Page 52 of Switching Skates


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“I guess it’s my turn to perform for you, huh?” he asks, and my stomach flutters.

Perform how?

“For your Mini Mammoths,” he clarifies, a knowing look on his face and a smirk that tells me his mind went in the same dirty direction as mine.

I hate that even while I’m in his body, he can read me clear as day.

“Unless you want me to perform for you in some other way? I’d definitely be open to the idea.” He smirks and tucks his tongue into the side of his teeth.

“Oh, really?” I bite down on the inside of my cheek, my core pulsing with warmth. “Good to know.”

“Name the time and place, and I’ll be there for you. Always, Sunset.”

He smiles genuinely, and I know he means that in every capacity. That I could call him anytime, day or night, and he would show up for me.

My pants twitch, and, oh my God … it’s happening again. “Let’s just go home. You don’t have to worry about them until tomorrow.”

Walking around the truck, I hop into the passenger seat, covering my growing crotch, which quickly calms as the giddiness in my chest shifts to concern.

This is exactly how I used to feel, and the familiarity of the joy brings up pain from the past. I want to believe him—I do. But how can I when he said all of those things before and then left anyway?

Somehow, Sunday family dinner with the team ended up getting moved from the team house to Maeve and Daphne’s place.

I’ve yet to decide if this is a good or bad idea, but my gut says it’ll be terrible because I’ll now have to listen to my teammates flirt with Daphne when, unknowingly, they’ll be flirting with me.

This is going to be a disaster.

For food, I planned something simple that Daphne will be able to pull off, cooking in my body. Besides, I spent the last hour prepping everything that could be done ahead of time to help her even more.

Potato chips are in bowls on the counter. Gluten-free pasta salad’s already made and ready in the fridge. Drinks are lined up on the top shelf, next to a pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade.

All Daphne has to do is grill hot dogs and the hamburgers that are ready to go. I gave her some pointers since she’s never grilled before and had her watch a YouTube video that she said helped a lot.

I think she’s excited for another challenge. It makes me want to come up with a thousand more things we can do together that will pull out this side of her.

Maeve and Jackson have been outside, practicing their cornhole skills, thankfully living in their own love bubble and keeping their distance from us. It gave Daphne and me the privacy we needed to plan everything out.

“Hey, make sure you set some pasta and chips aside for you,” Daphne tells me, walking back into the kitchen from the bathroom.

“Wait, why? It’s all gluten-free.”

She looks at me like I’m stupid, and I suppose when it comes to the details of living with celiac disease, I am.

“Tell me. Please.”

“It may be gluten-free right now, but it’s likely to get contaminated when people start dishing up.”

I hang on her every word, eager to learn everything I can so I can make sure I never accidentally hurt her.

“Hold on.”

She grabs two paper bowls—a must-have for a grill day since it just doesn’t taste the same if you eat it on fancy dishes—and starts scooping out pasta salad. “If the spoon were to touch a hot dog bun right now while I’m doing this, it would get mixed in with the rest of the food. Same for chips. Someone eats a hot dog or hamburger and grabs a handful of chips, gluten is now all over that, and everything’s contaminated.”

Damn. Honestly, I just never really thought about how specific everything had to be. These last couple of days, she’s been handing me what to eat and telling me what to avoid. I haven’t had to think about it too much.

“Got it,” I state, mentally memorizing every word she says.

“So, now”—she fills up the other bowl with chips—“you don’t have to worry about someone messing your food up. Just make sure to keep them tucked away and covered so no one gets confused.”