Chapter 11
ELEVEN
DALLAS
The night before a game is always spent the same way for Coach King’s team. We’re required to all eat dinner together, no matter what and no excuses.
It’s been a few days since my last tutoring session with Haven, which ended with me overstepping and her practically jumping out of my truck and going home.
But tonight, after I finish this football dinner at The Lookout, I’m headed to her place for another session.
I asked her if she wanted to meet yesterday, but she said she was busy.
Busy I think meant … leave me the fuck alone. Lucky for me, I was given a new assignment today, and when I sent her a picture of it, she must have felt bad enough to agree to meet up.
I keep telling myself it’s strictly about getting my grades up, but the truth is, I enjoy being around her. Growing up, it was hardly ever just the two of us. I kind of like it this way, even though I’m not ever going to admit that out loud.
“All right, motherfuckers!” one of my teammates, Reed, calls out, cupping his hands over his mouth to get everyone’s attention. “It’s time for us to take our picture for Coach. So stand the fuck together so we can get this shit done.”
Coach King doesn’t just make us get together—he makes us prove that we were together too. He’s big on team bonding, wanting us all to be a unit. Which, for the most part, we are.
But Tabor is a fucking creep, and to be honest, I wish he wasn’t on my team.
We all bunch together, and Reed holds his phone out in front of him.
“All right, smile, assholes!” he calls out, snapping the picture before looking at it. “That’ll do,” he says proudly. “Sent.”
As we all part ways, I find myself toe to toe with none other than Tabor himself. I start to brush past him, but he moves the same way I do.
“I heard you’ve been spending time alone with my girl,” he says, keeping his voice low and his eyes narrowed. “Be wise if you cut the shit now, Rivers.”
My head rears back, and I almost choke out a laugh. Tabor may be a strong guy, but he’s a trust-fund kid who I’m sure doesn’t have a clue how to fight. He’s probably never had to.
I step closer, my eyes burning into his.
“What was that, Timmons?” I growl, unsure if I even heard him right.
He pushes against me. “Stay the fuck away from Haven,” he threatens sharply. “I don’t give a fuck if your parents are friends. I see you. Moving in on her.” His breathing deepens. “She’s mine, motherfucker. And she always will be.”
“Last I knew, she kicked you to the curb, brother,” I say through gritted teeth.
“And you’re right. Our parents are friends, and that makes her family.
” This time, it’s me pushing harder into him—knowing most of the team is now watching.
“See what happens if you fuck with my family, Timmons. I fucking dare you.”
“That’s enough.” Evan, one of our defensive tackles, pushes us apart. “King wants a harmonious team dinner.” He looks from me to Tabor. “Not whatever the fuck you two have going on.”
“I was just leaving anyway,” I utter, keeping my eyes fixated on Tabor’s before stepping further back and turning away.
I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into him, but I know one thing—I need to keep him the hell away from Haven. And I have to do it without her knowing, because the last thing I want is for her to be scared.
I sit and wait for Haven to get home, swinging lightly on the porch swing, knowing her practice probably ran late. I came a few minutes early anyway, but I had to get the fuck out of the team dinner and away from Tabor.
The last thing I want to do is freak Haven out when it comes to the dude.
At the end of the day, I’m sure he’s harmless and just got his feelings hurt by a woman who is for fucking sure out of his league.
But there’s something about the way he said what he did that rubs me the wrong way, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
Peeling in on two wheels, her Jeep comes to a stop in the driveway, and she practically leaps out. “Sorry I’m late! Practice ran a little over,” she says frantically, slamming the car door. “I just need to shower super quick and then we can start.”
The last thing I should be thinking about is her in the shower, yet here I am, imagining her running her own soapy hands over her perfect tits. My dick twitches, and I’m thankful that my laptop and books are sitting in my lap because my gray sweatpants are too fucking revealing.
When she reaches the top of the steps, my eyes fall to her softball pants and the front of her shirt, causing a smirk to tug at my lips.
