6. Sklyar #2
The next hour was a blur of forced smiles and aching arms. Skylar shook pom-poms until her wrists throbbed, held poses until her calves screamed, grinned so hard her cheeks went numb.
Between setups, she watched the photographer arrange the football players into increasingly ridiculous configurations. Players pretending to tackle each other. Players pointing at the scoreboard. Players arranged in a V-formation that made no tactical sense whatsoever.
If her eyes kept drifting to number seven, to the way he moved with effortless grace, to the stunning smile that transformed his face when Wyatt fumbled a pose? Well, she was a photographer. Noticing details was her job.
“Okay, I want the quarterback throwing a pass to number eighty-seven.” The photographer consulted his clipboard. “Let’s get some real action.”
Charlie took his position, ball in hand. Booker jogged downfield.
“And . . . action!”
Charlie released a perfect spiral. Booker caught it, tucking the ball against his chest.
“Wait.” The word escaped before Skylar could stop it.
The photographer lowered his camera. “Excuse me?”
Heat crept up her neck. Every eye on the field had turned to her. “The formation’s wrong. If the quarterback is throwing to eighty-seven on a crossing route, the offensive line wouldn’t be positioned like that. The left tackle is too far back.”
Silence.
Charlie turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.
“I mean . . .” Her voice faltered. “If you want it to look authentic.”
The photographer’s mouth thinned. “And you know this because?”
“She’s right.” Charlie cut through the tension. “Mitchell, move up two steps. Booker, angle your route toward the sideline.”
The players shifted. The photographer, annoyed but unwilling to argue with the star quarterback, raised his camera. “Fine. From the top.”
When the shot was finished, Charlie jogged past her, pausing to run on the spot. “Didn’t know you studied football.”
“My ex-boyfriend plays.” She kept her eyes on the field. “I watched enough games to know what a crossing route looks like.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but the photographer shouted new directions. Charlie jogged away, his jersey stretching across his back with each stride.
“Last setup.” The photographer placed his hands on his hips. “I need one of the cheerleaders to be lifted by two of the football players.”
Chloe stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”
The photographer eyed her up and down. “No, too short. I need…” His gaze swept over the girls and landed on Skylar. “You. The tall one. Stand over there with those boys.”
Skylar bit the inside of her cheek as she walked over to Grant and Charlie. She stopped between them, facing the camera, acutely aware of the heat of Charlie at her back.
Then his hands found her waist.
A jolt shot through her. Warm palms pressed against the thin fabric of the uniform, fingers splayed across her ribcage. Her breath caught. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to migrate to those two points of contact.
“Relax.” His breath ghosted across the back of her neck. “I’ve got you.”
She swallowed against the pulse hammering in her throat. “I don’t need—”
“Three, two, one, up!”
Her feet left the ground. Charlie and Grant lifted her between them, their hands steady on her waist and thighs. Instinct took over. She raised her arms, pointed her toes, held the pose she’d learned in her tiny hometown gym a lifetime ago.
But her mind wasn’t in Ironwood. Her whole body had narrowed to the places they touched her.
Grant’s grip was steady, impersonal, a teammate doing his job.
Charlie’s hands were something else entirely.
His thumb had found the bare sliver of skin between her skirt and top, and whether by accident or design, that small touch burned like a brand.
“Perfect! Hold it!”
The camera clicked. She stared straight ahead, willing her face to stay neutral, praying no one could hear the thunder of her heartbeat.
“Beautiful! Bring her down, and let’s get some pairs shots. Quarterback and cheerleader, center frame.”
They lowered her slowly. Charlie’s hands slid from her waist to her hips, guiding her descent, and when her feet finally touched the ground, he didn’t let go. His palms lingered at the curve of her waist, steadying her.
“Okay?” His breath was warm against her ear.
Skylar stepped back, putting six inches of autumn air between them. Not nearly enough. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her, phantom warmth spreading across her ribs like spilled honey.
