Chapter 8
Jefferson
Ingrid’s apartment is epic. Like, the kind of place you see in glossy magazines stacked on the coffee table in a dentist’s office: exposed beams, huge windows, velvet couches in jewel tones.
My teammates are sprawled across them like they own the place, pizza boxes open, with SportsCenter running on the massive flat screen.
Reid’s already arguing about defense strategy with Axel, and Nadia is making Shelby laugh so hard she almost spills her drink.
They’re having the time of their lives. Me? Not so much.
I’m sitting there, pretending to care about the highlight reel while my head spins. Ingrid Flockton. In my DM’s. Then at my game. Now inviting us all over like she and I don’t know each other, like I don’t know what her tongue feels like in my mouth.
It’s too much coincidence. Too much silence around what’s not being said and hell, I just want to talk to her again.
The girls spilled most of the story on the way over; how on the day after her concert Ingrid was still in town and came into the Den for dinner.
“She ordered the Jefferson Parks Special,” Shelby said with a grin.
Shelby is the other Ingrid Flockton fan in the group.
We’ve bonded over it a little–like Reid and Twyler and their shared love of murder documentaries.
Shelby and the guys know my secret. That there’s a list I carry around with the names of women I want to fuck.
Ingrid is on the top of that list.
“Because it’s amazing,” I’d replied casually, despite the fact I’ve been strung tight since I saw her in the stands.
I’m trying to figure out how to get Ingrid alone when Madison reappears without her.
Huh. I take the chance and slip out of the laughter and noise and into the hall.
The place feels even bigger back here, ceilings soaring, rooms spilling one into the next.
My footsteps echo on the hardwood until I hear something faint–a creak, maybe a shuffle–from a room to the left.
I peer in.
She’s standing there by an antique desk painted this striking teal blue, fingertips brushing along the wood like she’s trying to steady herself.
“Hey,” I say, leaning against the doorway.
Her head jerks up, lavender hair curling down her shoulders. “Hi.”
For a beat we just look at each other. No crowd, no music, no teammates. Just us.
“So this is a surprise,” I say finally.
“I owe you an explanation.” She twists her hands together, a rare sign of nerves. “Madison and I went to grab burgers at the Badger Den the other night, and Shelby was our waitress–”
I hold up a hand, stopping her. “No need to explain.”
“Really?” she asks, eyebrows lifting.
“It’s obvious.”
A wrinkle forms between her brows. “Obvious how?”
I let a grin tug at my mouth, trying to play it off. “You’re obsessed with me.”
Her laugh bursts out, sharp and disbelieving. “Oh my god. You’re absurd.”
“Am I wrong?” I step further into the room, closing some of the distance between us.
Her smile falters just slightly, eyes flicking down to my chest before darting back up.
She’d been checking me out earlier when I hiked up my shirt to show Twyler the bruise.
Now? Damn, the heat that sparks there almost knocks me on my ass.
I want to kiss her again. More than that, I want to press her back against that teal desk, taste her, get answers with my mouth instead of words.
But she’s unreadable, half amusement, half something else I can’t pin down. Is this about me? My teammates? Something bigger I don’t see yet?
The tension stretches, thick enough to choke on.
And all I can think is: I’m in trouble with this girl.
Ingrid is the one to speak first. “That bruise,” she says.
“What about it?”
“I have something for it.” She starts toward the door, and turns, going deeper into the apartment.
She stops at a bedroom. Massive. Colorful.
Blush pink, more teal, soft green. Pure female, mature, not like the college dorms and tiny rooms in the Shotgun district we live in back at school.
I’ve been in a lot of women’s beds, but this one isn’t just different because of the extravagance.
It’s different because it belongs to her.
Number one.
My eyes land on the bed, covered in a million pillows, iron scroll work at the head and foot.
A vision of Ingrid on all fours, her slim fingers wrapped around the iron headboard flashes through my mind and Jesus Christ.
Unaware of my fantasies, she dips into another room, this time a cavernous bathroom, where she opens a cabinet revealing dozens of labeled slots, organized and sorted like an apothecary.
After running her finger over the labels she stops and pulls out a glass jar.
She turns to me. “Arnica–it helps with the swelling and inflammation.”
I take the jar from her, the tips of my fingers grazing hers. “Yeah? What do you know about bruising?”