“Still love to dive for the ball, I see,” I tease, looking her up and down, amused because for as long as I’ve known her, that’s been something she loves to do. Dive for the ball and cover herself in dirt.
Stopping, she looks down and nods. “Yeah, but I miss the days when my mom would scrub the stains out for me. Now I understand why she’d bitch about it as much as she did.” She takes a step forward, nodding her head toward the house. “Come on, QB.”
Standing up from the swing, I follow inside the house, quickly feeling how much warmer it is than The Tower and how different it smells. This place is enveloped in vanilla and sugar. The Tower reeks like … male athletes.
Dropping her keys onto the counter, she heads toward the hallway. “Make yourself comfortable and get your work out. I’m going to hop in the shower, but I’ll be right back,” she calls out, and it’s obvious she’s fighting a yawn with the last few words.
I’m sure she’s tired after having class and practice today. After all, that’s why she gave up tutoring to begin with. She was too busy for it. Now, she’s stuck doing it again.
I take a seat on the couch and remove my laptop from the case. Even down the hallway, I hear the shower turn on, and I have to fight the thoughts of imagining her naked from overtaking my brain. It’s not because I’m obsessed with her or anything. No, definitely not.
She’s just hot. And I’m a guy.
That’s all it is.
And now I’m staring down at my assignment, hoping it’ll force me to stop thinking about the soapy titties …
When she returns to the living room, her wet hair is combed back, and she’s in a baggie crewneck and oversized sweatpants.
I’ve seen every version of her over the years.
The one in the crop top and too much makeup.
The girl in the poofy dress when her mom talked her into doing a pageant when she was thirteen.
Homecoming, when she wore the form-fitting black dress and every motherfucker stopped and stared at her ass.
Countless softball uniforms, a skimpy bikini, and everything in between.
But for some reason, her like this—completely stripped down and raw at the end of the day—is my favorite.
And fuck no, I’m never telling her that.
“All right, let’s get crackin’,” she says, fighting back another yawn. “We have to power through this so that you can go home and get plenty of rest.” She grins, holding her phone up, showing me a message her dad sent. “Per your coach’s request.”
“You sure you don’t mind?” I ask. “You seem tired.”
She lifts a brow. “Is that your way of telling me I look like shit, QB?”
My eyes stall on her face for a moment. She’s free of makeup, scrubbed clean and bare, and yet I can’t even lie—she’s breathtaking. Her green eyes cut into me like daggers, and her pouty lips are a deep pink, like always. She’s beautiful, but fuck no, I’m not going to say that to her.
“Pretty much,” I finally deadpan, knowing damn well that’s the furthest thing from reality.
But this is what we do. We make fun of each other.
I can’t tell her the truth. That I love the way her hair looks when its wet.
Or that when she wears those oversized clothes, I always pretend that she’s wearing my clothes, and for whatever fucked-up reason, that does things for me.
“Yeah, well, you look like shit too,” she sasses back, her mouth making the pouty shape it does sometimes.
Quickly, I tear my eyes from her and look at my screen as she sinks down on the other side of the couch. She smells like coconut, and I wonder if it’s the shampoo she used. Either way, it’s distracting as hell and has my mouth watering.
And now I see why Tabor was smelling her like a weirdo …
It only makes matters worse when she scoots closer, getting a better look at my screen as I have the assignment pulled up.
“All right, show me what we’re working with,” she says, and I’m so fucking aware of how close she is to me.
It doesn’t matter that we’ve been closer than this countless times, because now—it’s just us.
We aren’t at a family get together or hanging out with her brother.
It’s just me and her in this quiet house.
And I don’t know where the hell everyone else is who lives here, but I sort of wish they’d pop out of the woodwork because I don’t trust myself alone with her.
While she dives into explaining everything in simpler terms, I realize that there’s not a single bit of judgment in her voice.
She isn’t talking to me like I’m an idiot, and there’s not an ounce of mockery.
She’s here right now because she enjoys helping others, and I’ve never really felt like that with most teachers.