The photographer positioned them side by side. Charlie’s arm around her shoulders, heavy and sure. Her hand on his chest, fingers splayed across the Thorndale logo. Beneath her palm, his heart beat steady and strong.
“Closer. I want chemistry, people.”
He pulled her against his side until her hip pressed into his, until she could feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
He leaned down, his mouth so close to her ear that his lips nearly brushed the shell of it. “Just pretend you like me.”
A shiver raced down her spine. She masked it with a scowl. “That’s a stretch.”
“You wound me.”
The camera clicked.
“You’ll survive.”
His laugh vibrated under her fingers and she smiled in spite of herself. When the clicking paused, she risked a glance at him and found his blue eyes pinned on her.
“Good. Let’s try something different.” The photographer circled them like a shark. “Quarterback, lift her onto your back. Piggyback style.”
Charlie crouched. Skylar hesitated for only a moment before climbing on, her thighs gripping his sides, her arms looping around his neck. He straightened easily, bouncing her once to settle her weight, and the movement pressed her chest against his back.
Every muscle shift registered against her body. The flex of his shoulders. The coiled strength in his core. He smelled like grass and sunlight and warm skin and she wanted to press her nose into the curve of his neck and breathe deep.
Next, the camera clicked as the photographer had Charlie lifting her by the waist while she extended her arms then catching her mid-jump, her body sliding down his until their faces were level.
His eyes were very blue this close up. Darker at the edges, lighter near the pupil, with flecks of gold she’d never noticed before. His lips were parted and his breath fanned her mouth. By the time her feet touched the ground, heat flooded her cheeks and her hands trembled.
“Next position.” The photographer’s shout shattered the moment. “Quarterback holding cheerleader. I want her cradled against his chest, both of you looking at the camera.”
Before she could brace herself, Charlie scooped her up. One arm behind her back, one beneath her knees, lifting her against his chest like she belonged there.
This time, Skylar didn’t stiffen or even try to hold herself apart from him. She let her body melt into his.
Her head found the hollow of his shoulder. Her arm draped across his chest, palm flat against his heart. The rhythm of his pulse beat steady beneath her fingers. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. Without meaning to, she matched her breathing to his.
His arms held her like she weighed nothing, like he could carry her across campus, across the state, across the country and never tire. The material of his jersey was soft against her cheek and she had the irrational urge to close her eyes and stay exactly here.
Safe. That’s what this felt like. Being held by Charlie Carnell felt safe.
The realization terrified her.
“Beautiful.” The photographer lowered his camera. “That’s a wrap. Great work, everyone.”
Charlie set her down slowly, his hands trailing from her back to her waist to her hips, fingertips dragging across the fabric of her uniform like he was memorizing the shape of her. When he finally let go, the absence of his warmth hit her like a cold wind.
She took a step back. Then another. Put distance between her body and his and the terrifying truth of what she’d just discovered.
“Thanks.” The corner of his lip curled. “For stepping in.”
“Thank Poppy’s digestive system.”
He huffed a laugh, but his eyes stayed serious, searching her face.
Grant appeared at Charlie’s shoulder. “Everyone’s grabbing drinks at The Barrel. You should come.”
Charlie’s gaze stayed fixed on her. “I have homework,” she said.
“Even more reason.” Seb jogged over, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, new girl. One drink. Hazard pay for putting up with Charlie’s face all afternoon.”
“Hey.” Charlie pressed a hand to his chest. The serious lines of his face vanished and jovial Charlie came to life.
Skylar looked at the group assembling around her. She should go home, shower off the sweat and hairspray. Call Grams back and figure out how to help with the money situation.
But the afternoon sun was warm on her face, and for the first time in weeks she didn’t feel like she was drowning. She could afford to hang on to that a little longer, couldn’t she?
“One drink.”
Seb whooped. Grant nodded his approval. And Charlie’s lips curled, slow and genuine, like she’d given him an unexpected present.