Page 38

TWENTY-EIGHT

Jolie

T hat smile. The slicked-back chestnut-brown hair. His beard, just starting to really thicken since it had been shaved at the start of the season. The most alluring hazel gaze. A body, professionally conditioned, capable of doing absolutely anything and everything to mine.

That was what I saw every time I closed my eyes.

I wasn’t sleeping.

I wasn’t focused on work the way I should be.

It was as though my doctor had written me a prescription: Stare at Beck Weston during the day to entice you, to turn you on, to torment you into full misery mode, fantasize at night about what he can do to you, and live vicariously through those dreams .

I was taking that prescription every day.

And every day, it was an internal battle to stay strong and not throw myself into his arms or reach for his hand or slam my lips against his.

But each day proved to be harder.

When the team had beaten Florida during the second home game, I’d gone into the locker room after with my father, and Beck was shirtless, celebrating with the guys.

I wanted nothing more than to put my hands on his hot, sweaty, chiseled chest, wrap my legs around him, and have him carry me straight into the shower with him.

Instead, all I could do was admire. Tell him how well he had played, that the goal he’d scored was outstanding.

While deep down inside, I had secretly been losing it.

Each practice that followed, the same tension seared through me. The same needs pulsed while I looked at him. The same words, the ones that lived on the tip of my tongue, wanted to be admitted.

His weight training sessions were no different.

Neither were the run-ins in the parking lot.

And the elevator.

I swore, this man was making me suffer on purpose.

And now, on the plane to Vegas, I was so spun up on him; I was barely functioning.

I’d taken a seat near the back with the rest of the staff, the players up front, giving me the perfect view of Beck.

Every time he looked across the aisle to speak to a teammate, I got the sight of that delicious profile.

And when he was turned straight ahead, I got the broadness of his shoulder and his wide neck, the way his shirt and suit jacket hugged it from the back.

I needed to stop staring.

I needed to concentrate on the screen of my laptop and get some work done.

I needed?—

The vibration of my phone startled me out of my thoughts, and I glanced at my cell, which just happened to be resting in my palm.

Dad

Remind me again about the pink jerseys and what you want to do with them.

Me

It’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I think we should donate our half of the 50/50 raffle toward breast cancer research. In addition, have the guys wear pink jerseys for a home game. They can sign them at the end of the game and auction them off to raise more money to donate.

Dad

Your team can handle the logistics?

Me

Of course. I wrote out a marketing plan in hopes that you’d say yes.

Dad

How quickly would you need to order the jerseys?

Me

Today. Tomorrow at the very latest.

Dad

Discuss this with Beck. Make sure he’s on board. If it’s a go, order them today.

Me

On it.

Once the plane landed, we would be checking into the hotel, and the guys would have a little time to rest before we had to head to the arena for the game. I didn’t know if I would have time to chat with Beck beforehand.

I had to have the conversation with him now.

The anxiety started to trickle in as I slipped my phone into my bag. Taking a haggard breath, I unbuckled my seat belt and stood, making my way down the narrow aisle. When I reached his seat, I held the top of the cushion to steady myself even though there wasn’t even the slightest bump in the air.

Since he didn’t look at me—he was staring at his phone—I said, “Beck, can we talk for a second? I just need to run something by you.”

As soon as his eyes began to take me in, it became even harder for me to breathe.

He popped out his white earbuds. “What’s up?”

He hadn’t heard me.

“Do you have a second to talk?” I repeated.

His stare didn’t stay on my face. It gradually moved down my entire body—something he dared to do because I was blocking the aisle, so no one aside from me could see him.

“Okay. Talk to me.”

I couldn’t imagine this type of tension lasting all season.

I either needed amnesia or Beck needed to be traded to Antarctica.

“Do you want to come to the back of the plane to sit … or …”

“Why don’t you join me right here?” He patted the empty seat beside him.

In order to get into the seat, I had to move past him in that tight, tiny walkway. With the way he was sitting, our knees would brush, and even the slightest movement of the plane would send me straight into his lap.

He had known exactly what he was doing when he asked me to sit.

Professionalism, my ass.

“I’ll help you.” He held out his hand.

