Cross My Heart (Covey Crushers #1)

Chapter 1

There are three places I never want to die:

The library basement—where Wi-Fi gets swallowed by the void.

The dining hall during Mystery Meat Monday.

The Covey Crushers men's locker room.

Guess which one I'm standing outside?

Grumbling, I shove through the double doors, cursing myself for needing this placement.

Three months. I can handle three months.

But the truth hits as soon as the cold locker room air touches my cheeks. I'm a dead woman walking right into the icy chill of my own personal morgue.

Deep voices echo around the room, and something by Bailey Hill blasts from the speaker. Sadly, not even her weapon-grade sugary pop can make me peppy this morning.

My grip tightens around my bag, and I take a deep breath before pulling out my assignment sheet even though I've already memorized every soul-crushing word of it.

Monday, 3 P.M. Athlete: Cross, Jay. Injury: Adductor strain.

The paper crinkles in my hand as I let all my frustration out on it. I refuse to quit over taping Jay-fucking-Cross's thigh for three months.

I've survived worse.

Come to think of it, maybe I haven't. Maybe three months of taping, touching, massaging Jay Cross will be the worst thing I'll ever have to endure.

The idiot tried to pick me up when he was a freshman with the immortal line: “Wanna see how well I handle my stick?”

My response? I'd rather be eaten alive by fire ants than hear him speak again.

I wasn't a bitch because I thought he was unattractive. Unfortunately, one of the worst things about Jay Cross is that he's probably the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on. He's not just cute. He's breathtakingly handsome, which is exactly why I wanted him to work for my attention.

If he wanted a shot, he'd need something better than that pathetic excuse for a pick-up line.

I waited all night for him to come back and try again.

All. Night.

He didn't. In fact, he ended up going home with some girl on the cheer team, which led to the biggest mistake of my life. Derek Strokes—Yes, he swims, and no, he does not live up to the name. Tragic, really, since I ended up dating him for two years.

Don't ask me why, but I'm ninety-nine percent sure Jay is to blame. The missing percent is just me being polite.

I've managed to dodge Jay ever since that party, but now? Now I have to tape his thighs twice a week. Not the hockey team. No, that would be too easy to avoid him. Jay Cross specifically, because he's coming off an adductor strain and according to my professor, I need more exposure to thigh work.

I tip my chin up and turn the corner, only to be met with men.

Lots of... hot men. Some half-dressed in hockey gear, others still in their sweats.

They all freeze and stare. I swear the music stops, but that could be the ringing in my ears getting louder.

I tap my fingers against my bag. “I'm, uh, here for Jay Cross.”

They're still staring.

“I'm a physical therapy grad student,” I add, because I feel like they all want to know my life story.

Finally, they look away. Well, most of them do.

There are still two guys watching me. One is freakishly tall, though that might be because of the skates and goalie gear give him a grizzly bear vibe.

The other one has a black eye that seems way too hardcore for hockey alone, but what do I know? I've never actually watched the sport.

“Thank God you're here,” the one with the black eye says as he shoves some chest pads over his head. “Cross has been whining like a toddler all week. 'Coach, let me play. I've learned my lesson. No more reckless plays, I pinky swear.' It's a lie and everyone knows it.”

“Wow. An athlete who wants to play through injury. What's new?”

He grins, pointing at me. “I like you. I'm Cade Bright, by the way.” Then he holds his hand out to me, and even though I accept it, I glare at it with disdain.

“Ally Hart.”

“Nice to meet you, Ally.” He pulls his hand away, only to wrap his arm around the extra-tall, grumbling dude. “This is my best friend Dash Bridges. Have you met?”

The guy under the mask grunts. “No. We haven't.”

“Well, I think you'd like him. Our goalie takes his stretching very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that he named his foam roller Bertha.”

“Cade.” The warning is so clear, I can hear it through the growl.

“Let me finish,” Cade says before turning back to me. “Since you're both so into stretching, I thought you two might get along.”

Dash elbows Cade, shaking his head. “I do not need help finding dates, Cade.”

“You sure? You haven't dated anyone since high school, and I feel like you need a girl to loosen you up.” He glances back to me.

“Metaphorically speaking, of course. Watching Dash stretch is unsettling. He bends in ways that should require a waiver and a priest. He can even do the splits.” Then he winks.

I roll my eyes.

Athletes… It doesn't matter what sport they play, they're all the same.

“Are you boys talking shit about me again?”

I shiver.

That voice.

Shit, I've only heard it a few times since that fateful night, but I hate how it always immediately makes me feel something deep in my chest.

Jay Cross waltzes into the locker room late. Shirtless. Sweaty. Completely unapologetic. His hair is perfectly messy, his jaw is sharp, and his abs have abs.

Ugh. I hate him.

His eyes find mine immediately, and that insufferable grin spreads across his face like he's been waiting for this moment.

“Well, well, well.” He crosses his arms over his chest, and his biceps flex, which I pretend to ignore. “Ally Hart. In the flesh.”

He takes me in with a small smile on his face.

My stomach drops.

He remembers me.

Of course he remembers me, because the universe wouldn't dare let me have this one small mercy.

“Cross,” I say flatly.

“Please tell me you’re done with swimmers.” He scoffs. “I refuse to believe you've stayed entertained this long by a guy whose biggest flex is not drowning.”

Heat floods my face. The audacity of this man.

He's right, but I'm not going to let him know that.