“What do I know about bruising?” she repeats with a look that can only be described as incredulous. “You’re kidding, right?”
I lift my shoulders. “I mean, obviously you have amazing cardio and strength, but it’s not like you’re getting pummeled repeatedly by six-foot-four, two hundred and fifty pound men.”
“Poor baby.” She pouts, patronizing and dismissive.
“You’re right. My cardio and strength are incredible, but no one gives me pads and gloves.
I’m out there in sparkly spandex and six-inch heels.
I’m hoisted by ropes, carried by dancers, playing my guitar or piano for three hours straight.
My blisters have blisters. My bruises are replaced by other bruises.
My muscles ache, and then I get up and do it all over again. ”
“Well. Now I just feel like a dick.”
“You should.”
“Wow,” I say, twisting the cap open just for something to do with my hands. “So not only are you talented and beautiful, but you’re tough, too. Should I be intimidated?”
“Stupid men have made the mistake of underestimating me before.” She leans back against the marble counter, bending one of those long legs at the knee.
“I’m not stupid, but I have been told I’m stubborn.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably charming?” I throw her my best grin.
“Unbelievably risky.” Her eyebrow lifts. “Do your friends know you’re back here? Do they know about us?”
“No,” I murmur, softer, and the space between us suddenly feels too charged. “Does Madison?”
She shakes her head and takes the jar back. Unscrewing the lid she dips her fingers in and coats them in the cream. “Lift up your shirt.”
I obey, though my pride bristles at the command. I want to be the one telling her to take off her clothes. The cotton pulls against my sore ribs, and I wince as the bruised skin is exposed. It’s already ugly, shades of purple and green blooming across my side like someone’s shitty art project.
Ingrid’s eyes narrow, her mouth tightening, but she doesn’t say anything.
She just steps closer, fingertips glistening, and touches me.
I suck in a sharp breath. Not because it hurts, though it sure as fuck does, but because her touch is nothing like the trainer’s brisk, clinical hands.
Hers are slow. Careful. Almost reverent.
She spreads the cream in little circles, her fingers cool and gentle at first before warming against my skin.
Suddenly, I get why Reese is always letting Twyler check his boo-boos.
It’s foreplay.
“This is pretty bad,” she murmurs, eyes flicking up at me through her lashes.
“Part of the job,” I say, though my voice is rougher than I want it to be.
Her fingers skim lower, tracing the edge of the bruise. My abdomen caves, ribs aching under the pressure, but the sting fades beneath another thought. She’s touching me like I matter. Not like I’m a one-way ticket to being a WAG, but like I’m–fragile. Breakable.
No one treats me like that. Not the puck bunnies or sorority girls.
“You should take better care of yourself,” she whispers.
I want to laugh it off, make some cocky remark, but my throat’s too tight. Instead, I let her keep going, her hand moving slow, spreading the cream until my skin hums. The sharp chill mixes with the heat of her touch, a contrast that makes me shiver.
Her palm flattens over my side for just a second, lingering. We’re close enough that I can smell her shampoo, sweet and clean, not some expensive perfume, but Ingrid herself. My pulse pounds.
“You’re good at this,” I note, because I need to say something, anything, before I do something stupid like grab her hand and kiss it.
She goes still, just for a beat, like maybe she felt it too–that shift in the air between us.
The crackle of energy. Then she smooths the last of the cream across my ribs, her touch lighter now, more like a caress than a treatment.
I can’t look away from her.
“Thank you,” I say finally, but it comes out rough, too full, like it’s holding more weight than just gratitude.
She sets the jar down, her fingers leaving my skin, and it’s ridiculous how much I already miss the contact, which is why I take a step closer.
She might bolt. But she doesn’t move, and I swear the corner of her mouth curves up, just a little. “Is this a secret?” I ask, truly wanting to know. “This thing between us?”
“I don’t know what this is,” she admits, a little of the bravado failing.
I take a slow breath. “I know I want to kiss you again.” Her eyes flicker, surprise, maybe a flash of the memory we both share–that one night, quick and easy, supposed to be nothing. A one time thing. I hold her gaze, not moving in, not pushing, but add, “I just don’t know if I’m allowed.”
The silence stretches, heavy with possibilities, before she shakes her head and laughs softly, breaking the tension. “Do you always ask permission before you kiss a girl?”