Chapter 16
Jackson
“What kind of scene are we talking about, Coach?” I step out of the closet, brow cocked at Ethan. He’s not the type to want public attention, much less cause a scene. “Public indecency? Breaking and entering? Ordering oat milk instead of whole in your latte?”
“Hilarious,” he grumbles, on his way to the bathroom. “We’re going on a date.”
“A date?” I come to a stop, a black hoodie and black jeans folded over my forearm—not exactly date attire. “With me?” That’ll definitely cause a scene.
“Yes,” he calls out as if it’s nothing, as if I’m not all giddy inside. “Put on some warm clothes.”
Darting back into the closet, I ditch the we-might-fuck-someone-up outfit and yank on a pair of jeans that make my ass look spectacular, along with a fitted gray T-shirt.
I follow Ethan into the bathroom, about to ask where we’re going and what else I should wear, when I nearly choke on my own spit. “What the fuck happened to your face?”
He stands at the mirror, clean-shaven, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, a pinkish scar on his chin—the one I put there.
“I shaved.” He sets down the razor and runs a hand over his smooth skin.
All I can do is stare. He’s even hotter—which I didn’t think was possible—and I’m having a minor cardiac event.
“I can see that. But why?” I reach up to touch his cheek. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re fucking hot, but your beard was like…your thing.”
He shrugs. “It’s been a while since I shaved. Thought it might be more professional.”
My mood drops a little. I almost forgot the whole reason we’re in New York. “Are we going to the arena? Or on an actual date?” Maybe he was joking.
“A date.” He wipes the last traces of shaving cream from his jaw. He hides his smile behind the towel, but the crinkle at the corners of his eyes gives him away. “What do you think about ice skating?”
“I think Aurora is about to be pissed. She’s always wanted to go ice skating in the city.”
“She’s never been skating, and she’s not learning while seven months pregnant.” Our gazes meet in the mirror. “Plus, Reece wants time alone with her.”
“He breaking the bad news to her about possibly going to Charleston?” I grab my travel bag of hair products and start removing bottles.
“He didn’t say.” Ethan watches as I line up my arsenal on the counter—pomade, texturizing spray, sea salt mist, hair clay, styling cream. His eyebrows shoot up. “Jesus. You need all that for your hair?”
“Different products for different styles.” I squeeze a dollop of cream into my palm. “Today, I’m going for ‘GQ model, but still enough of a bad boy to fuck in a bathroom stall.’ Just in case you’re wondering.”
His head tips back in laughter. “You’re unbelievable.”
I work the product through my hair, tousling the strands. “You know what you should do?” I ogle his adorably messy bedhead. “Let me do your hair.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Just a little bit.” I hold my thumb and forefinger close together. “Please? You never do anything with it. You’ve got all this gorgeous, thick hair—imagine the possibilities.” To be completely honest, I just want to touch him.
He hesitates, then sighs. “Fine. But nothing crazy. Whenever I put anything in it, it only gets curlier.”
I hop up onto the counter. “When have I ever done something crazy?”
He steps between my open legs. “You want the list alphabetical or chronological?”
I warm the styling cream between my palms. “You trust me?”
“With my life? Yes. With my hair? I’m not so sure.”
I stifle a chuckle and sink my fingers into his thick, dark waves.
God, it feels amazing—soft, the perfect length to grip during sex.
Fuck, I’m getting hard. Ethan’s right—it doesn’t take much.
I bite my lip, forcing myself to focus on styling rather than the thought of tugging these strands while he’s inside me.
His eyes drift closed, and he lowers his head. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”
My heart stutters. My fingers go still in his hair.
“Robert is dragging his feet on letting you leave,” Ethan continues.
“He should’ve signed the contract by now.
This public date is meant to force his hand, but I want this with you.
Please don’t think I’m only doing this to get you on the team.
I’m doing this because I want to—because I want you with me. ”
My throat tightens, and my chest feels full, like my heart might burst. This man, who rarely shows vulnerability, is standing between my legs, eyes closed, telling me I’m his best friend. He’s making sure I know he wants me and isn’t manipulating me.
While I process his words, I style his dark waves—keeping that rugged, sexy vibe he naturally has.
“There,” I say softly and drop my hands. “You’re perfect.”
He opens his eyes, his intense gaze locked on mine. He doesn’t even glance in the mirror to see what I’ve done. “Are you okay with that? I promise I’ll take you on more dates. I think we all need time together.”
“I’d follow you through hell and back.” I lean in until our lips are almost touching. “A publicity scandal sounds like a much better alternative.” Maybe not to him, but I don’t give a fuck. The media is going to crucify me anyway, no matter what I do.
Then I kiss him. Not the frantic, desperate kisses we’ve shared before, but something slower, deeper. I pour everything I keep hidden into it—how the thought of losing him terrifies me, how he makes me feel safe, how he’s also my best friend.
He grips my thighs and draws me to the edge of the counter, pressing our bodies together.
His newly shaven face feels strange against mine, as if we’re kissing for the first time all over again.
Our tongues intertwine, and I moan into his mouth.
Without thinking, I thread my fingers through his freshly styled hair.
“Fuck,” I curse, breaking the kiss. “So much for all my hard work.”
He glances at his reflection. “I like it. Not bad, baby.”