“I'm here to do my job,” I say through gritted teeth. “Not to discuss my life with you.”

He lifts his hands. “Okay, okay. No boyfriend updates.”

Don't say it. Don't give him the satisfaction of knowing you're single.

He tilts his head, those blue eyes of his dancing with amusement. “Or maybe he's not your boyfriend.”

Cade coughs, poorly disguising his laughter, before quickly throwing his jersey on and ushering Dash toward the rink door. “You know what? We'll leave you two to... catch up. See you on the ice, Cross.”

“Thanks for the support, assholes,” I mutter under my breath.

“So, was I right?” Jay's still watching me with that infuriating smirk. “Was he as disappointing out of the water as he is in it?”

“Can you just—” I take a deep breath. Professional. Professional. Professional. “Go shower. The tape won't stick if you're sweaty.”

“Avoiding the question.” He clicks his tongue.

“There's no question to answer. We broke up a while ago. Not that it's any of your business.”

That cocksure expression falters. “You broke up?” he repeats slowly.

“Yes. Broken up. Past tense. Done. Finished. Over.” I gesture toward the showers. “Now can you please go wash the gym off yourself so I can do my job and get out of here?”

“Yes ma'am.” He finally moves, but not before leaning in close enough that I catch the scent of sweat and something stupidly masculine underneath. “For the record, Hart? I always knew you were too good for him.”

Then he disappears toward the showers, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my professional composure in shambles.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate how that comment made my stupid chest flutter.

Turning on my heel, I head to the physio room to prep. I spray down the table, clean it off, and just as I'm laying the new exam paper, Jay walks back in.

“Hope that was quick enough.”

I tear the paper in the wrong place.

He's in a pair of tight black boxers, his hair still wet. Water drips down his collarbone, inviting me to watch its journey down Jay's well-defined chest.

I gulp and remind myself that he's the enemy.

“Sit,” I say quickly, and while he follows my instructions, I check my notes.

“So,” he says casually, settling onto the table, “how long have you been single?”

“Are we still on this?” I ask, dropping the clipboard against my thigh.

He shrugs with a smile. “Just a day feels like a long time for someone like you.”

“What do you mean 'someone like me'?”

“Hot. Smart. Terrifying.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “The whole package, really.”

I frown, forcing the edges of my lips not to smile. “Flattery won't make me tape you any gentler.”

“Who said I want gentle?”

I pull the tape taut, letting the sharp sound fill the room. He flinches slightly, but that grin doesn't fade.

“Feet apart,” I say, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck.

He shifts his thighs open just enough for me to stand between them, his eyes never leaving my face.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I always wondered what happened at that party.”

“There's nothing to understand,” I mutter, knowing full well this isn't something that's been keeping him up all night.

“You shot me down.” His voice drops lower. “Which was fair, my line was trash, but then you spent years with a guy whose entire personality is his swim times?”

“Derek had other qualities.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

“Name one.”

I spray more adhesive across his thigh than necessary. Better that than looking at him. “He was... consistent.”

“Consistent.” Jay laughs, but there's no humor in it. “That's the saddest compliment I've ever heard.”

“It's not a compliment, it's a—” I stop myself. Why am I defending Derek to Jay Cross? “You know what? This isn't a therapy session for my love life. This is a therapy session for your leg. So can we please focus?”

“I'm focused.” His eyes track my hands as I smooth the first strip of tape against his skin. “Very focused.”

The second my palm makes contact, his muscle tenses. Then he flinches and lets out a sharp breath.

“Easy,” I say. “You'll feel pressure, but I'm sure you've felt worse on the ice.”

“I've felt worse from the way you're looking at me right now.”

“The only thing I'm looking at is your thigh.”

“Sure.”

I work down his leg in silence, wrapping tight, clean bands. Each time I press the tape into place, his muscle flexes under my palm. He bites back a sound that has no business sending heat through my body.

“For what it's worth,” he says quietly, “I would've come back.”

My hands still. “What?”

“That night.” He's not smirking anymore. “I was getting you a drink. When I came back, you were already talking to Derek, and you looked... interested. So I backed off.”

“You backed off?” I stare at him. “Is that what you call going home with the cheer captain?”

“Oh, so you noticed?” He raises a brow. “Funny thing about that. I don't remember her name, but I sure as hell remember yours.”

I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process the information that maybe—possibly—I'd spent two years with the wrong guy because of a misunderstanding and bad timing.

No. Jay would've been a one-night stand. He's just acting like this because he's salty.

“Wow, Jay. Your lines haven't improved even after all these years. I never gave you my name that night.”

“Ever thought about how I knew it, then?”

The words hang between us, heavy with implication.

One I ignore.

I tear off the last piece of tape with more force than necessary. “You know it because you're my patient, and I'm your therapist.”

“Right,” he draws out.

I strip off my gloves, the snap echoing around the room. “Try not to undo the tape before the end of practice, and for the love of everything holy, take some stretching advice from Dash.”

He chuckles. “Sure thing, Doc.”

I take in a sharp breath at the new nickname. Then I grab my bag and head for the door, but his voice stops me.

“Hey, Hart?”

I turn, against my better judgment.

He's still sitting on the table, looking at me with those ridiculous blue eyes and that infuriating smile. “For the record? I'm glad you're single.”

“Goodbye, Cross.”

His laugh follows me into the hallway. It’s low, warm, and far too satisfied.

Three months. I can handle three months.

Three fucking months.