The Player Next Door

“I’m working this weekend, but I should have some time next week, if you want help.”

Why does Shane’s casual suggestion stir such excitement? “No, I’m good, thanks.”

He gives me a doubtful look. “I’ve been up there before. It’s a pretty big room. With a lot of edges. Are you sure?”

“That inviting you into my bedroom for any reason is a terrible idea? Yeah, I’m sure.”

“I’d be on my best behavior. Scout’s honor.” The devilish smile he flashes and the way he studies my mouth suggest otherwise.

And here we are, flirting again.

“Dad!” Cody calls out, impatient.

“Yeah, yeah.” Shane winds back and launches the football into the air with the same effortless grace he had at seventeen. The ball smoothly lands in the cradle of Cody’s arms. “Yup. Still got it.” Shane caps it off with a playful grin.

I can’t tell if he’s referring to football or his looks. Yes to both, but he doesn’t need his ego stroked. “Eh.” I shrug, feigning indifference.

His jaw drops. “What do you mean, ‘eh’? You saw me play in high school.”

“A few times.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right. You went to all the games. You’d sit up on the right side, near the announcer booth. It was like it was your spot. For years.”

I frown. “You saw me there?” He never told me that. I assumed I didn’t exist to him before that summer we dated.

“Of course, I did. You wore this long, red-and-black sweater that you’d hug around your body like you were cold, even when it was seventy degrees out. I always felt like I should run up there and give you a hug.”

I did always wear that sweater. It was old and ratty, and I loved it. And my fifteen- and sixteen-year-old self would have died from happiness had Shane Beckett run into the stands to even acknowledge me.

“You stopped coming senior year,” he murmurs, more to himself, his brow puckering.

How could I go? I couldn’t be in the stands after that summer, couldn’t handle not existing to him again, couldn’t bear watching Penelope maul him between quarters.

Shane’s staring at me with an odd expression now. Has he finally figured out how far back my wild crush on him went? That the only reason I ever went to the games in the first place was to watch him? I didn’t care if the team won. I wanted him to win.

I offer another nonchalant shrug. “What else was there to do on a Friday night around here?” Besides pine over Shane Beckett. Desperate to change the subject, I nod toward Cody, who is shifting the football from one hand to the other, waiting for his father to stop gabbing with his teacher so they can toss the ball. “How often do you have him?”

Shane follows my gaze. “This week? Tonight and Thursday. Penelope has him for the whole weekend. We try to alternate. It all depends on my schedule, but she usually works with me on that.”

“That’s nice of her,” I offer begrudgingly. If I’m giving Becca and Shane another shot, maybe it’s time I consider wiping the slate clean with her too. Or at least ease up on the satanic name-calling.

“Dad!” Cody whines.

“Just give me another minute, bud! Here, let me carry those up for you.” Shane reaches for the handles, his hands sliding over mine and settling there. The simple move has brought him well within my personal space. I’m acutely aware of the heat radiating off his body as he looms over me, waiting for me to let go—or maybe he’s enjoying the contact as much as I am.

This feels as good as it did when I was seventeen, when he’d weave his fingers through mine.

Scratch that. It feels better.

I make the mistake of looking up, and I get caught in the gold flecks of his irises and fringe of long, dark lashes. It brings me back to so many years ago, to warm summer nights when we’d stand like this and I’d stretch on tiptoes and revel in the softness and skill of his lips. He always was an incredible kisser.

He exhales and his breath skates across my cheek. The urge to find out if his lips feels better now than they did at seventeen overwhelms me. Suddenly, it’s impossible to remember why I won’t allow this—us—to happen again.

“Hey, Dad! You ready?”

Cody.

I snap out of the spell and shake my paint can-laden hands free of Shane’s touch—and free my sensibilities from his magnetic charm. I take a pointed step back. “Seriously, Shane, I can handle this. I don’t need help.”

“Were you always this stubborn?”

“Were you always this desperate for my attention?” I throw back but soften the cutting words with a smile. “Go and play with your son. I can handle carrying a few cans of paint on my own. I’m not one of your damsels in distress.”