Besides Mrs. Whitaker. She was one of the few who spoke to me like I wasn’t just the poor kid who had shitty parents and was too dumb to learn. She talked to me like she wanted to help, and it mattered to her that I understood what she was teaching. Just the way Haven does right now. I can feel it.
I tear myself from my thoughts, and after listening to her for a few more minutes, she reads a few passages from the book before she yawns.
“Okay, now it’s your turn. Take what I just read, look at these questions, and form a response.
” She scootches away from me, and thank God because I couldn’t have typed with her being that close.
Her coconut scent is fucking up my brain cells, making typing harder than it already is.
She lays her head down on the armrest of the couch and curls her feet up between us.
“Take your time. Let me know when you’re finished and I’ll look it over. ” She pauses. “Hey, D?”
When I glance over at her, she smiles.
“Relax. This isn’t jail, and you’re going to do great.”
Sighing, I look toward the screen and read the questions. Or try to. For the first minute or so, my heart’s still pounding from her smiling at me like that. But then, I do my best to answer and take my time. Even though rushing is what comes naturally, making her proud might just be better.
By the time I’m done and open my mouth to say her name, I realize how quiet she’s been, and when I look over at her, she’s sound asleep beside me.
Her hands are curled up under her head, and the way her neck is positioned on the couch, she can’t be comfortable, though that doesn’t stop her from snoring lightly.
The sound sends a warm sensation that spreads across my chest.
Even though I know I shouldn’t, for a moment, I just watch her. Wondering what to do while also wishing I could curl up with her. That would be fucking weird though. And so wrong.
I decide to send my work to her e-mail so that tomorrow, she can look it over and no doubt nicely tell me to fix it because I’m sure I messed it up, seeing as I was left to my own devices and didn’t have her to hold my hand through it.
Once I’ve hit send, I close my laptop and gather up my things, setting them down onto the coffee table.
I look over at her and once again sigh. After all she’s done to help me, I can’t let her sleep like this.
And I knew from the moment she walked in tonight, she was tired.
Still, she pushed through to do this session.
I need to get her to her bed—which means I’m going to need to pick her up. Picking her up includes us being way too close to each other, but I can’t leave her on this couch, all scrunched up the way she is. That wouldn’t be right.
Standing, I lean forward, sliding my arms underneath her before I lift and bring her to my chest. Just as I start toward the hallway, the door swings open, and Isla and Hendrix walk in. The second they take in the sight of me carrying her, they both look at each other and smile.
“Shut up, Hunt,” I say to him just as his mouth opens—no doubt a smartass comment coming my way. “She fell asleep, and I don’t want her to bitch at me during our next session about her back. I had no choice.”
As I start up the stairs, I hear him utter, “Whatever you say, brother.” I ignore it, but I’m sure they are speculating on what they think they saw.
I’m only doing this because I feel bad. That’s it.
Her head sits just below my chin, and every breath I take, the smell of coconut overwhelms my mind. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s always smelled so good and clean.
And … delicious.
When I reach her room, her door is wide open, and I walk inside and carefully pull the covers down before I set her onto the mattress.
She doesn’t wake, though she stirs the slightest bit, flipping from her back to her side.
Her damp hair spills over her face, and before I can stop myself—just like with her stupid eyelash—I push the strands away from her face on impulse.
Gently, I pull the covers up, tucking her in, and before I can dart out of the room and leave the house, her eyes open just a crack.
“Oh, shit.” She yawns. “I fell asleep, didn’t I?” she whispers, her voice barely a croak. “I’m sorry.”
My hand starts to reach forward as if to brush her cheek, but just before I touch her soft skin, I stop myself, stuffing both hands into my pockets.
“It’s all good,” I utter. “You were tired, so I emailed my work to you so that you can look it over when you have a minute.” My eyes sweep over her face, not daring to look into her eyes too long because she has a way of casting a spell on me, I swear. “Night, Short.”
“Night, D.” She gives me a small, sleepy smile. And even though her eyes are still open a crack, I back up a few steps before turning and walking downstairs.
Before I do something else to further complicate our situation.