Chapter Five
Reece
The parking lot is mostly empty now, save for a handful of staff vehicles and the occasional straggler. The night air hits my face, cool and sharp, cutting through the last remnants of steam still rising from my skin.
I’m halfway to my car when I hear it, a metallic screech followed by a string of profanity creative enough to make even Martinez blush.
I stop.
Turn.
And there she is.
Ava Bishop, illuminated by the streetlight outside Ink District Studio, is wrestling with the same roller door she fought last week.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing black jeans and a leather jacket, her boots scuffing against the pavement as she braces herself and pulls.
The door doesn’t budge.
“Son of a—” She kicks the base of the door, then immediately winces, hopping back on one foot.
I shouldn’t go over there.
I know I shouldn’t.
Coach Bishop made it abundantly clear three days ago, during film review in front of the entire team, why dating his daughter would be a spectacularly bad idea.
He didn’t say her name. Didn’t have to. The way he stared at me while talking about ‘distractions,’ ‘priorities,’ and ‘consequences’ made the subtext pretty damn obvious.
Marcus elbowed me in the ribs afterward, grinning. “You’re so screwed.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I whispered back.
“Yet.”
And he was right.
Because here I am, walking across the empty street toward a woman who told me no, whose father could bench me for the rest of the season, and whose entire existence screams bad idea in flashing neon letters.
“Need a hand?” I call out when I’m close enough not to shout.
Ava spins around, her ponytail whipping over her shoulder. Recognition flashes across her face, followed immediately by annoyance.
“Are you following me?”
“I finish games around this time,” I say, nodding toward the stadium. “You finish work around this time. It’s called proximity, not stalking.”
“Feels a lot closer to stalking.”
“If I were stalking you, I’d be way more subtle.”
“Comforting.” She turns back to the door, grabbing the handle again. “I’ve got it.”
“Clearly.”
She shoots me a glare over her shoulder. “I don’t need help.”
“I didn’t say you did.” I step closer, hands in my jacket pockets. “But you’re going to throw your back out if you keep yanking on it from the wrong angle.”
“There’s no wrong angle. It’s a door.”
“It’s a stuck door. And you’re pulling straight down instead of angling the force toward the track.”
She straightens, crossing her arms. “Oh, are you an engineer now? In addition to being a professional athlete and unwanted tattoo customer?”
“I’m a guy who grew up helping my dad fix things. Garage doors, roller shutters, his ancient truck, basically anything held together by hope and rust.” I move past her, crouching to examine the base of the door. “When was the last time you oiled the track?”
“I don’t know. When was the last time you minded your own business?”
“Tuesday,” I say, running my fingers along the metal edge. “But I’ve been working on it.”
I hear her huff, a sound somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
“Fine,” she says after a beat. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Track’s jammed.” I stand, brushing my hands off on my jeans. “Probably debris stuck in the runner. If you pull it up slightly, like, an inch, then push it to the right while lowering it, it should pop free.”
“Should?”
“Ninety percent sure.”
“And the other ten percent?”
“We both look stupid, and you call a locksmith.”
She stares at me for a moment, then steps forward. “Show me.”
“Bossy.”
“Efficient.”
I grin. “All right, grab the handle.”
She does, and I move behind her, close enough to guide, not close enough to crowd. At least, not intentionally.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Pull up slightly. Not a lot, maybe an inch.”
She lifts her shoulders, tensing with the effort.
“Good. Now hold it there.”
“I’m holding.”
“Now push right while you lower.”
She follows the instruction, and I reach around her, adding my strength to hers. The door resists for a second. It is stubborn, and for a moment, I think it won’t yield, but then suddenly, it gives way with a metallic clunk, sliding smoothly into place.
Ava exhales, stepping back, and I realize how close we’re standing. Close enough, I can smell her shampoo, something floral and sharp, maybe jasmine, and see the faint smudge of ink on the side of her hand.
“Thanks,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Anytime.”
She locks the door, testing it once to make sure it holds, then turns to face me. The streetlight casts shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw and the curve of her mouth.
“So,” she says, tilting her head. “Good game?”
“You watched?”
“I heard the crowd from inside. Hard to miss the chanting.”
