, I’ll admit I felt a pang of jealousy. Not because he was touching her—I like the bond they have and watching them strengthen it again after all the time they lost. I was jealous because he made it look so effortless. He provides her with the kind of familiar comfort that makes her feel safe and warm—and I hate knowing that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to do that. I’m too fucking broken. I have too many issues of my own for her to ever feel that security with me. Nonetheless, for reasons I can’t explain, I wish she could.

I swallow hard as anxiety flows through my veins because, other than Jackson and my therapist, nobody knows this part of me. But I think telling her could help us both. “Panic attacks. Where you feel like you can’t breathe, like you’re going to die right where you stand—and there’s no way to stop it from happening. I’ve been able to keep them at bay for the most part, but every now and then, they still hit me out of nowhere.”

Her eyes soften and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, sinking them into the plump skin. I want to reach out and pull it free, but I don’t, because I’ve already been selfish enough. I don’t suspect that my cravings for Arden will go away any time soon, but I’m still conflicted about them, and I need to remember that my friendship with Jackson could be at stake if I’m not careful.

“How do you keep them under control?” she asks, barely a whisper. “I thought I was doing good until I came back from Argentina. Then, I started to feel more and more anxious when I thought about how badly I had failed. Now, it’s on a whole other level. There’s so much pressure to be perfect for my team—and for myself, so I don’t get benched or cut. Sometimes I’m fine. Other times, I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. It would be nice just to be able to let it all go, but I don’t know how.”

“It’s a tightrope act,” I reply. “I used to take meds for it, but there were too many side effects, so I had to find other ways to cope and get out of my own head. I still see the team therapist at least once a month to check in—sometimes more if I need to. There’s no shame in asking for help, Arden.”

She nods her head, shrugging. “Women’s sports aren’t exactly valued in our society, so we don’t have all the perks you guys do. We have a team trainer, and there are doctors we can see if we get injured, but there aren’t any mental health professionals on the Flare staff. My insurance covers it, but when I checked, the wait to see someone was weeks long. It seemed so daunting that I gave up. I thought if I just worked harder, I wouldn’t be so stressed, and it would all go away.”

On instinct, I reach out, placing my hand on her leg, just above the knee. It catches us both off guard because we simultaneously look down at the connection as though it’s the most shocking thing we’ve ever seen. Other than the occasional We’ll get ’em next time to my teammates after a loss, I haven’t attempted to comfort someone since my brothers were still around. But she needs it right now, and even though I may be shit at it, I want to try.

Rubbing my thumb over her warm, silky skin in slow circles, I meet her gaze with mine, conveying as much understanding as I’m capable of. “Jacks and I will do whatever we can, you know that, right? If you need help paying or finding somewhere to go, we’ll take care of it. You shouldn’t have to feel this way.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I’ll make an appointment. But in the meantime, want to tell me about the other ways I could clear my head?”

Do I want to tell her? Fuck, yeah. I’d love to go into detail about the ways I could get her to let go for me. How I could turn her into an empty-headed little sub that I would bend and control at the snap of a finger. Flashes of Arden in a collar and leash, crawling behind me as I stroke her hair and tell her what a sweet little pet she is, play in my mind like a porno, and I hope she doesn’t notice the way my cock twitches under the material of my shorts. I can’t say any of that out loud. Hell, I shouldn’t even be thinking it . But at this point, she’s consuming my thoughts, so the best I can hope for is that she doesn’t read me and realize what kind of filthy fucking fantasies I have about her.

“Maybe some other time, Hellcat,” I reply, putting the subject to bed and turning back to my plate. I feel her gaze burn into me for a moment before she does the same, placing both hands on her mug and lifting it to her mouth. I try not to watch out of the corner of my eye as she swallows, licking the last drop from her plump lips and making me fight against the groan that’s working its way up my throat.

This is fucking bad. Seeing how Jackson helps her and knowing that I might possibly have a way to bring her solace—albeit in a much different way—is killing me already. But would it be worth breaking his heart to give her what she needs?

I’m fighting it for now, but the tiny voice in the back of my head is telling me it’s only a matter of time before I find out.