4. The Practice Game
Chapter four
The Practice Game
I walk onto the practice field, clutching my clipboard like a life preserver, hoping it will keep me afloat amid the waves of Jaxon’s bare chest. My pulse sets its own frenetic rhythm as the memories of that gala kiss replay in my mind, vivid and mortifying. He’s there, mid-drill, with teammates moving in a blur around him. The world reduces to the intensity of his blue eyes and the arrogance of his half-smile. I’m supposed to be working. I’m supposed to be indifferent. Instead, I’m staring, heat crawling up my cheeks, my resolve dissolving faster than an ice cube on this sun-drenched field.
This is supposed to be business as usual. That kiss was nothing—just a PR move, I tell myself for the fifteenth time this morning. A tactic. Strategic. Planned. Except for the part where his lips were so soft and his hand was so firm on my waist and I might have kissed him back. Yeah, except for that.
I squeeze the clipboard tighter, trying to wrangle my thoughts back into a tidy list of bullet points. Media training. Interview prep. Distance between lips.
“Jax, heads up!” a teammate yells, but Jaxon’s already on it, pivoting to catch a pass. The guy’s a damn athletic miracle, muscles rippling with an effortlessness that should be illegal. And now he’s jogging toward me, smirk firmly in place.
Focus, Tori. I fumble with my notes, trying to pull my eyes away from the glorious spectacle of shirtless Jaxon. Instead, I manage a feeble glance at the ground, which does nothing to cool the heat on my cheeks.
Jaxon comes to a halt in front of me, not even winded, his grin nothing short of smug. “Hey, PR Lady. Here to catch a game, or are you just into shirtless guys?”
“I’m here to work,” I say, sounding far more breathless than I’d like. “Some of us have jobs to do.”
He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “So you’re just into shirtless me, then?”
My cheeks are burning. “In your dreams, Reid.” I lift my chin, trying to reclaim an ounce of dignity. “I have a schedule to keep. Interviews don’t ace themselves, you know.”
“Schedule, huh?” He runs a hand through his hair, the move more of a panty-dropper than it has any right to be. “Pretty sure I saw you staring for a solid five minutes. Need to work on your timing.”
The guys on the field are watching us, pretending not to eavesdrop while doing a terrible job of it. I take a steadying breath, reminding myself of the agenda. Number one: restore Jaxon’s public image. Number two: stop wanting to kiss him.
“Are you going to take this seriously?” I say, flipping through my pages. “I have a whole list—”
Jaxon interrupts, eyes gleaming. “—of ways for me to stop being such a bad boy? Tori, you wound me. I thought that’s why you liked me.”
“Please. I’ve dealt with worse.” Not true. So not true.
He crosses his arms, muscles flexing distractingly. “All right, lay it on me. Media training: take one.” He mimics a director’s clapboard, and a laugh almost escapes my mouth.
Almost. I bite it back, determined to regain the upper hand. “Fine. Let’s try this.” I clear my throat, affecting my best professional tone. “Jaxon, how do you handle the pressure of being the team’s star quarterback?”
“I let my skills speak for themselves,” he says, then adds with a wicked grin, “just like at the gala.”
God, he’s infuriating. And infuriatingly good-looking. I fight the blush creeping up my neck. “Focus. What’s the most important quality in a leader?”
“Charm.” He winks. “And good looks. Nailed it.”
I glare at him, trying to ignore the laughter from the field. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly hot?”
“Impossible to work with!” I fire back, but the corners of my mouth betray me by twitching upward. “If you want to win people over, you need to be sincere. Genuine.” I pause. “Less like a cocky athlete, more like a—”
“—boyfriend?” Jaxon cuts in, stepping closer, dropping his voice again.
“—normal human being,” I say, trying not to gulp.
He narrows the gap between us, the air sparking with his proximity. “How about you give me a real interview, Tori? Not the kind on your clipboard.”
