Page 97 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“You may be able to handle it, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by and put up with it.”

I nod my head, acknowledge it, and know it’s a battle I’ll have to fight another day, but right now, I need to look at his shoulder.

“Come on, let me see if you did any damage.” I direct him to the table and start checking out his shoulder. I can’t see his face any longer, but the look that was in his eyes is all I think about.

About how it’s ingrained in me to want to run.

But one thought keeps repeating over and over in my mind.

He tried to slay dragons for me.

The condo is quiet.

There’s traffic in the distance, and the windshields glint from the early morning sun.

The stadium is empty. The grass is groomed in its crazy crisscross pattern that mesmerizes the eyes from this distance, and the dirt of the infield is dragged to perfection.

The coffee is warm in my hands, and the chair I’m sitting on is sink-into-it-and-never-want-to-get-out-of-it comfortable.

Easton, too amped up about getting to hit that groomed dirt later today, for what feels like the first time in forever, is somewhere in this city, jogging mile after mile to ease some of his restlessness.

Everything seems storybook perfect.

But inside I’m a nervous wreck.

Three hours.

That’s all the time I have left before I willingly turn our world upside down. Our quiet nights at home. Our seeing each other every night. The day-to-day routine we’ve somehow established in this relationship that we haven’t admitted is a relationship.

Or maybe we have, and I’m just choosing not to see it for fear of cursing it.

But in three hours, all of that will change.

“Should I be worried about what I’m interrupting?”

Fucking Finn.

“I’m running, you jackass,” I pant.

“Oh,” he laughs. “I was going to say, she must not be that important if you’re stopping to pick up the phone mid-stroke.”

“I love you, man, but there’s no way I’m stopping mid-stroke if my phone rings.” I lean over and brace one hand on the streetlight to try and catch my breath.

“Smart man. It’s D-day . . . how you doing? You good?”

“Dude.” I chuckle as I look around and judge; I’m about five miles from the house. “I’m so amped up, even crossing paths with Santiago couldn’t fuck it up.”

“Well, that says it all.” He laughs, then gets a little more serious. “I know you’re ready, but how’s your arm feeling? Is it still sore from your stunt the other day?”

I roll it out of habit, wait for pain to come, but know it’s not going to. Scout was right when she said I’d be at one hundred percent. Even after throwing a few punches. “I’m ready, Finn. It feels like it’s been for-fucking-ever since I had the crowd at my back. Just get me on the field.”

“That’s Scout’s job to decide for them. Not mine. Are you confident she’s going to tell them you’re good to go? That your arm is able to withstand the pressure?”

Images flash through my mind. The shower. Scout’s soapy hands sliding over my skin, down to my dick. Being tested and taunted. Picking her up and holding her against the wall as I fucked her.

Can it withstand the pressure?

I believe it did about six hours ago.