“ ‘Steele Fury,’ ” I say with a grin. “Trademark pending.”
“Catchy. Very subtle.”
“I didn’t come up with it. Blame the marketing team.”
“I blame you for encouraging it.”
“I encourage winning. The chanting is a side effect.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. It is small, maybe reluctant, but genuine. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer ‘relentlessly optimistic.’ ”
“I prefer ‘delusional.’ ”
“Potato, po-tah-to.”
We stand there for a moment, the space between us shrinking without either of us moving. The street is quiet, eerily so, the kind of silence you only get in cities after midnight, when the noise fades, and the world feels smaller, more intimate.
“You should go,” Ava says finally, her voice softer now. “Your coach wouldn’t be thrilled to find you here.”
“Probably not.”
“Definitely not.”
“And yet,” I say, stepping closer, “I’m still here.”
Her eyes flick up to meet mine, and I see it, the same electricity I felt in the bleachers, the same pull I’ve been trying to ignore since the moment she told me no in her studio.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why what?”
“Why are you still here?” She gestures between us, the movement sharp and frustrated. “You know this is a bad idea. I know this is a bad idea. My father made it very clear—”
“Your father…” I interrupt gently, “… isn’t here.”
“He will be. Eventually. And when he finds out—”
“Finds out what?” I take another step, closing the gap. “We’re standing outside your shop. Talking. I helped you with a stuck door. It’s not exactly scandalous.”
“It feels scandalous.”
“Does it?”
She swallows, and I watch her throat move, the pulse at the base of her neck fluttering fast. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Her breath hitches. “Reece.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I say, and the words come out rougher than I intend. I feel raw, honest, and stripped of the charm I usually hide behind. “Since the moment you shut me down in your shop, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you’re talented. Stubborn as hell. You also don’t take crap from anyone, including me. And I know…” I pause, searching her face. “I know you felt it too. In the bleachers. Whatever this is.”
She doesn’t deny it.
Doesn’t confirm it either.
“This can’t happen,” she says quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because my father will kill you. Because you’re his star pitcher. And I don’t date athletes, and you probably don’t date women who tell you no.”
“You’re right,” I admit. “I don’t usually get told no.”
“Shocking.”
“But I’m not asking you to date me.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Then what are you asking?”
“I don’t know.” And it’s the truth. I don’t have a plan, a smooth line, or a calculated move.
I’m standing on a dark street outside a tattoo shop at nearly midnight, talking to a woman I barely know, and for the first time in years, I have no idea what I’m doing. “I’m asking you not to walk away yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know what happens if you don’t.”
The silence stretches again, heavier this time. Charged.
Ava takes a slow, deliberate breath, and I brace myself for the rejection. The smart, rational, self-preserving rejection I absolutely deserve.
Instead, she steps closer. “This is a mistake,” she murmurs.
“Probably.”
“My father will bench you.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll regret it.”
“Possibly.”
“Reece—”
I don’t let her finish.
I close the distance and kiss her.
It’s impulsive, reckless even, but the second my mouth meets hers, everything else falls away. The street, the stadium, the consequences I should be worried about, but suddenly can’t remember.
There’s only her.
She freezes for half a heartbeat, and I think I’ve miscalculated, pushed too far, too fast. But then her hands fist in the front of my jacket, pulling me closer, and she kisses me back with a ferocity I wasn’t expecting.
Her mouth is soft and demanding all at once, her lips parting under mine as I tilt my head to deepen the kiss. She tastes faintly of mint and something sweeter underneath, and when I slide my hand up to cradle the back of her neck, she makes a low, involuntary sound against my mouth.
I press her back against the roller door, my other hand bracing against the metal beside her head, and she arches into me, her fingers tangling in my hair. The kiss turns hungrier, desperate, all the tension snapping into something tangible and electric.
Her nails scrape lightly against my scalp, and I groan, breaking the kiss to trail my mouth along her jaw, down the curve of her neck. She tilts her head back, her breathing ragged, and I feel her pulse hammering beneath my lips.
“Reece,” she breathes out, and it’s half warning, half plea.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark and glassy, and her chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur.
She stares at me, her hands still twisted in my jacket. “I should.”
“But are you going to?”
A beat. Two.