Cross-Checked (Boston Rebels #3)

Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

AJ

I ’m standing outside the locker room after practice, chatting with one of the equipment managers, Tim, when players start filing out. I’m not sure what’s going on—they’re not chatting with each other; everyone has their heads down like they’re trying to mind their own business. The vibe feels off, and I don’t like it.

I’m trying to pay attention to what Tim is saying about the new supplier for next year’s jerseys, but I’m highly distracted by whatever just went down in that locker room.

“That sounds great,” I say to Tim, not even entirely sure what he just said.

“Perfect, I’ll drop a sample by your office tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, right as McCabe walks through the door, his bright eyes locking onto mine as he looks at me with such naked longing it’s impossible to miss.

I clear my throat and he looks away, thankfully before Tim notices him staring. “Hey, McCabe,” I call out. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.” The word is gruff and borderline hostile, just like it would have been a couple of weeks ago. It’s wholly unlike how he’s spoken to me recently. What the hell?

I turn toward Tim. “Is there somewhere down here McCabe and I can chat privately?”

“Yeah, the stick room is right there.” He nods his chin at the labeled door. “Everything’s been put away already, so no one will need that space.”

“Thanks. Looking forward to seeing that jersey,” I tell him as I start walking toward the metal door labeled “Stick Room.” I can feel McCabe hot on my heels, and as soon as I reach for the door, he’s reaching past me, pushing it open for me to walk in.

The minute I step inside, I know this was a mistake. Because there are sticks lining three walls, and as he steps in behind me and closes the door, I realize there’s barely enough room for the two of us in here.

“You wanted to talk, Boss?” He leans his back against the door like he’s trying to give me space, but crossing his arms over his chest like he’s pissed.

“What the hell is that tone?” I ask, eyes narrowing on his.

His jaw tics. He keeps his words quiet when he says, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to talk to you right now, AJ. One minute, you’re chanting my name while coming all over my face, and the next thing I know, you’re running out my door and not returning my texts. So please, tell me what tone, exactly , would you like me to take?”

Pressing my lips together, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Which is a mistake, because the only thing stronger than the epoxy smell of the carbon fiber sticks and the earthy, almost leather-like smell of the grip tape, is him .

He smells like soap mixed with something more masculine, something woodsy and musky. I didn’t even realize I knew his scent until I was away from him. I step toward him, letting my head fall forward so my forehead rests on his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to figure my shit out.”

“We all have shit we’re figuring out, AJ,” he says, but his voice has lost its hard edge, and his arms drop so he rests his hands on my hips. My body relaxes at that simple touch. “That doesn’t mean we run away when things get...I don’t even know, because I don’t know what you’re running away from. And since you won’t talk to me about it, I’m left guessing.”

“I just needed some time to think,” I admit.

He dips his head, his lips pressing into my forehead at my hairline, as he asks, “About what?”

“About where we should go from here.”

“Doesn’t that seem like it should be an us decision?” He brings one of his hands to my chin and tilts my head back so I’m looking at him.

“Probably. Yesterday morning I got spooked, I guess.”

“Why?” His gaze searches my face, like he’s hoping to find the answers there.

“Because I don’t know what to do with these feelings!” I’m trying to keep my voice low so no one walking by outside will hear us. “I’ve spent the last eight years learning to be okay with being alone and coming to terms with the idea that I’m never going to have children. And there you were, standing in the opening to your living room, looking sexy as hell and staring at me like I belonged there. Like I was meant to be in your and Abby’s life...not just while my wrist heals, but...for real.”

I swear his eyes turn a softer shade of green, the color of a vibrant grassy hillside as the bright sun goes behind a cloud. “Maybe you are meant to be in our lives.” He brings his hand up and his knuckles glide along my cheekbone, making me feel cherished by the way he’s looking at me and touching me. “I know it feels impossible, given that you’re my boss. I understand what’s on the line for you. But I’m not convinced that makes this whole thing hopeless. I have to be honest...” He tilts his head down so his forehead rests against mine, and I wrap my arms up over his shoulders so I can play with the hair at the base of his neck, which is easier to do now that my doctor put my new cast on this morning. I’ve missed him so much in the past day and a half, but instead of letting that realization scare me, I finally let it convince me that it means this—us together—is right. “...now that I’ve had you, I don’t think I can let you go.”

“Now that you’ve had me?”

He can’t mean just the sex?

As if he knows exactly where my mind just went, he says, “Now that I’ve had you in my life, in my bed when I go to sleep at night, and playing with my daughter when I wake up in the morning...” he trails off as his lips brush along the bridge of my nose. “It’s not about the sex, Alessandra. It’s the way we fit into each other’s lives so naturally, like it was meant to be.”

