Page 129 of The Play Maker

He goes still for a beat. Then he pulls back just enough to see me, slipping his fingers under my chin and lifting it gently until our eyes meet. “I wasn’t drunk,” he tells me. “I know damn well what I told you. And I meant every word.”

We hold each other’s eyes in silence, neither of us moving as the morning sun spills through his window, wondering what happens next.

Finally, he breaks the quiet with a slow, cocky smirk. “You’re still wearing my shirt.”

I breathe out a laugh, heat creeping up my neck. “Would you prefer it if I was naked?”

His smirk deepens instantly. “Well…”

I narrow my eyes, shooting him a look, but he just chuckles.

“It looks good on you,” he says as his eyes fall to the length of my body, still lying here in his bed. His lips twitch, the smugness returning. “It’d look even better on my bedroom floor.”

I roll my eyes, but my mouth twitches before I can stop it. “God. You are such a walking cliché.”

“And yet, here you are. In my bed.”

“Against my better judgment.”

“Lies,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at my jaw. “You’re obsessed with me, Freckles.”

I try to shove him, but he’s quicker—rolling on top of me in one smooth move, braced on his forearms, that lazy grin spread across his lips. “Say it,” he teases. “Say you’re obsessed with me.”

I narrow my eyes. “I will not.”

“Say it and I’ll make you breakfast.”

I raise a brow. “Do you even know how to cook?”

“Nope.” He doesn’t even try to deny it. “But I’ll order you whatever you want if you say it.”

I laugh under my breath. “Fine,” I concede. “I’m mildly fond of you.”

He hums, leaning in until his mouth brushes mine in a soft kiss. “Close enough.”

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to kissing Austin Rhodes. I close my eyes and feel every brush of his tongue and his soft lips against mine.

I’m scared I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream. I’m scared it’ll all blow up in my face.

But right now, here in his bed, wrapped in his shirt, and his lips on mine…

I think I’d be okay with taking the risk.

27

MAISIE

The rink feels different in the afternoons.

There’s no shouting, no hockey blades tearing up the ice. Just the soft hum of music from someone’s phone, the occasional burst of laughter from the locker room.

Most of the girls barely look up when I step inside the locker room. A few glance my way, then drop their eyes just as fast. No one says anything. No one really ever does.

I’m used to being invisible.

But today, I don’t even mind.

I’m still thinking about the other day. About Austin. About the way his hands settled on my hips, his voice low in my ear, and his lips pressed against mine.