Chapter 19 Camden
CAMDEN
When I get home that night, Madden doesn’t even bother to greet me at the door.
Probably too busy snoring at Sophie’s feet.
Or maybe snuggled up with my little vixen.
Traitor. The house is dark and quiet, and a wave of disappointment hits me before I push it away.
It’s not like I expected Holly to stay up for me.
I detect a faint smell of sugar cookies hanging in the air as I make my way inside. I should be relieved Holly’s not waiting up for me. Instead, the sharp sting of disappointment again hits me harder than it should.
Time to find a painkiller and an ice pack before the throbbing in my shoulder turns into something worse.
“Hey.” Her voice slices through the silence, and I stop dead in my tracks.
Holly’s curled up on the corner of the couch like a goddamned daydream I don’t deserve.
Her bare legs are tucked beneath her, a soft pink sweater slipping off one shoulder, and prim brown glasses sit perched on her nose as her hair falls around her face in pale blonde waves.
The sight shouldn’t make my chest ache like this, but it fucking does. “You’re home.”
She closes her e-reader and looks up at me. And Jesus. That voice.
I’ve taken harder hits on the field that didn’t knock the air out of me the way she does.
“Yeah,” I manage, scrubbing a hand over the back of my neck.
“Electrical issue with the team jet. We sat on the tarmac for hours before they fixed it. It took longer than the actual flight home did.” I move into the room because apparently, I’ve lost all sense of self-fucking-preservation. “Figured you’d be asleep.”
She shrugs one delicate shoulder, and that damn sweater slides lower, exposing another inch of flawless skin. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see how you’re feeling. That hit in the fourth quarter looked brutal.”
That’s because it was. Late hits are always the worst because you’re not prepared. The fight that happened on the field after, getting Luke and Maverick both fouled, didn’t help either. “You watched?”
Her teeth catch on her pouty lip before she nods.
“Your sister and Rosie came over, and we made gingerbread houses while we watched. Sophie supervised from her swing until she passed out. Possibly from a sugar high. Pretty sure I caught Rosie letting her experience her first little taste of icing.” She smiles, and it’s fucking beautiful.
“We’ll have to work on her stamina if she’s going to be a proper Kings fan.
After all,”—she lowers her voice—“her daddy is kind of a big deal.”
A laugh escapes me. Rough, surprised . . . real. “Hardly. Just happy to be part of this team.”
Anything else I was going to say fades when she stands.
The hem of that damn sweater falls mid-thigh, barely covering the pale-pink, snowflake-embroidered boxer shorts underneath.
And the socks—those damn socks that stop just above her knee, leaving a few inches of beautiful skin there for me to stare at.
Even if I know I shouldn’t. My blood heats instantly, and I swear to God, I can hear it pounding in my veins.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, stepping closer. Too fucking close. “They said it might be dislocated.”
I don’t breathe.
Not when she moves within arm’s reach.
Not when her fingers twitch like she wants to touch me but doesn’t.
“They popped it back in.” My voice comes out rough and raw. “It’ll be sore for a few days.”
“Can I get you something, Camden?”
My name on her lips frays another strand of restraint I’m fighting to hold on to.
It’s soft and tempting and fucking dangerous.
I shake my head but don’t step back.
I should.
I can smell her skin. Feel the heat radiating off her. The air shifts between us. It thickens and hums with a pulse of its own. Alive and feeding off this . . . whatever this is.
She tilts her head, crystal-blue eyes searching mine. “You should sit. Let me get you an ice pack or an Advil.”
“Holly . . .”
She doesn’t listen. She never does. Her hand lifts, and featherlight fingertips brush down my arm. I flinch, more from the jolt of her touch than from the actual pain.
“Sorry.” Her eyes snap up, worry lacing them. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.”
It’s not though.
Nothing about this is fine.
Fucked up maybe. But not fine.
Because I’m standing in my living room, broken and exhausted, and this woman . . . this maddeningly mouthy, sweet, sarcastic, stunningly beautiful vixen is looking at me like she actually cares.
And for the first time in a long damn time, I don’t want to be strong.
