10. January 31, Monday #3
It wasn’t. It was him being Ilya. Something in her ribcage gave a quiet, startled thump. He’d known he didn’t have to. And he’d done it anyway. Not because management had told him to, or because it would be good for the kids, or because it would play well on social media.
Because she’d asked. And he’d listened.
“Thank you,” she repeated, softer.
He shrugged one shoulder, as if they were talking about passing the salt instead of rerouting an entire locker room’s priorities. “This is a good idea. For the kids. For us.” His mouth curved. “You are not stupid, Zoey. I trust you.”
Not stupid. Her cheeks heated.
Before she could decide what to do with that, joy surged up, fierce and fast, sweeping away her composure. A sound burst out of her—a half-laugh, half-sob of disbelieving excitement. She moved without thinking.
One second she was standing at the end of the table, clutching her coffee like armor.
The next she was closing the distance, lunging in, and pressing a swift, grateful kiss to his cheek before throwing her arms around his shoulders and squeezing him tight, making sure that her coffee didn’t spill down Ilya’s back.
Ilya went very still.
He smelled like his signature Old Spice and whatever industrial-strength muscle rub the trainers used. His body under her arms was hard, solid, radiating heat even through his clothes.
Her cheek landed hard against his shoulder, her nose almost touching his neck. Her arms pressed into the tense muscles of his upper back.
For a heartbeat, the whole cafeteria vanished. It was just him. Only the feeling of his muscles flexing under her palms as he inhaled, sharp and surprised.
Then—too late—her brain caught up.
Public space. Teammates. Boss-adjacent coworkers. And her face was currently buried in the neck of the team captain like she’d just watched him return from war.
She jerked back, mortified. “Oh my god. Sorry. I’m so… I just…”
It was nothing. A chaste, friendly gesture. The kind of thing Europeans did all the time, right? Except her body didn’t seem to get that memo.
She could still feel his warm skin under her lips.
His hint of stubble scraping lightly against her mouth.
Awareness detonated under her skin, bright and disorienting.
Heat rushed through her, pooling low in her belly.
Her pulse stumbled, then picked up, fast and reckless.
She took another step back as if burned.
“I…I’m…uh, okay.” Words tumbled out, none of them helpful. “That was…um, sorry.”
Silence fell around the table again, and she refused to look at anyone and see their judgmental looks.
Which was how, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid eye contact with half the Cyclones roster and the man whose cheek she’d just kissed like an overexcited golden retriever, her gaze dropped to the ground between them.
Or it would have, if her visual trip to the tile floor hadn’t been interrupted by a pair of legs. Specifically, to the soft gray sweatpants. Up close. Her brain short-circuited. Oh no.
They were, objectively, simple pants. Standard issue team wear. She’d seen a dozen guys in the same pair walking the halls.
On him, though…
The fabric clung to his thighs, emphasizing the thick chunks of muscle.
It stretched just enough over his hips to hint at lines she absolutely had no business thinking about at work.
And, because the universe hated her, there was a not-subtle, very male outline that suggested he was not as unaffected by that hug as his face might have implied.
Her breath snagged. Her cheeks, already warm, went molten.
Do not look. Do not look. Look away now you stupid idiot!. Stop it. Stop it now!
“Zoey?” Ilya’s voice, low and a little rougher than usual, cut through the static.
She snapped her gaze back up so fast she was honestly surprised she didn’t give herself whiplash.
His expression was carefully neutral. But there was a faint flush high on his cheekbones that hadn’t been there before. His eyes were darker, pupils almost drowning out the bright blue, jaw tight.
He knew what she’d seen.
Oh. God.
“I…should go,” she blurted.
“Already?” Ty asked, far too interested.
“Yeah. Logistics. Emails. Forms. Kissing hands, shaking babies.” She waved her hand in a vague loop in the air. “I’ll send out, um, details. No sprints scheduled. I’ll deal with boogers and any crying. You guys just play. No spreadsheets or anything. You’ll love it.”
Ian snorted. “Nobody loves spreadsheets.”
“I do,” Bobby murmured.
“That tracks,” Tommy quipped.
“Anyway!” Zoey said, voice an octave higher than normal. “Thank you again. All of you. This… it really means a lot.” Her eyes snagged on Ilya’s for one last, charged second.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You are welcome,” he said softly.
She spun on her heel before she could say or do anything else inappropriate.
She made it three steps before the noise behind her resumed—voices rising, chairs scraping, someone mocking Ty’s version of a goal celebration.
She did not look back.
If she did, she’d have to confront the twin truths currently doing cartwheels in her chest:
One: Professionally, she’d just pulled off something huge. Her first major initiative. A real, concrete program for kids who needed it.
Two: Personally, she’d just wrapped herself around a man in front of his entire team, kissed his cheek, and then ogled his sweatpants like a girl at Comic Con seeing a huge guy in leather and wearing bat wings.
Her body still buzzed.
It’s professional. It’s gratitude. It’s friendship. That’s all, she lectured herself as she pushed through the cafeteria doors and into the hallway, cool air licking at her overheated skin. He helped your project. You reacted like an enthusiastic coworker. No one will even remember it happened.
Except her mind already started replaying the moment: his solid warmth against her, the rasp of stubble under her mouth, the quick, involuntary flex of his shoulders when she’d touched him, her hips pushed tight against his.
And, unhelpfully, the way those gray sweatpants had looked when she’d finally made herself look away from his face.
Zoey pressed her back against the cool wall and let her head thump gently against it once.
Just once.
Then she straightened, squared her shoulders, and set off toward her office, heart pounding and cheeks still hot, pretending the dizzy feeling in her chest was all about the Little Cyclones camp.
Not the man who’d just made it possible.
Definitely not the man whose sweatpants looked a little too tight after a purely platonic hug with his best friend’s ex-wife.