Page 52 of Scoring Eden

Oh.

“Was I supposed to?”

“Obviously.” He snorts. "How else is everyone going to know that you’re mine if you don’t have my name written on your back?”

I reckon the zoomed-in photo of him eating my face in the press might be a tip-off.

Cocking my hand on my hip, I level him with a glare. “That would have been a good piece of information to have before the fact.”

I’ve never been to a soccer game before, much less as the significant other of one of the players.

Alex flicks a glance over his shoulder to where a group of fans is filming us on their phones, then he reaches over the barrier to take my hand.

Oh, right. I’m supposed to be acting like I’m in love with him.

“I sent one to your place.” His thumb brushes across my wrist. “Didn’t you get it?”

I force a swallow. “I thought it was for Macon. He’s wearing it, if that’s any consolation.”

“It was for you, but that’s my bad. I should have sent two.” He chews his lip in thought, an idea forming behind his drawn brows.

“Oh, well, never mind, there’s always—hey, what the hell are you doing?”

I gape in horror as Alex grabs the hem of his jersey and tears it over his head. He thrusts it toward me, his muscles rippling beneath the tight squeeze of his compression shirt, and I thank God he’s wearing one, because if this situation were occurring without it, I can’t be sure of how I’d react.

I fear his abs pose a grave danger to my sensibilities.

“There.” He grins. “Problem solved.”

My fingers twist into the red fabric, and I bring it to my nose with a suspicious sniff. It smells of him. Dizzyingly so.

“It stinks.”

Of man. And sweat. And pheromones that I guess my body must approve of, because there’s an unmistakable pulse of something between my legs that I’d rather ignore. I can’t wear this for the next ninety-something minutes. It’d be a hazard.

Alex, however, isn’t fazed at all. “Sucks to be you, but I can’t pretend that I don’t enjoy the thought of you covered in me all day.”

Somebody kill me.

He jolts his chin to the shirt in my hands. “Well, what are you waiting for? Put it on.”

My gaze swings around the stadium. Tens of thousands of people staring straight at me—or, at least, it feels that way. The fans Alex spotted before are still filming us, and Brynn and Leo are doing nothing to disguise how they’re staring at us like we’re the best piece of entertainment they’ve had since Brynn’s last unsolicited dick pic.

“You want me to get naked?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t stutter. “But not here. Just put it on over your sweater.”

I guess the decision isn’t mine to make, because he’s picking the jersey back out of my hands and pulling it over my head. I haven’t been dressed this way since I was a child, and I can’t say it’s a great feeling doing it for the first time as an adult in front of such a large audience, but hell, maybe it looks like a cute moment to outsiders, I don’t know.

The potency of his scent is even worse now. So much so that I switch to breathing through my mouth, lest my baser instincts take over and make me behave in a way I’ve only ever done in dreams. It’s a self-preservation tactic that doesn’t work, though, because the moment I feel the fabric brush my skin, I get the strangest urge to hump something. I knot the jersey at my waist, and pray the color of my cheeks doesn't match the shade of the shirt.

“Happy now?” I croak, my throat dry as sandpaper.

“Extremely.” Alex whistles low, motioning me with his finger to turn around so he can get a good look at the number seven now emblazoned across my back.

I risk a glance at him over my shoulder, finding his gaze heated and trained on my ass. It should piss me off.

But it doesn’t.