Chapter 13
Thirteen
KAI
Sue watches me from the kitchen counter, nursing her coffee and eating leftover Rice Krispies treats for breakfast.
"You know," she says, "normal people deal with sexual tension by having sex. Not by attacking the baseboards with a Magic Eraser."
"I'm not dealing with sexual tension," I say incredulously, spraying the coffee table for the third time. "I'm maintaining a clean living environment. A perk of having me as a roommate.”
"Uh-huh. Is that why you've been muttering Bass's name under your breath for the last twenty minutes?"
I freeze and aim the spray bottle at Sue’s head. "I have not."
"Stupid Bass and his stupid face," she quotes in a high-pitched voice. “The nerve of him and his big ass hockey hands.”
Embarrassment creeps up my neck.
Damn, did I say all that?
“You're making that shit up,” I say to her.
"Am I, though?” Sue smirks in that nice girl kind of way she often does.
Before I can deny it further, there's a knock at the door. A hard one that reminds me of an angry cop (like my Uncle James) or God help me, an overly confident hockey player.
"No," I whisper.
Sue grins like Christmas morning. "Oh yes."
"I'm not here," I hiss, diving behind the couch.
“Babe, you’re small, but you’re not that small. I can still see you.”
“Tell him I died.” I make a beeline for my bedroom. “Tell him I transferred schools. Tell him anything."
“Good gravy, you’re being dramatic, Kai, and it’s ruining the cool bitch image I have of you,” Sue giggles. “Just open the door.”
He knocks again. “Are y’all in there?”
The sound of Bass’s voice through the wood makes my pulse spike. Sue looks between me and the door, clearly enjoying this way too much.
“Since you’re not going to do it, I’ll get the door myself,” she says sweetly.
"Sue, I swear to God—"
But she's already opening the door when I hear Bass's low, delicious chuckle. “Morning, Sue. Sorry for just dropping by like this, but wondering if Miss Vega is home?"
"She's hiding in her room,” Sue snitches cheerfully.
I'm going to murder my roommate.
"Kai." Bass's voice is closer now, probably in our living room. “Can we talk for a second?”
I feel like a complete loser. Slowly, I peek my head out of my bedroom door, smoothing down my oversized VCU sweatshirt and trying to look like I wasn't just cleaning the apartment like a crazy person.
Bass is standing nearby, holding two coffee cups and wearing dark jeans and a gray Henley that hugs his chest in ways that should be illegal. His hair is slightly messy, like he ran his fingers through it, and he's looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"I brought peace offerings," he says, holding up the cups. "Matcha for you, an Americano for me."
"I'll just..." Sue grabs her keys from the counter. "Be somewhere else for a while. Take your time, kids."
And then she's gone, leaving me alone with Bass and the weird energy crackling between us.
"What do you mean, peace offerings? What are you doing here?" I ask.
“Let’s put the party and everything we said behind us. We need to talk about next Monday."
"Monday?"
"Our project deadline. The presentation to your professor and my coach.”
Right. The thing that's supposed to determine both our futures, and that I've been completely ignoring because I can't stop thinking about what it’d be like to kiss him again.
“I’ve decided to stop being a prick about it and play ball. Make me over so the league will adore me.”
“I’m already on it. There was no need for you to come here in person,” I tell him. “It’ll be ready by Monday.”
“Are you on it, though?” He sets the cups on the coffee table and looks around the apartment. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been busy stress-cleaning instead of working on fixing my brand. I checked. You haven’t logged into any of my accounts.”
I hate that he’s starting to learn my coping mechanisms and evidently paying attention to his social media. Why couldn’t he just be a dumb hockey player?
"I've been thinking," I say.
"About the project?"
"About everything."
He steps closer, and I catch his scent—clean soap and something so distinctly him that it makes my head spin.
“And what conclusions did you reach?"
I can’t keep my eyes off of his lips as he takes a sip of his coffee. It’s damn near like watching porn.
"That this is complicated. That neither of us knows how to separate our professional responsibilities from..." I gesture vaguely between us.
