“You killed it tonight,” she says with a smile.
I should say something back, but instead, I move. Because the second I hear her voice, and see her smile at me, I know I need to kiss her.
But not here.
Not in the middle of the kitchen, with half the team just a few feet away. Not where anyone could walk in and see Coach’s daughter pressed up against me.
So instead, I grab her wrist and tug her down the hallway, pushing open the nearest door—a dimly lit laundry room. The second the door clicks shut behind us, I press her back against it, my mouth already on hers.
My hands are in her hair, my lips on hers, full of desperation and urgency, knowing we shouldn’t be doing this—but not giving an ounce of a fuck anyway. She fists the front of my hoodie, pulling me closer, andfuck, it’s not enough. It never is.
We pull apart when my phone buzzes, and I reach for it, glancing at the screen, chest jumping before I can stop it.
But when I swipe it open, that flicker of hope crashes fast.
It’s not them.
No missed calls.
No texts.
Not even a fucking thumbs up.
I stare at the screen for a second too long, the buzz from earlier fading.
“Everything okay?” Isabella asks.
I shrug, lock the screen, and shove the phone into my pocket. “Yeah, just…” I pause. Her brows are pulled together. No point lying, not when she’s already reading me. “Thought it might be my dad congratulating me about the game or something.”
Her expression softens, and she steps in closer, her frown deepening. “He didn’t watch?”
“Oh, he probably watched,” I say, shaking my head. “He just doesn’t care enough to say anything unless it’s to critique,” I tell her with a bitter laugh. “If Connor so much as sneezes on the field, they’re calling to talk about how ‘driven’ he is. I play my best game of the season and get nothing.”
And yeah, I’m used to it by now. But it still pisses me off. Still gets under my skin like it’s the first time. Doesn’t matter how old I am or how far from home—I’m still checking my phone like an idiot, hoping this time will be different.
She doesn’t say anything for a second. Doesn’t try to give me some motivational quote or tell me my dad loves me in his own way or whatever bullshit people usually say.
She just rests her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry.”
“I know I should be over it, but I’m not,” I admit, the words coming out in a rush. “Every time I think I don’t care anymore, I still check. I hate that I do, but I can’t stop.”
She reaches for my hand, laces her fingers with mine. “Maybe he’ll never say what you want to hear, but what you did tonight was still incredible, Ryan. Your brother was proud of you. I could see it in his eyes.” I press my lips together, keeping my eyes on her—the only solid thing in my life right now. “Your teammates. My dad… Me,” she finishes, giving me a sweet smile. “We’re all so proud of you.”
My hand flexes around hers. Somehow, without even trying, she’s become the one person I actually want to share shit with. The highs, the losses, the parts I usually keep buried.
I glance down at her, my fingers brushing the side of her waist. “Fuck, I really wish you were wearing my jersey right now.” Would have turned around this shit mood seeing my name on her back.
She tilts her head, lips twitching in amusement. And then—without a word—she grabs the hem of herMidnight WolvesJersey, with her brother’s name stitched across the back.
Slowly, she pulls it over her head and lets it drop to the floor, revealing another jersey underneath.
For a second, all I see is her—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, a smirk playing at her lips. But then she moves, turning just enough for me to catch the name across her back.
The deep blue fabric, the white sleeves, the sharp silver detailing along the edges. And across her back, stitched in bold block letters.Reed.
My breath catches. My pulse stutters.
Becausefuck, there’s something about seeing her in it, about knowing she put it on under her brother’s jersey, knowing she wanted me to see.
