Chapter 9
Her door shuts, but I don’t move.
All I do is stare at the grain, trying to hold myself together.
Honey. Honey. Honey.
I lean forward and press my forehead to the door, feeling the cold wood against my skin. I can hear her moving around on the other side, and I have to stop myself from knocking the door down and convincing her to be with me.
I close my eyes and blow out my breath.
“So close. So fucking close.”
Every single time we get close, something makes her stop.
I don’t even care that she ran away when things started to get a little real.
I’m used to that. It was how close she was to giving in.
I could feel it, just like the day she came to my house to tell me she was leaving St. Michael’s.
The only reason she didn’t stay with me then was because Tiff walked in on us.
“I’m sorry, Honey,” I whisper to the door.
It’s so fucking hard to show restraint when it comes to her.
Figuratively and literally.
I’m so fucking hard when I’m around her, it’s starting to get awkward.
She wants this as much as I do. I know it. I feel it, but she’s just too afraid to show it, which means I’m left standing in a hallway with my forehead against her door and an erection that is embarrassingly loyal to Honey.
One girl. Only one girl has ever gotten me this frustrated and horny at the same time.
When a couple rounds the corner, I sigh, adjust my pants, and push off the door. Then I leisurely stroll to my room next door, giving the couple a smile as they walk past me.
When I’m in my room, the silence consumes me.
It’s too big and too empty for only me.
I press my hand against my crotch, hoping my dick realizes that Honey’s not coming home today but all it does is make my boner worse.
She was right there.
In my arms, tipping her chin so she could kiss me.
“Fuck,” I growl, stomping over to the bathroom.
I need to reset my brain before I do something stupid like kick the door down and show her everything she’s been missing out on.
I strip off my clothes, leaving them on the bathroom vanity as I turn the shower on and crank it to the coldest temperature possible.
Then I grit my teeth and step under the spray.
“Shit,” I mutter as goosebumps prickle my skin. I take several short, panting breaths, getting myself used to the temperature.
There’s no way my erection can last this.
A few seconds later, I look down, annoyed.
It’s still there.
Hard, red, and angry.
Not even a cold shower could stop the need for Honey.
I feel you, brother.
Cold water pounds against my shoulders, and my brain immediately goes to places it shouldn’t.
Honey.
Honey under cold water. Honey, breathless and panting. Honey, looking up at me with those lips parted like she wants to kiss me for the rest of her life.
“Fucking hell.”
I scrub my hand down my face, but it’s useless. The colder the water gets, the worse it is.
Her chest is heaving, her nipples are tight, and little bumps cover her skin. Little bumps that I could make disappear if she’d let me touch her.
“Fuck,” I mutter, bracing one hand against the tile.
I can’t do this. I can’t pretend that my every thought isn’t consumed by the woman next door. I had my tongue in her fucking pussy three days ago, and she’s pretending she doesn’t care. I can practically still taste her, and she’s trying to pretend she’s not feeling this like I am?
My dick twitches as the mere memory of her coming around me. It’s fully hard and aching despite the cold water, and I'm done pretending I'm not going to do this. I've been half hard since she stepped into my arms, and the cold isn't doing shit except pissing me off.
I switch the water to warm, wrap my hand around myself, and let out a sigh of relief as I close my eyes.
In my mind, it’s not my hand.
It’s Honey’s.
She’s on her knees in front of me as water cascades down her bare shoulders, and she looks up at me with those big, dark, intoxicating eyes. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip before opening her mouth and leaning forward like she’s been dying for this moment.
The image alone nearly brings me to my fucking knees.
Her soft hands brace against my thighs, her fingers digging in as her lips wrap around the head of my cock, and a rough groan tears from my chest.
This isn’t some gentle fantasy. It’s Honey—the girl who’s been driving me insane since the moment she walked into my life—sucking me like she owns every inch of me.
She does own every inch of me. Her tongue swirls around the tip with teasing, deliberate strokes, tasting me, savoring me, before she takes me deeper into that perfect mouth.
I tighten my grip and start stroking harder, matching the rhythm she’s using in my head.
My free hand slips on the tile, but I keep my footing.
I’m too distracted with my thoughts to care.
In my mind, she’s taking me farther into her mouth with every bob of her head, and her cheeks hollow as she sucks me like she’s trying to pull an orgasm straight from my soul.
“Fuck, Honey—” I growl under the spray of water.
I can picture the way her tits would bounce slightly with each movement, water streaming down her curves, her nipples hard from the heat and arousal.
She’d moan around my cock, the vibration shooting straight through me, pushing me closer to the edge.
She’d take me deep, her throat working me, all the while never breaking eye contact—daring me to lose control and come for her.
My hand moves faster. The water runs down my back as the pressure builds, tightening low in my gut.
With a deep, guttural groan that echoes off the tiles, I come hard. Thick ropes spill over my fist as my cock pulses, and my legs nearly buckle beneath me. I brace my forearm arm against the wall, breathing hard as the water washes everything away.
The relief I feel is short-lived, because the second the haze clears, I remember the almost-kiss, and the look on her face when she ran.
“This girl is going to be the fucking death of me,” I mutter under my breath.
I finish the shower, shut the water off, and stand there for a second, taking it all in.
Steam clings to the glass; my chest is still heaving.
I still feel like shit because no amount of cold showers or self-inflicted shame is going to change the fact that Honey is still next door, stubbornly ignoring what is right in front of her.