“Just because it’s easy, doesn’t mean it’s right.” Even as I say the words, I know they’re a lie. It might be wrong for me to date one of my players, but nothing about us together is wrong. In fact, nothing has ever felt so right.

“How could anything that feels like this, anything that we both want so much, be wrong? I’m not giving up unless you tell me you don’t see any chance of a future between us.” With his gaze locked on me, his lips meet mine tentatively, like he’s giving me a chance to pull away. But if the last thirty-six hours have shown me anything, it’s that I don’t want any more distance. Before I can really kiss him back, he lifts his head. His green eyes shine between those dark lashes as he asks, “Is that what you want?”

It hits me then that I can keep trying to back away, but he’ll just keep finding me, pulling me back to him. He’s not going to let me ruin this for us.

“I want to see a future between us.”

“Good.” Then, he invades my mouth and we’re a mess of clashing tongues and tangled limbs. We devour each other like we’re both starved. Like it’s been two months instead of less than two days since we last had sex.

His hands work to undo the buttons down the front of my blouse so quickly that he’s got open access to my breasts in no time, and then they’re spilling out as he pulls the cups of my bra down so he can run his thumbs across my nipples. The sensation travels straight through my body like an electrical current, pulling a moan out of me as my core clenches in need.

“Shhhh,” he whispers against my mouth, and it’s only then that I remember we’re at work, that anyone could walk through the door behind him and catch us.

As he drops to his knees, telling me to put my hands against the door while he undoes the button and zipper on my pants, I find that I’m less worried about that than I should be. Besides, with me leaning up against the door like this, and him on his knees in front of it, it’s not like anyone could push it open.

He drags my pants and underwear down my legs, and I step out of them with one foot so I can spread myself open for him. When his hot breath meets my clit, he glances up at me and whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

I press my tongue against the top row of my teeth, then use it to wet my lips. I feel desperate and out of control, and I know this is probably a bad idea. And yet I can’t make myself care.

Trailing a finger along the seam between my legs, he brings the moisture there up to my clit, lightly circling it with his finger. All I want is more pressure, more friction.

“Tell me to stop,” he says again, “and I will. But if you don’t, I’m going to make you come, and then I’m going to fuck you like I’m furious with you for the way you walked out on me yesterday.”

“ Are you furious?”

“What do you think?” His finger pushes back, sliding right into my slick entrance, and there’s a dangerous edge to his voice that I find thrilling.

“Don’t stop,” I plead as he dips his face forward so that his tongue meets my clit, and he adds a second finger as he works himself deeper and harder, stroking me in a way that has me nearly breathless.

It seems like only seconds have passed when I feel the telltale signs of my orgasm—that tingling ache that radiates out from my clit through the rest of my body, the pulsing that’s starting deep within my core, the clamping of my muscles around his fingers as he hums a growl of approval against my clit intensifies everything.

“Fuck.” The hushed word escapes on a pained sigh. I don’t want to be quiet right now, but I want to get caught even less. “Oh god, don’t stop...I’m so close.”

And when he pulls my clit between his lips with a soft sucking motion, I know that I’m coming undone for this man—not just in the way the waves of my orgasm ripple through me, but also in the way my heart pounds like it only wants to beat closer to his, the way my body curls forward, my hand wrapping his jaw in my palm like he’s a cherished object, the way my mouth wants to utter promises of a future together that I’m not sure are possible. When he looks up at me, meeting my gaze, I see the same feelings mirrored back at me.

I could spend forever with this man.

But if this relationship doesn’t work out, it could actually break me.

The minute my orgasm subsides, he’s lifting me, spinning to pin me against the door with my legs wrapped around his hips, and sliding into me. He sets a punishing pace, fast and hard as he fills me until I feel like I can hardly breathe.

He nips and kisses up the side of my neck until his lips meet my ear, where he murmurs, “I once thought that raising a daughter by myself would be the hardest thing I’d ever do in my life. Turns out, pretending I don’t have feelings for you is, by far, the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

I lean my head back against the door as he kisses his way back down my neck and to my breasts, teasing one nipple with his mouth and the other with his hand, working me into such a frenzy that I’m not sure I can hold my own thoughts in, either.

“I want this, too, Ronan. I really do. But...we need to figure out what a relationship between the two of us can even look like.” I’m breathing hard, almost unable to form words. Which is probably for the best, because I don’t want to make promises to him while he’s buried eight inches deep inside me...I want to make them with a level head and a clear heart.