Just focus on the media training points, Tori. Stay professional . Easier said than done when flashes of last night’s gala keep intruding—the heat of Jaxon’s gaze, the brush of his lips against mine...
The challenge hangs there, heavy, and I can’t back down. He wants me to play along? Fine. I can do that.
I square my shoulders, meeting his gaze head-on. “Why do you care what anyone thinks, Jaxon?” I ask, pressing with more force than I intend. “Isn’t your bad-boy reputation part of the charm?”
A flicker of surprise crosses his face, but only for a moment. “Maybe I care what you think,” he says, soft and dangerous.
His honesty takes me off guard. It’s my turn to falter. “What is this really about?” I ask. “The interview or…?”
He’s so close now I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, feel the warmth radiating off his skin. “What do you think?”
I swallow, trying to keep my composure. My gaze darts to the guys watching, but Jaxon doesn’t even seem to notice them. He’s waiting, expecting an answer. And damn it if I’m not ready to give him one.
I lift my chin, defiant even in my confusion. “I think you should remember this is a business arrangement.” I try to sound convincing. Try to convince myself.
He smiles, maddeningly confident. “Sure about that?”
No. “Yes,” I say, voice wavering, betraying me.
His questions rattle around in my head, pulling my resolve apart thread by thread. He steps back, giving me just enough space to breathe, to feel the reality of how much I don’t want him to.
“Think about it, Tori,” he says, loud enough for the team to hear, like it’s a promise.
And with that, Jaxon turns back to the field, leaving me with a clipboard full of notes and a heart hammering like it’s trying to escape.
***
The equipment room smells like leather and sweat and my own uncertainty. I tell myself I’m here to tidy up, but who am I kidding? I’m here to breathe, to get my bearings, to regroup after Jaxon’s interrogation. But then the door swings open, and I’m left breathless all over again. He fills the doorway, confidence and charisma radiating like heat from the sun. He steps inside, and suddenly the space feels smaller, charged, like the molecules around us are vibrating.
I focus on the pile of jerseys in front of me, fingers working without direction, like maybe I can fold my way out of this mess. I was supposed to come here and clear my head, convince myself that our little showdown on the field was nothing more than a hiccup in my professional plan.
Why are you fighting this? The question lodges in my mind like a barb, impossible to shake. I’m not fighting anything, I want to believe. I’m just doing my job. But it feels less like the truth and more like a mantra, losing power with every silent repetition.
I don’t need to turn around to feel Jaxon behind me, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore. “Hiding, are we?” he says, voice like velvet, like sin.
I swallow, forcing a casualness I don’t feel. “Organizing,” I say, still not looking at him, knowing full well it’s useless.
He’s closer now, the warmth of his body so near it pulls at my senses, at the resolve I’m desperately trying to reconstruct. “Does it help?” he asks, low and teasing. “Keeping busy to avoid what you really want?”
I whirl around, meeting his gaze with more defiance than I feel. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
His smile is devastating, slow and knowing. “I think you know.”
The air between us thickens, tension coiling tighter with every second. I should push back, give him a line about professionalism and boundaries and how much this isn’t happening. But I’m too busy fighting the urge to close the remaining distance, and my heart is a wild, uncontrollable thing in my chest.
He steps forward. I step back. I hit the shelves, breath catching as he places a hand beside my head, not touching me, not yet. His nearness is a force, his focus absolute.
“You can’t run forever, sweetheart,” he says, and it sounds less like a threat and more like a promise.
The words unravel me. He’s so close, his eyes boring into mine, relentless, undoing me in ways I can’t even begin to parse. I should shove him away, make another dramatic exit. But my hands stay glued to my sides, unable to follow the instructions of my rational mind.
“Jaxon…” I start, but the rest of the sentence refuses to come. The space between us feels electric, charged with all the things I’ve been pretending don’t exist. My pulse quickens, my breath mingling with his. I should say something, anything, to break the moment, but I’m drowning in it, the air too thick to speak.
His gaze drops to my lips, the world shrinking until it’s just the two of us, and it’s like I can feel him even though he’s not touching me. Yet.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough with want, and I know I should.