I drag a towel around my waist and step out of the shower, wiping a hand over the fogged mirror as I pass.
Oh, surprise, surprise.
I look as shitty as I feel inside.
I brush my teeth mostly because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t knocking on Honey’s door again. Then I grab a pair of sweats and pull them on low over my hips before walking barefoot into the cabin room.
Since the shower finally took the edge off—and because if I think about Honey for one more second, I’m going to end up arrested—I decide it’s probably time to acknowledge the rest of my life.
Unfortunately, the rest of my life comes with email notifications and contracts that I can’t avoid.
I drop onto the couch, grab my phone, and scroll through the messages.
Twenty-three unread emails.
Fuck me.
Three from the Rome Raptors front office with playbook updates, OTA schedules, and some team-building thing in a week that I’m definitely going to miss since I’m on this cruise.
Not that I care. Honey is more important.
There’s an email from Coach Masters with the subject line Check in when you get a chance.
Oh, he’s pissed. That’s coach language for Where the hell are you, Evans? Get your ass here now.
There are also two from Dave, my agent. That’s when I know I’m in trouble.
Dave doesn’t panic. He’s more into showing off his expansive client list than worrying about what they are doing from day to day.
One of the subject lines is in full caps.
Fantastic.
I open it.
Zach,
Ascent, the sports label wants to lock in dates for the campaign shoot.
They’re not going to wait forever. I told them mid-July, but I need you to confirm.
Also, the Raptors PR team wants to schedule your intro presser.
They’re being patient because you’re their guy, but they have no idea where you are and they are asking me about it.
Don’t make me look bad. Answer your messages.
I wince and open the second one. Figure I should know exactly what I’m walking into.
It’s much shorter.
Call me tomorrow. Not asking.
Dave’s been with me through all of it—the draft chaos, the negotiations, the interviews, the million little things I would absolutely screw up if left unsupervised. He fought for every dollar of my rookie contract and somehow managed to make me sound like a responsible adult in press conferences.
The least I can do is call the man back.
I keep scrolling, immediately clicking when I see the message from Reese. Thank God he and Dax were drafted into the Raptors too. Otherwise, I’d be having an even harder time right now.
Hey Z,
Dax says you’re good to crash at his place until you find your own spot. It’s a two-bed, five minutes away from the stadium and is already furnished. Let me know when you’re getting in and I’ll help you move your stuff.
Also, Coach Masters asked about you at the workout today. I covered for you, but I’m not sure how long he’s going to buy the excuses I’m coming up with.
I snort.
At least one person in my life is committed to enabling me.
I should answer all of them, but I’m just not in the mood to fully face my reality yet. So instead, I lock my phone and toss it onto the cushion beside me and lean my head against the couch.
My head is aching, and it’s not just because Honey isn’t playing ball.
It’s everything. It’s all shifting. This isn’t like college ball where I could get away with doing whatever the fuck I wanted.
This is professional-level shit. I have contracts.
I’m the franchise quarterback. The first draft pick.
The one they traded up to build a team around me.
I’m the fucking reason Dax and Reese are here too.
I need to walk into the Raptors stadium in two weeks and be ready to lead.
Yet here I am, on a cruise ship chasing a girl who just pulled away from kissing me.
I could be in Rome right now. I should be. I need to learn the playbook and build chemistry with my new receivers so that I’m ahead of the curve for when camp starts.
Every day I’m here, I’m falling behind my own standards.
Every day I choose Honey over football, gambling the career I’ve worked my entire life for.
I know this. I’m not stupid.
But if I hadn’t gotten on this ship, I wouldn't have been sitting across from her in that booth tonight and seen the small smile on her face when I tried to take the corner of her chocolate torte.
Football has been the most important thing in my life since I was seven years old.
It saved me. It saved my family. It helped me take care of Tiff and Ella when everything felt like it was falling apart.
It gave me purpose when I needed one, a future when I wasn’t sure I’d have one, and a way out when everything felt too hard to manage.
Football gave me everything, but Honey is the reason it means anything.
She’s the person I want beside me when the lights go out and the stadium empties.
She’s the one I think about when something good happens.
The one I want to come home to after the wins and the one I’d want holding me together after the losses.
I’m not ready to let that go because the timing is inconvenient for her.
I’ll wait. I’ll fucking wait as long as it takes because I’m the most fucking patient man she’s ever met.
I let out a long breath, grab my phone again, and force myself to be an adult because while I wait for Honey, I need to make sure I have a life worth something.
I open my emails and start typing out responses. They’re all short, barely a sentence long, but I’ve responded and confirmed that I will call all of them in the morning.
Once I’ve finished, I toss my phone onto the coffee table and stand, stretching the tension out of my shoulders.
The balcony door is still cracked open from earlier, so I step outside and breathe in the salt air as I stare into the abyss.
When I lean against the railing, I glance down at the honeycomb tattoo on my forearm. It’s barely visible in the low light, but I don’t need to see it to know the commitment I made.
Yeah, maybe I’m an idiot for being here instead of Rome. Maybe I’m gambling my entire rookie season and potential career for a girl who pulls away from kissing me, but I’m not breaking any rules, and I’ll just work my ass off when I get there in two weeks.
This time with Honey won’t come again, and I need to take the opportunity to at least try.
I head back inside, leaving the balcony door open so I can fall asleep to the sound of the ocean.
Tomorrow, I won’t push. I’ll let her come to me, because she will. I know she will, and when she does, I’m going to make it damn hard for her to walk away.