“We will,” he assures me, the whispered words warming my breast. “First, I’m going to give you another orgasm, like only I can. And then we’re going to figure out a path forward.”

He changes the angle of his hips, and the delicate glide of his skin against mine, the sound of our bodies meeting, the thin sheen of sweat across his forehead and temples—this whole experience has my emotions overtaking me, right as he says, “Because I don’t want to do this life without you in it.”

My whole body warms, stomach fluttering. “Yes,” I hiss out the word as I chase the second orgasm that no one but him has ever been able to give me. “We’ll find a way.”

That promise has his mouth claiming mine, kissing me like he’s trying to brand me while his hand dips between our hips. With his palm pressed flat against my abdomen, his thumb finds my clit.

As he works me closer to that orgasm, he rests his forehead against mine, and with eyes locked on me he says, “God, I just want to possess you. I want to worship you and own you at the same time. I want to respect you at work and disrespect your body at home. I want every last one of your orgasms, and I want your heart. But I want you to give it to me willingly, once I’ve shown you that you can trust me with it.”

My physical and emotional feelings are all-consuming, and then I realize that he’s moved his hand to the base of my neck, pinning me to the door. The thrill that the feeling of not being able to breathe brings on—the spike of panic, calmed immediately by the knowledge that he’d never hurt me—has my release starting deep inside me and spreading so quickly I feel like I might explode. I clamp my legs around him even tighter, holding his hips in place so he’s barely moving as I feel my muscles working his orgasm out of him.

He lets go of my neck and kisses me through our shared climax, like he’s worried I’ll scream his name if he doesn’t prevent me from doing it. He might be right.

When every last sensation finishes flowing through me, leaving my body buzzed and sated, I wrap my arms around his back, pulling him tighter against me as I cling to him. “We’ll figure this out,” I assure him.

“How?” The word is whispered and vulnerable.

“I’m going to talk to Frank.”

His head rears back and he looks down at me. “You’re sure you’re ready for that? You don’t want to wait until the end of the season?”

I hear what he’s not saying: After the GM of the Year award is announced.

“Maybe that’s what Frank will think is best. But I need to tell him about us, and officially recuse myself from your contract negotiations. I still won’t be able to talk to you about that, but at least there will be no concern about me giving you some sort of preference in the negotiation process.”

He snorts in response, but it’s not the sound of him trying to hold in a laugh. No, this is a fully derisive sound.

“What?” I ask, suddenly uneasy.

“Not only have you never shown me any kind of preference throughout this process, the contract negotiation thus far made it pretty clear that you don’t want me back on this team.” His words are measured, but I hear the sadness and the anger behind them, and that confuses me to no end.

I made a perfectly reasonable counter to his agent’s ridiculous request, offering him an increase and another three years in Boston. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean that refusing even a small increase in my pay and saying that you wanted to see how the playoffs went before you committed to renewing, was a huge slap in the face. And that’s the only reason I asked Trevor to start looking into Nashville. Well, that, and my sister’s there.”

Alarm bells are going off in my head...not the warning kind like you might hear after opening your front door before putting in the alarm code, but the loud, intrusive ones you’d wake up to during a break-in in the middle of the night. The kind where the police respond, because the threat is real. Emergency , my brain screams at me.

I put one foot on the floor and tell him to finish taking his boxers off so we can use them to clean up. I am not having this conversation while he’s still buried deep inside me and his cum is dripping out onto my ass. And when I’m done wiping myself up, I hand him his boxers so he can do the same, while I get my clothes straightened out.

Tense silence blankets the space as I wait until our hormones have calmed down before saying anything, because nothing about this situation is okay—neither the sex in the stick room, nor the mention of his contract—and I need to walk us back before we fully cross an unethical line.

When we’re clothed, I finally meet his eyes and say firmly, “I think you need a new agent. Call Jameson Flynn and tell him I told you that you need new representation. We can talk more tonight.”

Then I turn and slip out of the door, thankful to find the hallway completely empty because I have no doubt I’m wearing my emotions on my face right now. Not the gooey, love-filled feelings I was overcome with in that room while we had sex, but the rage I feel at knowing that his agent has been lying to both of us.

It’s one thing to drive a hard bargain when trying to get your player a better contract—I’d expect nothing less. It’s entirely another to lie about what your client wants, and then to lie to your client as well. And something like this has clearly happened, because the story McCabe is telling himself about his contract negotiation is not at all what really happened.

Suddenly, this feels like the most important issue to address. I’ve been telling myself this can never work between us because I was sure he was intent on leaving Boston, and it turns out that isn’t what he wanted at all.