I don’t want to push someone away.
I just want her.
She studies me for a long minute, and I wonder if she’s feeling it too.
“Sit down, Camden.” Her words are soft, but the order is strong.
And damn, but I listen.
I drop onto the couch with a low groan, the weight of the day pressing down on me.
My shoulder throbs, my ribs ache, and my fucking head is screaming at me to walk away.
Yet all I manage to focus on is the way Holly kneels in front of me.
Her bare legs on the rug. The hem of her sweater teasing the tops of her thighs.
“This isn’t necessary,” I rasp, and there’s no way she misses the thickness in my voice.
“Humor me.” She smiles seductively. Her voice is soft and sure and steady, and I’m pretty sure I’d follow her anywhere right now if she said it in that tone.
She reaches for the buttons of my dress shirt and hesitates. “May I?”
The word lodges in my throat as my pulse picks up, but I nod and swallow as she unbuttons my shirt and gently pushes it over my shoulders, then tugs it down my arms, careful of my shoulder. She tosses it aside and looks at me, her breath catching in her throat. And I hear it. Feel it.
Those icy-blue eyes linger on the bruising spreading across my chest and along my shoulder. “God, Camden.” Her voice trembles as her fingers hover. “That looks awful.”
“I’ve had worse.”
She shakes her head like she doesn’t believe me. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“It’s part of the job, Holly.”
Her eyes fill with sadness and anger, and something in me shifts. An ache deeper than physical pain. The kind that comes from too many nights like this. Empty houses. Pain. Old injuries. Silence that feels louder than any stadium ever could.
And she’s just . . . here.
Warm and soft and too damn close.
Tempting me every day with her smile and crazy chaos. With the way she holds my baby. With the way she makes me laugh. The way she is with her family.
Her hand hovers above my shoulder, fingers trembling slightly before she makes contact. The gentle pressure of her palm sends a shock straight through me, and I have to grit my teeth not to react.
Holly doesn’t miss it.
“Does that hurt?” she whispers.
“No,” I answer, and she cocks her head like she doesn’t believe me. “It feels good.”
Pleasure doused in pain.
Her thumb moves in slow circles, kneading into tight muscles. Her touch is cautious, and I close my eyes and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
The scent of her—vanilla and peppermint—wraps around me, and my mouth fucking waters. Wanting more. Wanting her.
When I open my eyes, she’s watching me. Lips parted and pupils blown wide.
Fuck.
“This is a bad idea, Holly.” I say the words, but I don’t move.
Don’t stop her.
“Probably,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “But here’s the thing, Camden. I can’t seem to make myself stop.”
She presses a little harder, and my control fractures.
I catch her wrist in my hand before she can pull away.
“Camden . . .” Her breath catches, and something inside me breaks.
“Say it again. Say my name just like that,” I fucking growl.
Her gorgeous eyes flash, torn somewhere between want and warning. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.” The words are ripped from my throat.
“You’re not thinking straight,” she argues, and I huff out a dark laugh.
“You have no idea how clearly I’m thinking right now, little vixen.”
Her mouth curves in a nervous, breathless smile, and everything slows.
My thumb traces the inside of her soft wrist, her pulse pounding against my skin.
I laugh darkly again. “You have no idea how straight I’m thinking right now.”
I’m not sure who moves first.
Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else.
The world narrows until all I see is her mouth, soft and pink and trembling as I cup her face in my hands.
And that’s when the baby monitor I hadn’t noticed before crackles to life. Sophie’s sleepy sob slicing through the moment like the blade of a sharp knife.
Holly jerks back, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.
Fucking gorgeous.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to pull the air back into my lungs.
“I’ll get her,” I say as Holly takes a step back.
“I’ve got her. You go get that painkiller.”
The silence that follows as she walks out of the room is deafening.
I lean back against the couch, every muscle pulled tight.
I should be grateful for the interruption.
I should remind myself of every reason she’s off-limits.
Every reason this won’t work.
Every reason why I’m not for her.
But all I can think about is how close she was. How soft she was. How good my name sounded on her lips. And how much trouble I’m in.