Page 93 of Gamebreaker

I did. The kitchen. Her legs around my hips. My hand on her zipper. The way we'd both walked away in pain because wanting each other wasn't enough.

The bartender bumped into Harper from behind, and she stumbled forward slightly. I caught her waist to steady her, and the contact sent heat blooming through my entire body. Her free hand landed on my chest, and I felt her breath hitch.

We were too close. Way too close for people who were supposed to be just friends.

Neither of us moved away.

"You look good in that jersey," I said hoarsely. My hands were still on her waist, thumbs brushing against the purple and teal fabric.

"It's Trish's number."

My jaw clenched. "I noticed."

"Jealous?"

"Maybe I don't like seeing you in someone else's number." My hands tightened on her waist.

"What number would you prefer?" Her voice had dropped lower, intimate despite the noise around us.

Mine. My number. My name on your back. You in my bed wearing nothing but that jersey.

"Doesn't matter," I said instead, but my hands tightened on her waist.

"Liar." Her hand was still on my chest, and I wondered if she could feel how hard my heart was pounding. "You have that look again. The one where you're thinking things you won't say out loud."

"Maybe I'm thinking a lot of things."

"Like what?"

Like how three days ago I had you pressed against a counter and it wasn't enough time to memorize the way you taste. Like I can still hear the sound you made when I touched your breast. Like I've been replaying that kiss in my head until I can't focus on anything else.

"Like basketball," I lied.

She laughed, but it was strained. "Right. Basketball. Very believable."

Someone pushed past us, forcing us even closer together. Harper's chest pressed against mine, and I could feel every breath she took. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up.

"We should probably stop standing like this," she said, but she didn't move.

"Probably."

"People are watching."

"Let them watch."

"Cam—" There was a warning in her voice. And want. So much want it made my hands shake.

I forced myself to step back, to drop my hands from her waist, even though it felt like tearing off a piece of myself. The loss of contact was physical. Painful.

Harper wrapped her arms around herself, and I realized she was trembling slightly.

"Want to know what I actually learned tonight?" she asked, her voice not quite steady.

"What?"

"That watching you play is fundamentally unfair to my concentration." She met my eyes. "Every time you touched the ball, every time you moved, I couldn't look away. It's distracting. You're distracting."

"You're one to talk about distracting."