Page 107 of Lose You Twice

“It was never strong.”

I bite back a smile, and his gaze drops to my mouth.

Only for a second.

A dangerous one.

The air changes. My fingers tighten around the cart. Somewhere behind him, Coach’s voice cuts through the hallway, calling for postgame media and making half the team groan. The moment breaks before it can become anything else.

Kai exhales, almost a laugh, but there’s frustration in it too. “I have to go.”

“I know.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but must think better of it. “Get home safe.”

I do my best to mask the heavy weight of disappointment that crashes into me. “You too.”

He nods before turning and walking away.

Whatever this is that’s happening between us, it’s getting harder to pretend I don’t already know where it’s going.

16

WREN

Another day, another practice, and this afternoon, with very grumpy men.

“Calloway,” Donnelly barks from near the equipment door, “gray bag for practice socks, blue for game jerseys, not the other way around. Don’t let Cooper touch either.”

Weston, sitting in his stall with his skates half-off, looks offended. “I’m capable of sorting.”

Asher walks by with a towel around his neck. “No, dude, you’re really not.”

I toss a towel into the cart. “For what it’s worth, I also don’t trust you with sorting.”

Weston presses a hand to his chest. “Et tu, Laundry Duchess?”

“Say duchess again, and I’m throwing a towel that was probably used to dry someone else’s ball sack right at your face.”

He straightens and pins me with a glare. “You wouldn’t.”

“With whatever crawled up everyone’s ass today? I so would.” I reach for a pile of towels near the end of the bench, catching Kai in the corner of my eye.

He’s near his stall, still in compression shorts and a base layer, hair damp from the shower, talking to Coach with that locked-in captain face, but the second Coach moves away, Kai’s eyes find mine.

My stomach, the little traitor it is, swoops low and pulls tight. Why can’t I react this way to literally any other guy? Why this one?

A towel lands in the cart beside my hand, and I jump.

Weston appears next to me, now shirtless but at least wearing compression pants, which I’m choosing to count as a professional courtesy.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

“For startling ten years off my life?”

“For helping you.”

I raise a brow at him. “You threw your own towel in the bin.”