Page 7

T his is fine.

Totally. Completely. Absolutely fine.

I’m going to have a normal dinner. I’m going to laugh at their stupid inside jokes, steal fries off Jake’s plate, and pretend my entire world hasn’t been flipped upside down by one very specific, very off-limits, very infuriating man.

And I definitely won’t be thinking about him.

Nope.

Not at all.

Not even a little.

Except—

The second I walk into the restaurant, my stomach drops.

Because he’s here.

Grant Maddox.

Seated at the table with my brother and his teammates. Composed. Relaxed. Effortlessly at ease.

Like this isn’t the same man who had his hands on me in the dark.

Like he hasn’t spent the past few days haunting my mind, uninvited.

I stop short, hand tightening around my clutch. My body registering the impact before my brain can catch up.

"Yo, Kenz!" Jake calls, waving me over. "Get over here before Kingston eats all the nachos."

I swallow hard, plastering on a smile. I will not let this man get to me. So I straighten my shoulders, push my chin up, and walk to the table like I’m completely unbothered. Like my pulse isn’t thudding just a little too hard. Like I don’t immediately feel Grant’s gaze on me.

Jake slides a beer in my direction as I sink into the empty seat across from Grant. "Didn’t know you were coming."

"Didn’t know I needed to RSVP," I shoot back, grabbing the bottle and twisting the cap off.

Jake smirks. "Fair enough."

I take a slow sip, forcing myself to not look at Grant. To not acknowledge the fact that he’s sitting right there, watching me. To not let my brain supply me with a highlight reel of every single thing we did a week ago.

Nope.

Not happening.

I do not see the way his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing those strong, tanned forearms.

I do not notice how the dim lighting casts shadows against the sharp angles of his face, making him look way too good for my peace of mind.

And I absolutely do not let myself think about how I once had my fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as he—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I clear my throat, shifting my attention to Kingston, who’s currently arguing with another player over whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

Focus on that. Not on the way Grant’s gaze is still on me. Not on the fact that, for the first time since I walked in, he finally speaks.

"Look who finally showed up." His voice is low and soft, as if he’s been waiting for the chance to tease me. His words are smooth. Casual. A landmine wrapped in politeness.

I freeze. Because what the hell is that supposed to mean? My gaze snaps to his. He’s watching me with that same unreadable expression, his voice just neutral enough to sound casual.

But I know better. That was a test. A push. A deliberate reminder.

I tilt my head, arching a brow. "You missed me, Coach?"

His lips twitch.

And I know this dinner is going to be hell.

I hate that he’s sitting across from me, cool as hell, looking like a goddamn silver-screen heartbreaker in real life. I hate that he somehow makes sitting at a team dinner look like a power move.

I hate that his sleeves are still pushed up, strong hands resting casually on the table—the same ones that had me pinned against a hotel door just a week ago.

And most of all?

I hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

He leans back, too relaxed, too smug.

"You look tense, Flight."

I take a slow sip of my beer, forcing my best unbothered expression.

"And you look tired, Silver Fox. Guess we both have problems."

A few of the guys laugh, thinking I’m just being my usual, sarcastic little-sister self.

But Grant? Grant’s mouth curves as if he’s reading me like an open book.

I threw out that jab because the last thing I need right now is for my brain to short-circuit over how stupidly attractive this man is.

"Must still be a bit sleep deprived from my time in… Denver," he says smoothly, that deep voice threaded with something wicked.

"Good," I murmur, picking up a fry and popping it into my mouth.

He watches me, too closely, like he’s waiting for me to break.

I shift in my seat, reaching for another fry, but before I can grab one, Grant’s hand moves at the last second—calculated, precise, cutting me off just before my fingers reach the fry.

Then, slow as sin, he brings it to his mouth.

Chews.

Swallows.

Never looks away.

I stare.

He did not just—?

"Damn, Grant," Gator groans. "You eat like a goddamn sniper. The most calculated fry grab I’ve ever seen in my life."

A few of the guys laugh. But I know better. That was not a normal fry grab. That was a message. That was a reminder. That was pure, unfiltered, Silver Fox energy.

And now? I’m burning. I swallow, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck, tilting my head like I’m not affected at all.

"Big moves for a guy who’s supposedly ‘uncomplicated.’"