I grabbed his fingers, an instant jolt of electricity going through me—to my chest, to my stomach, to that throbbing spot between my legs—and I hurried past him.

I tried not to pay attention to the way it felt when the side of my leg grazed his or how his cologne was triggering memories of the way his skin had tasted when I licked it.

But I was going so fast that I was moving awkwardly, and I flopped down in the seat, my landing anything but graceful.

“You all right?” He chuckled.

“Yeah … yeah.”

He crossed his legs. “What do you have for me?”

Me .

That was what I wanted to say anyway. Rather than admit the truth, knowing the heap of hell it would get me in, I gazed across the aisle, reminding myself that I was surrounded by ears.

“After we get back from this stint of away games, we’re going to pick a home game, and our half of the raffle earnings will be donated to breast cancer research.

For that game, I’d like to have custom pink jerseys made that you guys will wear and sign at the end.

Those will be auctioned, and the proceeds will be donated too. ”

“And you’re telling me this because you want my approval?”

The way he looked in a suit should be illegal.

The crispness of the white shirt with the dark gray jacket. How the edges of both bordered his face and neck. The way each accentuated his eyes.

Dear God.

I cleared my throat. “It would be a change to your uniforms. So, yes, I was told to run it by you.”

“I would never say no to charity. I also think I look sexy as fuck in pink.”

I laughed.

“You don’t believe me? Just wait and see.” He smiled.

I wished he wouldn’t.

It was too beautiful.

He occupied the armrest between us and leaned in a little closer. “Who’s going to be collecting the jerseys after we wear them?”

“Probably me. Why?”

“I know how you feel about my sweat.”

He was unbelievable.

Before I could respond, he continued, “I wouldn’t want to cross any lines by giving you more of that sweat … you know, professionalism and all.” His voice had been as soft as a whisper this entire time, and now it was even quieter.

“That would be so out of character for you.” I rolled my eyes.

He stroked his lip with his thumb. “That’s why I think it should be a job for your assistant—so when I strip off that jersey, you don’t have to touch it or see what’s underneath.”

I wanted to scream, “You make nothing easy, do you?” but I said it in a hushed voice instead.

“Would it be better if I was this raging asshole who gave you every reason to hate me? That way, the decision, which you’ve already made, wouldn’t be difficult for you?” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Is that what you want from me, Jolie? Because I can be that person.”

“No.”

“Then this is the side of me you’re getting.”

I held my cheek. “But this doesn’t make it easy on me either?—”

“You can’t have it both ways.”

“Can’t you at least respect me?”

His expression was like I’d slapped him. “And you think I don’t?”

“I think you’re just trying to make this harder on me.”

He bent his arm on the armrest, making me think he was going to touch me, but he kept his elbow balanced and his hand in the air. “If you consider this hard, I’d hate to see your reaction if I was actually trying to make you regret your decision.”

“You’re not?”

His teeth went over his bottom lip, and he dragged them across it.

“If I was trying, this hand”—he moved his fingers, pointing at me—“would be reaching under your dress right now, climbing until it reached your pussy, and I would finger you until you were coming in this seat. But I’m not.

Because I respect you. Therefore, my hands are in my lap”—he moved them there—“like a good fucking boy.”

I hate you.

And, damn it, I love you.

“Fuck me …” Beck groaned.

I was holding the key card in front of the reader outside my suite, trying to open my door, when I heard Beck’s voice. I glanced down the hallway, and he was walking toward me.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to my room.”

The fuck me told me he was as unpleased as I was.

I drew in some air, my lungs suddenly screaming. “Don’t even tell me …”

He stopped at the door next to mine. “My sister fucking said this was going to happen.”

I’d met his sister at the first home game, along with two of his brothers. Each of them was so beautiful in their own way, and even though the introductions were brief, I’d felt like I was getting handed another piece of the Beck puzzle.

A puzzle I could never complete.

“First off, I cannot believe you’re going to be staying in the room next to mine.

” I didn’t know whether I should throw up or buy extra batteries for the vibrator I’d packed since I had a feeling I was going to be using it a lot during this trip.

“And second, what do you mean, Eden said this was going to happen?”