Page 87 of The Offside Rule
The panic in my chest sharpened. “Like what?”
He looked at me. “Like I touched you.” His voice was low. Rough. “Like I liked it. Like I want to do it again.”
My heart twisted.
“Hunter.”
“I’m serious.” He moved away from me and picked up his jeans from the floor. “This isn’t just awkward, Catherine. If Cole finds out. . .”
“He won’t,” I assured him without having a way of really promising such a thing.
“You don’t know that,” he countered. He was responsible. He thought of repercussions.
“No, but. . .”
“He trusts me.” Hunter’s voice cut through mine, not loud, but firm enough to make me stop. “He trusts me with the team. With his family. With you.”
I swallowed. The air between us changed again.
“I know,” I said quietly.
Hunter stepped into his jeans and pulled them up, but he didn’t button them right away. He just stood there, staring at me like he was trying to figure out how to protect me from something we had both chosen.
“I don’t regret what happened,” he said. The words came fast, like he needed me to know that before fear ruined everything. My chest softened.
“I don’t either.”
“But I need you to understand something.” He came closer, still shirtless, still damp, still devastating, but now all I saw was the worry in his face. “If this blows up, it doesn’t hit me the same way it hits you.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I’m established. I’m the captain. I’ll survive people being pissed at me.” His gaze searched mine. “You’re still buildingyour career. If this gets out the wrong way, people will talk about you first.”
My throat tightened. He was worried about me more than he was worried for himself.
“And I hate that,” he said. Dammit. Was he trying to make me fall in love with him?
My phone buzzed again.
Mom: Come meet us new place The Orchard Table. Farm to table. Right up your alley. Fun!
I read the message once. My mother had no idea she had just invited emotional destruction to a farm-to-table lunch.
Hunter’s phone buzzed.
Holland: I included you in on the reservation. You need a good meal.
He showed me his phone. My chest tightened.
He turned away and reached for a T-shirt. “We need to look normal.”
“That ship has sailed.” I blew out a breath.
“Catherine.”
“What? My hair’s damp. Your hair’s damp. My lips are swollen. I’m not wearing underwear. You look like you just committed a felony.”
“Right, you’re not wearing underwear,” he said with contemplation.