Instead, I hold my breath, my traitorous body refusing to move, to resist. His lips are a whisper away, my heart a jackhammer in my chest, and I—
“Stop!” The word bursts from me as I shove him away, hands finding their purpose at the last possible moment. I bolt for the door, feet carrying me before my mind can catch up.
“Running away again?” I hear his voice behind me.
I whirl around, finding him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. The space suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.
“I’m not running,” I say, but the words lack conviction.
He pushes off the frame, stalking towards me with predatory grace. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I back up, my hip bumping against a shelf. “Jaxon, what are you doing?”
“What I should’ve done a long time ago.”
He closes the distance between us, his body crowding mine. I’m surrounded by him—his heat, his scent, the sheer magnitude of his presence.
“Why are you fighting this, Tori?” His eyes search mine, intense and unrelenting. “Why are you fighting us ?”
“There is no us,” I breathe, but even I can hear the uncertainty in my voice.
His hand comes up, cupping my cheek. I lean into the touch, my eyes fluttering closed.
“Isn’t there?” His thumb brushes over my lower lip, and I barely suppress a shudder. “Tell me you don’t feel it. This thing between us.”
I can’t. I can’t tell him that, because it would be a lie. And I’m so tired of lying, even to myself.
“Jaxon...” It’s a plea, a prayer, a surrender.
He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. “Stop fighting it, sweetheart. Just let go.”
And God help me, I want to. I want to sink into him, to let the fire consume me. But the rational part of my brain, the part that’s clinging to professionalism like a life raft, won’t let me.
“I can’t,” I whisper, even as my body arches towards his. “We can’t.”
“We can.” His lips hover over mine, a hairsbreadth away. “We will .”
The room shrinks around us, the world narrowing to this moment, to the electric space between our mouths.
His gaze drops to my lips. “If we can’t, then stop me.”
“You should leave,” I whisper.
“Should I? Because you’ve been looking at me like you’re dying to know how I taste.”
Kiss me, I think wildly. Kiss me, and damn the consequences.
But the consequences loom large, a bucket of icy reality waiting to douse the flames.
This is madness. This is a mistake.
A mistake I’m about to make anyway.
Just as his lips brush mine, feather-light and searing, my knees weaken, and I grip his jersey for balance.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.
I shove him away. Hard.
He stumbles back, surprise and confusion warring on his face. “Tori, what—”
I’m already bolting, my heels clattering against the concrete floor as I flee the equipment room like the hounds of hell are on my heels.
I’m in the hallway, but the room—the moment—is still around me, still in me, my entire body thrumming from the closeness, the almost of it all. A mistake, I tell myself as I flee. This is a mistake.
This is stupid, stupid, stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. The word pounds in my head with each frantic step. What was I thinking, letting him get that close? Letting myself get swept up in the moment, in the heat of his gaze and the promise of his touch?
It was a mistake, I tell myself firmly, even as my body trembles with the memory of his nearness. A moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.
But even as the thought forms, I know it’s a lie.
I burst out of the stadium into the blinding sunlight, gulping in fresh air. It does little to cool the fever under my skin, the ache his almost-kiss awakened.
Somehow, I make it to my car, collapsing into the driver’s seat like a marionette with cut strings. My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white.
Get it together, Michaels. But it’s easier said than done when I can still feel the ghost of his breath on my lips, the phantom heat of his body pressed against mine.
I rest my forehead against the wheel, squeezing my eyes shut. This was supposed to be fake, I remind myself. A business arrangement. Nothing more.
So why did it feel so real? Why did I let myself get carried away, let the lines blur until I couldn’t see where the pretense ended and the truth began?
Because you wanted it to be real, a traitorous voice whispers. Because under all the snark and the eye-rolls, you’re falling for him.
“No,” I say aloud, my voice cracking. “No, I’m not. I can’t be.”
But even as the words leave my lips, I know they’re just another lie in a long line of self-deception.
