Page 31

I grabbed my phone again. Opened her Instagram. Scrolled back through her posts, looking for I didn't know what. Understanding, maybe. Some explanation for why I couldn't stop thinking about her.

Found a photo from two weeks ago. Harper in a coffee shop, natural light streaming through the window, illuminating her very pretty face in golden light. She was mid-laugh, head thrown back, that dimple in her left cheek visible, her curls catching the light like a halo. The caption was a quote from some TV show I knew just enough pop culture to recognize, except it didn't matter because all I could see was her joy, unguarded and real.

I wanted to make her laugh like that. I wanted to be the reason for that expression, that openness, that light.

The realization hit like a defender I hadn't seen coming, stealing the ball and my breath in one clean motion.

This wasn't just attraction.

This was want. Deep, complicated want that went beyond bodies and into territory I couldn't afford to explore.

I locked my phone, tossed it onto the bench like it had personally offended me. Stood up, headed for the shower, turned the water cold enough to hurt.

Stood under the spray and tried to think about plays, about the next game, about anything other than Harper DuBose and her silver tongue and her laugh and the way she'd felt in my hands.

My brain had other ideas.

The image came unbidden, vivid enough to steal my breath: Harper beneath me in bed, naked, her dark hair spread across my pillow, her eyes heavy-lidded. My hands on her body, learning every curve I'd only felt through clothes. Her mouth open, saying my name—not Captain, not Russo, but Cam—in that voice that cut through every defense I had.

Her hips rising to meet mine, her breath coming faster, her hands in my hair pulling me closer, deeper. That sound she'd made at the clinic, amplified, desperate, needing. Begging me in words so filthy they'd make me blush to hear them out loud, telling me exactly what she wanted, how she wanted it, please Cam please don't stop please fuck me harder.

I put my face in my hands and groaned, water streaming down my back, arousal pooling low in my abdomen despite the cold temperature, despite my best efforts, despite knowing this was wrong.

I felt like a pig. Like the worst kind of person, standing in my shower fantasizing about a woman who barely tolerated me, reducing her to a sexual object in my mind when she deserved so much more than that. Harper was clever and brave and funny and fierce, and here I was, unable to think about her without my body responding like I was some hormone-driven teenager with no self-control.

This couldn't happen. I couldn't let this happen.

I'd spent twelve years building walls, maintaining control, keeping my private life separate from my professional life. I'd ended a relationship with a woman I'd cared about because coming out felt too risky, too dangerous, too likely to cost me everything I'd worked for. I'd chosen fear over love and told myself it was the right decision.

And now my body and mind were betraying me. I couldn't stop thinking about Harper's waist under my hands, couldn't stop imagining what she'd look like in my bed, couldn't stop wanting someone who represented everything I'd been avoiding.

At least I could keep my heart locked up tight. That was still under control, still protected, still safe behind all the defenses I'd spent over a decade constructing. This was just physical. Just my body responding to an attractive woman, to the memory of touch, to the possibility of more.

My heart wasn't involved.

Couldn't be involved.

I wouldn't let it be involved.

I turned off the water, dried off, got dressed in clean clothes that felt wrong against my sensitized skin. Climbed into bed even though it was barely 8:16 PM, pulled the covers up to my chin like that would protect me from my own thoughts.

My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, hiding Harper's Instagram feed and her smile and captions that had made me laugh despite myself.

I rolled onto my side, facing away from it. Closed my eyes. Tried to sleep.

Saw Harper beneath me, arching into my touch, saying my name like a prayer and a demand.

"Fuck," I said to my empty bedroom.

Tomorrow I'd have better control. Tomorrow I'd be able to focus on basketball, on practice, on anything other than the way Harper had felt pressed against me. Tomorrow I'd remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea—our fights, our incompatibility, my career, her openness, the impossibility of it all.

Tomorrow I'd be Captain Russo again. Controlled. Disciplined. Focused.

Tonight, I was just Cam. Wanting a woman I couldn't have, fighting an attraction I didn't want to feel, betrayed by a body that refused to listen to reason.

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, tried to force my brain into submission through sheer willpower.

It didn't work.