Page 97 of The Run Back Home

I don't answer.

Instead, I slip my hand under his sweatshirt and into the waistband of his joggers.

"Lenny," he repeats, stronger this time. But still, he doesn't stop me.

I dip my fingers into his briefs, my knuckles grazing that sensitive spot beside his hip that always made him squirm.

Jace's hand flies to my wrist, squeezing it tight, his face a total contradiction. "Lenny," he forces, soft and unconvincing.

I glance up at him. His jaw is tight, eyes dark, chest rising and falling like he's barely holding himself together.

"I didn't wait six years to have you again for you to…" His voice breaks as his eyes wander the room. "For you to touch me for the first time in this disgusting fucking clubhouse."

My brows shoot up. "It is not disgusting in here," I remind him, gesturing to the soft, plush carpet below my knees.

Jace drags a hand down his face and groans, leaning back in the chair. "No," he admits. "Not right this second but like…" He points beside us without looking. "I saw JJ's ass right there like a hundred a times."

I laugh—a full, genuine giggle—until I see his face scrunch with genuine agony.

"I get it," I say gently, my lips still curled.

He blows out a slow breath before leaning forward and kissing me hard. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against my mouth.

I shake my head, brushing my thumb along his cheek. "I'm not," I tell him quietly. "Not about this."

His forehead drops against mine, lingering there for a moment before he exhales and stands, pulling me with him. "Come on," he says, slipping his hand into mine.

I hold it tightly, realizing this might satisfy me more than anything else would have anyway.

"There's still one more thing I want you to see."

Lenny

Fall of Junior Year at Mage Hollow High

Iusually can't stand these bleachers. The metal is always too cold at night, and when I sit forward, the waistband of my jeans and the hem of my shirt never quite meet—creating just enough gap for a constant tug-up-pull-down situation that threatens to drive me completely nuts.

But tonight, I barely notice.

Maybe that's because I'm literally sitting on the edge of my seat. Or because I'm wearing Jace's away jersey over my long-sleeve t-shirt, which hangs sufficiently well below the sliver of skin still exposed on my lower back. But tonight, the only thing I care about is watching the Hollow High Ravens—and my boyfriend—bring home a state championship. Cheering him on. Watching him win. Celebrating just the two of us when the rest of the crowd finally fades away.

The ninth inning's just starting. Mage is up by one. And if the boys can hold Chester High here, three outs from now, we'll have ourselves a trophy.

The Bobcats' first batter walks up to the plate, and like they always do, my eyes dart to Jace. He's already crouching, his fist in his glove, his hips rocking slowly back and forth as he watches his pitcher.

His hat's pulled low, but I can still see that familiar look in his eyes—the one that's a mixture of pure confidence and intense focus. The look that to everyone else says that the Ravens' captain is locked in for his biggest inning yet. But the one that, if you know him like I do, also includes a sprinkle of nerves and a heavy dose of pressure to bring home the win.

Carson Fox delivers the pitch, a sinker or slider—I'm not that good—but it's fast down the middle and snaps right into the catcher's mitt. Jace, as he always does, stands straight up, adjusting his hat higher on his head before wiggling it back into place just above his eyes.

But he won't look over.

He never does.

And he once told me why.

"You're distracting as hell," he said to me, leaning over the console of his car as he dropped me back home after a game in September.

"Sorry?" I asked, giggling as he traced the line of my jaw.