8. Levi
Simply telling Dover that we need to talk is not going to be enough.
I am fully aware of this fact, yet despite my better judgment, I went ahead and sent that exact message to him via text about twenty minutes ago.
Since then, there has been no response from him—not even an indication that he has read the message.
The read receipt remains stubbornly absent, and my anxiety grows with each passing minute.
I know for certain that he is still somewhere in the building.
In fact, a large number of the team are still present, many of them having families here tonight.
Given these circumstances, I quickly make the decision to head over to the family suite, reasoning that it is the most likely place to find Dover among the crowd.
However, I am painfully aware that I am not as fast on my feet as I used to be.
Ever since I was shot, my ability to walk swiftly has been compromised, and this lingering injury continues to be a source of frustration and resentment for me.
Despite this, I push myself to cover the distance as quickly as I can, ignoring the ache in my side and focusing on my determination to reach Dover.
The hallways are crowded, filled with people moving in and out, but I weave my way through them with as much speed as I can muster.
Finally, I arrive at the entrance to the family suite and find myself lingering at the edge of a bustling group of people.
I stand on the periphery, scanning the faces in the room, searching for any sign of Dover among the sea of bodies, my heart pounding with anticipation and unease.
Like a homing beacon, my gaze instinctively seeks out and settles on the man I have come here to speak with, cutting through the crowd with unwavering focus.
The moment I spot him, a surge of anticipation runs through me, but it is quickly replaced by a sharp edge of irritation as I notice who he is conversing with.
My eyes narrow and my expression hardens when I realize that standing beside him is none other than Graham Fletcher—the same arrogant jerk who set Dover up the previous night.
What the hell is he doing here, of all places, and why is he talking to the very person I need to see?
Taking a deep breath and struggling to regain some semblance of control over the tense situation, I cautiously edge my way along the perimeter of the room.
My movements are deliberate and measured, each step calculated to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.
As I approach from behind, I can see Dover standing a short distance ahead.
Before I can reach him, Graham’s eyes flicker in my direction.
He notices me first, his brow furrowing in confusion as he tries to place my face.
There is a moment of silent recognition—or perhaps just uncertainty—before Dover finally turns around.
Upon seeing me, he exhales heavily, a weary sigh escaping his lips that seems to carry the weight of resignation.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I shake my head. “Not here.”
Without another word, I reach out and firmly take hold of his elbow, guiding him out of the room with a determined grip.
He follows me without resistance, not uttering a single protest. However, once we step beyond the threshold and into the hallway, the situation changes dramatically.
He suddenly stops in his tracks, planting his feet stubbornly on the ground, and forcefully yanks his arm out of my grasp.
His eyes flash with confusion and irritation as he demands, “What the hell has gotten into you?”
I whirl around to face him, my frustration bubbling over. “Me!” I exclaim, my voice rising in disbelief. “You’re the one making a complete fool of yourself with that asshole.” I can hardly keep the anger out of my tone as I glare at him, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.
He narrows his eyes, suspicion written all over his face. “You’re jealous,” he accuses, his voice low and challenging, as if daring me to deny it.
My mouth tightens into a thin, hard line as I struggle to keep my composure.
“That asshole,” I spit out between gritted teeth, barely able to contain my fury, “is the one who set you up with the photographer last night.” I take a shaky breath, my anger mounting with every word.
“His friend is the one who took, and then posted online, the compromising pictures of you and him. One of which, you have your hand on his dick,” I snarl, my voice trembling with outrage.
My face flushes with heat, and I’m certain that if it were possible, steam would be pouring out of my ears at this point.
“Are you sure? I mean, he’s Gemma’s friend.” Dover shakes his head.
“Yes. I’m sure,” I say calmly. “Rosie tracked it all down.”
“I’m not interested in him, Levi,” Dover admits, his voice barely above a whisper, betraying a vulnerability he rarely shows.
“He was a distraction, and not even a good one. Honestly, he barely held my attention. He was the one who came up to me, not the other way around. It was Gemma who invited him to the game, not me.”
Despite my best efforts to remain composed, a wave of relief crashes over me, so intense it borders on overwhelming.
Irritated by my own lack of control, I reach out, grabbing Dover by the front of his shirt and pulling him roughly toward me.
My lips find his in a desperate, hungry kiss, pressing against him with a force that leaves no room for doubt.
I shove him back until he’s pinned against the wall, my body pressed tightly to his, ensuring he can’t move away even if he wanted to.
Dover’s hands fly to my hips, his fingers digging in with a possessive urgency that sends a jolt of arousal through me.
The sensation is electric, and I instinctively press myself even closer, feeling his erection growing hard against mine, the friction igniting a fire between us.
Our mouths remain fused, breathing each other in, and his fresh, clean scent fills my senses, making my head spin and stoking my desire even further.
I can’t remember ever being this turned on, this quickly before.
The intensity of my reaction to him is unlike anything I’ve experienced, and it leaves me breathless, desperate for more.
It feels as though a bucket of icy cold water has been dumped over me, shocking me out of the moment.
Instinctively, I jerk back, putting sudden distance between us, and my gaze locks with Levi’s.
In his eyes, I can see the shift—the raw lust that was there only seconds ago begins to fade, replaced by a dawning confusion that mirrors my own swirling emotions.
My voice comes out low and tense as I admit, “I shouldn’t have done that. ”
Dover, however, doesn’t seem ready to let the moment go.
“In the hallway or in general?” He steps closer, invading my personal space with a confidence that both irritates and unsettles me.
His hand brushes deliberately over the front of my pants, lingering on the obvious evidence of my arousal, which refuses to subside despite my conflicted feelings.
The sensation is almost unbearable, and I’m painfully aware that I’m still so hard I could probably drive nails into wood.
Frustration boils over, and I react without thinking.
I shove him away from me, putting a firm barrier between us.
“In general,” I snap, my voice sharp with frustration and embarrassment.
Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and stride away, desperate to put space between myself and the confusing, electric tension that still hangs in the air.