Because the truth is, Jaxon Reid is getting under my skin, into my head... and maybe even into my heart.
And that scares me more than anything.
The air is stifling. I crank the window, hoping the cool breeze will take some of my crazed thoughts with it, but they linger, clingy and relentless. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jaxon’s face, that damn self-assured smile, and the heat of his body so close to mine.
My plan to keep things professional is unraveling, one skipped heartbeat at a time. He can’t get to you like this, I insist, but my body remembers the opposite, remembers the warmth and the way my hands refused to push him away until it was almost too late.
I clutch the steering wheel tighter, the texture rough against my palms, grounding me in the physicality of the moment. This is work. It’s just work. Maybe if I tell myself enough times, I’ll start to believe it.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder, startling me, making my heart leap into my throat. It’s just a text from the network, an update about the new campaign. I let out a shaky laugh at how ridiculous I am, flustered and panicked like a teenager. This is not who I am.
I run my fingers through my hair, pulling myself together, pulling at anything that might keep me from falling further into this insanity. My mind is a tangled mess, my body still tingling with the ghost of Jaxon’s almost-touch.
Hours later, I’m in my apartment, curled up on the couch and nursing a glass of wine while trying to focus on the mindless reality show playing on my TV.
My phone sits ominously on the coffee table, a reminder that I’m just one buzz away from caving, from crossing lines that were supposed to remain clear. It taunts me with its silence, and I wonder how long I’ll last before I’m pulled back into the gravitational field of his charm, his heat.
When it finally vibrates, it’s like a jolt of electricity, a live wire in my hand. Jaxon’s name on the screen. His message concise, cocky, and devastatingly effective:
You can’t run forever, sweetheart.
I stare at the words, reading and re-reading them until they blur before my eyes. He’s right. I can’t keep running from this, from him. But what other choice do I have?
I set my wine glass down, my fingers trembling slightly. I know I should delete the text, ignore it like I’ve been ignoring the growing attraction between us. But some masochistic part of me needs to respond, needs to engage in this dangerous dance we’ve started.
My response: Watch me.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. I’m supposed to be fixing his image, not fall for his charm. But the other part of me, the part that’s been awakened by Jaxon’s touch and his teasing words, whispers a different truth.
My phone buzzes again, and I know without looking that it’s him. I shouldn’t look. I should power down my phone, pour another glass of wine, and forget all about Jaxon Reid and his infuriatingly sexy smirk.
But I’ve never been good at resisting temptation.
I snatch up my phone, my heart pounding as I read his response.
Challenge accepted, sweetheart. But we both know you don’t really want to run from this.
I can almost hear his deep, honey-smooth voice saying the words, can almost feel the heat of his breath against my ear. I shiver, my skin prickling with goosebumps despite the warmth of the room.
My response: You don’t know what I want.
It’s a lie, and we both know it. But admitting the truth—that I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone—feels too dangerous, too real.
Don’t I? I think I have a pretty good idea. And I think you’re scared of how much you want it too.
My response: I’m not scared of anything. Especially not you.
Prove it then. Have dinner with me tomorrow night. Just the two of us, no pretenses.
It’s a dangerous proposition. Without the buffer of our fake relationship, without the excuse of playing a role... what’s to stop us from crossing lines we can’t come back from?
My response: Fine. Dinner. But this doesn’t change anything.
I hit send before I can change my mind, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’m playing with fire, and I know it. But some reckless, hungry part of me wants to see how long I can dance in the flames before I get burned.
We’ll see about that, sweetheart. I’ll pick you up at 7.
I toss my phone aside, burying my face in my hands. What am I doing? What am I thinking, agreeing to dinner with Jaxon?
But even as I ask myself the questions, I already know the answer. I’m thinking about the way his eyes darken when he looks at me, about the heat of his skin against mine. I’m thinking about how alive he makes me feel, how consumed I am by the desire to unravel the mystery of Jaxon Reid.
I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe, getting burned might be worth it.