"From what?" he smirks.
"From this unproductive energy between us,” I admit.
Bass is quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
"What if you didn't have to?" he asks finally.
"What do you mean?"
"What if instead of fighting this, we figured out how to make it work?"
"Bass—"
"Hear me out." He places an unexpected hand around my waist and walks me over to the couch. We both take a seat. My stomach flutters a bit. "I have a proposal."
"I'm listening."
"I want you to take complete control of my image. Not just for this project—for the rest of the semester. My social media, my public appearances, everything. You want to prove you can handle difficult clients? Make me your biggest success story."
I blink at him. "You're offering to let me manage your entire public presence?"
"More than that. I'm offering to be your portfolio piece. The case study that gets you any job you want after graduation."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just one condition."
"Which is?"
"You have to actually work with me. Not around me, not despite me. With me. That means daily check-ins, strategy sessions, and honest feedback. Real partnership."
My pulse quickens. Daily contact with Bass, when I can barely handle being in the same room with him for an hour without wanting to either slap him or kiss him senseless.
"Why would you do this?"
"Because I want to prove to you that I'm more than my reputation. Because I think we could be good together—professionally," he adds quickly. "And because you deserve to graduate with something that showcases exactly how brilliant you are."
"This is a terrible idea," I say softly.
"Probably."
"We'll kill each other."
"Maybe."
I look at him—really look at him. At the way he's watching me with complete attention, like my answer is the most important thing in the world. At the way his presence fills up my small living room and makes everything else fade into background noise.
"Or we'll cross lines we can't uncross."
"Would that be so bad?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility and danger, and the weight of everything we've been dancing around for weeks.
I’ve been fantasizing about this man since we met.
And what’s wrong with that? I’m young. I can’t get this time back.
But crossing those lines would jeopardize everything I've worked for. I’d be a cliche.
If word got back to my professor, she would judge me: And this is why they don’t want women in men’s sports.
I would feel like I’m letting down every girl in the program who came before and after me.
Yeah, I should maintain my professional boundaries and protect my heart and stick to the plan that's gotten me this far.
Instead, I find myself leaning in and moving closer to him.
Hormones are a motherfucker.
"It would be complicated," I whisper.
"I like complicated."
We're close enough now that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. My common sense is screaming at me to step back, but my body has other ideas.
"Kai," he says quietly, and my name sounds different in his voice. Softer. More careful. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”
"This is a bad idea," I repeat, but I'm not moving away.
"Terrible," he agrees, reaching up to cup my face with one large hand.
"We shouldn't—"
"Definitely not."
But when he leans down and I rise up to meet him, all logic flies out the window. This kiss is different from the first one—deeper, hungrier, full of all the tension we've been building for weeks.
I fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by wrapping his arms around my waist and lifting me until I'm pressed against his chest. Every rational thought I've ever had abandons me as he trails kisses down my throat, as I arch against him and hear the low sound he makes in response.
My panties dampen as I give in to this want. This need. Wrapped now in his strong arms and falling under the spell of his gentle hands reminds me why I never date athletes–because they’re good at everything.
When he pulls back to look at me, his eyes are dark, and his breathing is unsteady.
"Say yes," he whispers against my lips.
"To the partnership?"
"To all of it."
I should slow down and think about this more.
Be rational. Should consider the implications, weigh the risks, and make a pro-and-con list like I do with every major decision I’ve made since tenth grade.
But looking into his eyes, feeling the way my heart is racing and my skin is humming with electricity, I realize that for once in my life, I don't want to overthink it.
I want to take the risk.
I want to see what happens when I stop fighting this.
And I don’t care what it looks like.
I want him.
"Yes," I breathe.
And when he kisses me again, deeper this time, I let myself fall into it completely. Let myself get lost in the heat and the promise of something that feels like it could change everything…or blow up my life and leave me with nothing.
I guess I can think about that later.
Right now, there's only this—only us-–and the addictive rush I feel as we're about to cross a line there's no coming back from.