Grant arches a brow. "Big accusations for someone who was just outmaneuvered over a French fry."

Smug. Asshole.

I reach for another one. Faster this time. So does he. Our fingers brush. And fuck. The contact is brief. Barely anything.

But my pulse jumps like he just put his hands on me again. I yank my hand back, grip my beer like it’s a lifeline, and take a long sip.

Too long. I slam the bottle down and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Childish," I mutter.

"Effective," he counters.

I narrow my eyes. "You really think you’re winning this little game?"

His smirk deepens. "I don’t think, Flight. I know."

And goddamn him—I know he’s right.

I should stop. I should be normal, act like this dinner isn’t turning into a high-stakes psychological war between me… and the smug bastard across from me.

But I can’t. Because Grant Maddox is sitting there, perfectly at ease, pushing my buttons like he was born to do it.

And now? It’s personal.

I lean in, elbows on the table, words sliding out slow and sharp.

"You know," I murmur, tilting my head, "for a guy who’s all about ‘no complications,’ you sure seem awfully interested in me."

Grant doesn’t even blink. He just sits there, dark eyes locked on mine, giving away nothing. Except for the way his hand twitches against the side of his glass.

A tiny move. Calculated. Measured. But I catch it. And I know what it means. I got to him.

Finally. Or at least, I think I did.

Until—

Grant leans in.

Not a lot. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough for me to feel it. The heat. The pull. The weight of whatever the hell this is pressing thick between us.

And then, his voice—low, steady, lethal.

"You have no idea how complicated I can be, Flight."

Oh.

Oh, hell.

The words sink into my skin, hot and insidious, twisting through me before I can stop them.

It’s not just what he said—it’s how.

Like a promise.

Like a warning.

Like he already knows exactly how this is going to go.

And that? That should piss me off.

I should roll my eyes. I should shoot back some sharp retort. I should throw down my napkin, grab my beer, and make some dramatic exit just to prove a point.

But I don’t.

I can’t. My throat’s too dry. My skin’s too hot. And all I can hear is him—looping, low, impossible to ignore.

I force myself to blink, to shake it off, to remember that I’m supposed to be winning this game, not drowning in it.

I straighten, pick up my beer, and take a long, slow sip.

When I set it back down, I meet his gaze again—level, unreadable.

"You’re going to have to try harder than that, Silver Fox."

His mouth curves.

And that’s when I know—

I just lost.

I need to get out of here. Not forever. Not in some dramatic, storm-out-of-the-restaurant, flipping-him-the-bird kind of way. Just… for a minute. A second to breathe, to stop thinking about how goddamn good he looks sitting across from me.

A second to stop hearing his voice in my head, that low, deliberate warning replaying on a loop.

"You have no idea how complicated I can be, Flight."

I gulp.

I reach for my beer, but my hand doesn’t quite make it.

Instead of drinking, I push back my chair.

The legs scrape against the floor, too loud, too sudden, but I don’t care.

I need space. I need distance.

Jake glances at me. "Where you going?"

"Bar," I say, already turning. "Need another drink."

It’s not a lie. But it’s also not the truth. I don’t even make it one step before another chair pushes back.

Another scrape of wood against tile. Another presence moving in sync with mine.

"Where you headed, Flight?"

My stomach drops. Oh, you have got to be kidding me. I turn slowly, my pulse thudding in my ears.

Grant is standing now, arms relaxed at his sides, watching me.

Not smiling. Not smirking.

Just waiting.

Like he knew I’d break first.

Like he knew I’d need to run.

Like he was just biding his time.

I arch a brow, tilting my head. "Why? You want to follow me?"

He exhales slowly—controlled, deliberate.

Then, just before he turns away, his lips curve.

"Not yet."

I don’t know what pisses me off more—the words, or the fact that they make my stomach flip.

I bite back a groan. Because that? That should not make my stomach flip.

That should not send a stupid thrill up my spine.

That should not make my hands clench into fists just to keep from reacting.

But it does.

And the worst part?

He sees it.

Grant watches me too closely, like he’s catching every single micro-expression, every tell, every little crack in my perfectly built walls.

I swallow, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck.

Then, with all the fake confidence I can muster, I shrug.

"Suit yourself."

Then I turn and I walk away.

But I know—

I just lost another round damnit.