Page 61 of On the Breakaway

I’m still just a man. And now I’m picturing her in those black lace panties in the middle of my locker room like a complete masochist.

I shove my phone back into my pocket as if it burned me.

She’s either flirting with me or fucking with me, but either way, there’s zero chance that I am staying home tonight.

13

Avery

The locker room is buzzing when I stand up from the bench in front of my stall to put the finishing touches on my makeup, music thumping from someone’s speaker near the showers.

We won.

St. Louis ran their mouths all week in interviews as if they’d already written the outcome. Then, they lost 2–0 after Becca and I buried shots from outside the eighteen.

Now, with our coaches gone and more than half the team heading home to families or actual responsibilities, the rest of us have turned the locker room into a makeshift dressing room before the bar.

Haley is in front of the mirror, straightening her hair, while Becca rifles through her makeup bag looking for her eyeliner. Wesley’s scrolling on her phone, already dressed and probably texting Nathan.

Haley grins at me through the mirror. “My favorite part of tonight was watching you destroy their defense in the second half.”

I laugh while putting on highlighter. “That left defender was grabbing my shorts constantly, and she never got called for it.”

Tonight’s game was exactly what I needed. It was aggressive enough that adrenaline is still humming through my bloodstream. It’s the kind of win that makes me feel untouchable for a few hours, which is exactly what I need to get through tonight.

I pack up my makeup bag, content with the results.

Most people think female athletes live in messy buns and sweats, and they’re not wrong, but I love the ritual of getting dressed up. Makeup and hair can turn my exhaustion into something brand new.

Tonight, I need the final result to be sex in heels.

“Please tell me somebody’s seen my black heels,” I say, digging through my bag again.

“Nope,” Becca says without looking up.

“You left them in the car,” Wesley chimes in, still scrolling.

Somehow, Wesley always knows everything, and I love her for it.

I lean back against the locker, trying not to acknowledge the nerves tightening in my stomach. It’s ridiculous. I’m twenty-five. I flirt all the time. There is no reason for me to be internally combusting over a text I sent Grayson Shaw.

Except I am.

I still don’t know what the hell came over me.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I know exactly what came over me.

Because it started after I woke up in his apartment and found him in the kitchen, shirtless with glasses on, cooking breakfast as if my being there was normal.

Now, after several days of trying very hard not to think about him at all, I’ve circled back to one inconvenient conclusion.

We need to have sex. For strategic purposes only, of course. Because at this point, I’m becoming way too easy to turn on.

A guy smiled at me while holding a door open yesterday, and I almost climbed him like a tree. Last night, I got distracted watching a deodorant commercial because the actor had good forearms. And unfortunately for me, both of those men looked far too similar to Grayson.

This situation is becoming unsustainable.