7. Chapter 8
Dane
We’re done for the day and I'm cutting through the east hallway after film review because it's the fastest route to the parking garage and I'm done with people. My head's still loud with Bowman's voice, Coach's drills, the anonymous text I’ve tried to figure out but can't trace.
I turn the corner and almost walk straight into Mara.
She pulls up short. Her clipboard is pressed to her chest like a shield. Her eyes land on me and go deliberately blank, which means she's not surprised. She was looking for me.
"We need to talk." Her voice is low. Even. She's already in control.
I stop. "Okay."
"Not here." She glances toward the main hall. Then she pushes open the side door to the team laundry room. Empty. Dark except for the exit sign over the far door, casting everything in dull red.
She doesn't wait to see if I follow. She just goes.
I follow.
She sets her clipboard on the nearest table and turns.
Looking at her in work clothes makes me think how I would love to just press against her body.
Black leggings, a fitted quarter-zip the color of steel tight on her waist. Her hair is down, which is rare.
It makes her look younger, sexier and angrier at the same time.
"You know my dad called me twice today," she starts. "The GM stopped me in the hall this morning. And Evan McLeod gave me a look walking to the locker room that told me he's already talking."
I don't say anything.
"All roads lead to you, Dane."
"That's not fair."
"I know it's not fair." Her voice doesn't crack. It just gets quieter, which is worse. "But fair doesn't matter. What matters is that everyone is watching. And every time you step in, every time you show up where you don't have to, you make it worse for me."
"I'm not trying to."
"I know what you're not trying to do." She exhales. "I'm asking you to stop anyway."
I study her face. The set of her jaw. The way she's gripping the edge of the table behind her like she needs something solid.
I know she's not wrong.
And I still can't make myself agree.
"I can keep my distance during team hours," I say. "I can stop stepping in with Evan. I can do all of it." I pause. "But I'm not going to stand here and pretend I don't want to."
"Don't." Her eyes close for one second. Just one. "Don't say it."
"Why not?"
"Because if you say it out loud, I can't unknow it."
The room is very quiet. The exit sign hums. Somewhere above us, a pipe knocks twice.
I take one step toward her. Slow. No pretense.
"I can't stop thinking about you." The words come out flat, like a fact.
Not a performance. "I've tried. I've run the drills, I've done the film work and kept my mouth shut in that locker room.
And I still wake up thinking about your hands on my shoulders in that yoga session.
I still hear your voice when it goes quiet. "
Mara looks at me. She doesn't move.
"You're the coach's daughter," I say. "I know what that means. I know every reason this is a terrible idea."
"Then why are you still talking?"
"Because you came to find me."
"You could've texted," I say. "Could've left a note with Jimmy to call you. Could've had any conversation a hundred different ways that didn't end with us alone in a dark room." I take another step. "You came to find me."
She looks up at me. Five-eight is tall. On me, it's not.
"I came to tell you to stop," she says.
"I know."
"That's all this is."
"Okay."
We're close now. Close enough that I can see the slight catch in her breathing. The faint scent of her. Something clean and soft and completely at odds with the hard edge she wears at work.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"You're going to anyway."
"Do you want me not to?"
The silence that follows isn't hesitation. It's a war. I can see it in her face. Every careful, controlled, her fighting the part that's been doing the same math I have for three weeks and keeps getting the same answer.
"No," she says finally.
It costs her something. I can hear it. I don't waste it.
I raise one hand and brush the back of my fingers along her jaw. Giving her every chance to pull back. She doesn't. Her eyes stay on mine and her chin tips up, just slightly, like she's leaning into it without meaning to.
"Can I?"
"Yes."
I kiss her.
Slow at first. My hand cups her face, and it's barely anything, just the press of my mouth against hers, careful and deliberate. She doesn't move for one beat. Two. Then her hands come up and grip the front of my shirt and the careful part ends.
She kisses me back like she's been holding it in for weeks. Like the controlled, professional, composed version of Mara Ellison has been standing guard at a door and just finally stopped.
My hands find her waist. Her hips. The small of her back. She doesn't resist a single inch of it. Her fingers curl into my shirt and pull.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are slightly parted. When she opens her eyes, there's an unguarded second before the composure starts to reassemble in real time. In that second I see exactly how long she's been holding this back.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Don't stop." Her voice is rough. It destroys me.
I kiss her neck. The curve just below her jaw. She tilts her head and makes a small, quiet sound that I feel in my chest like a kick.
My hands move. Watching her face for anything that says no. I slide a hand under the hem of her quarter-zip and find warm skin. She pulls in a breath. Doesn't stop me.
Her hands move too. Under my shirt, across my ribs, tracing ink she hasn't seen yet. It's exploratory and urgent at the same time, both of us trying to get our hands on as much as possible while some quiet, responsible part of both our brains is still ticking down a clock.
She pulls back when that clock hits zero.
Her forehead drops to my collarbone. Both of us breathing too hard for how quiet it is.
"We can't," she says.
"I know."
"This is already." She stops. Starts again. "If anyone saw us come in here."
"I know, Mara."
She lifts her head. Her hair is messed up. Her lip gloss is gone. She looks like something real instead of someone holding everything together, and it might be the best I've ever seen her.
"This changes things," she says.
"Yeah."
"You understand that? It changes everything here. My dad. My job. The whole thing."
"I understand." I don't move back. I keep my hands on her waist and look at her straight. "I'm not pretending that didn't happen. I'm not going to act like it didn't."
Her jaw sets. But she doesn't tell me to pretend.
She picks up her clipboard from the table. Smooths her hair back with one hand. The composed version reassembles in real time, and I watch it happen, and I want to take it apart again. Ten minutes that just changed everything.
"You need to leave first," she says. "Go a different direction."
I nod.
She walks toward the door. I'm already moving towards it and plan to go back toward the locker room. I reach for the handle.
I step out first and stop.
A shape.
At the far end of the main corridor..
A silhouette.
Big. Familiar. Standing completely still.
I know the posture before we can make out the face.
Coach Ellison.
His shadow fills the doorway at the end of the hall.