“You’re not allowed to call me that anymore,” I say through clenched teeth. Only people close to me can use my nickname. “Get off of me, Bash.”
He doesn’t bother to move, just holds me tight and continues touching me, sending chills down my spine that leave tiny bumps on my skin.
People hover over us, talking amongst themselves. But all I can focus on is the sound of my heart beating so loud I hear it pounding in my ears. My cheek burns from where the football struck me, and with Bash touching it, my skin is even more sensitive. His fingers are calloused from years of playing football, yet he still has a softness about him as he caresses my face.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” I croak out. “This was a stupid idea.”
He’s infuriating but beautiful. I can’t stop zoning in on his lips. He has nice lips, both full and perfect. Every part of me wants to lean in, kiss him, and shove my fingers through his dark shaggy hair. No boy had ever affected me like Bash. But now he’s all man, no longer a boy. Which is why I need to get away from him. With perfect skin, chiseled features, and toned in all the right places, he has the appearance of a fitness model.
Bash rubs his thumb along my jaw, letting out a sigh of relief. “Why was it a stupid idea to come to the game?”
“Because you’re here,” I deadpan, rolling my eyes at him.
I wiggle free from his grasp, our faces only inches apart as I break away from him. We share a short-lived moment with Bash staring at me as if I’m an actual person. For once. That is, until his eyes find my breasts that are spilling out of this stupid football shirt, and he has the nerve to wink at my chest.
“I see you haven’t changed,” I say, irritated. “Once a pig, always a pig.”
Lean muscles and his scratchy uniform brush against my legs as he moves to reach out for me.
“I’m a pig?” He laughs. “I’m a guy,” he says, defensive. “I can’t help it that you have nice tits.”
“You’re a pig. I think you had it right the first time.” I can’t help but smirk at him because I’ve wanted to say something similar for years. How can I hate and like him all at the same time?
As I sit up, Bash props himself up onto his elbow and reaches for my waist with his other hand. I swat him away before he can touch me. God knows I’d love to have Bash’s hands all over me again, but that ship has sailed. Despite my overwhelming attraction to him, I cannot allow myself to think of him in any way other than my shithead ex boyfriend.
“I always liked the fight in you. I see you haven’t changed.” A fire blazes behind those beautiful green eyes. Why am I even looking at him? Why even give him the time of day? He’s a fucking meathead jerk, plain and simple.
Tiny bumps run down my arms and legs, a result of our close proximity. And, of course, he notices the effect he has on me. He doesn’t skip a beat. Now aware of my body and how it reacts to him, I need an escape.
“Bash, let’s go!” One of his teammates calls out from the field. “Get your ass out here, and stop trying to pick up chicks.”
Laughter echoes around me, reminding me why I hate football and the assholes who play for this team.
“Bash, let me take a look at her, and you get back on the field.” A dark haired man dressed in a Strickland Senators track suit hovers over us with a medical bag slung over his shoulder.
Bash tilts his head up at the middle-aged man and nods. He’s so athletic that when Bash grips the metal of his helmet and jumps up to his feet, he makes it look effortless. “Take good care of her, Doc. This one is special.” Bash says the last part while maintaining eye contact with me and slaps a big hand down on the team doctor’s back.
As Bash stands above me, I’m desperate to stop the electricity pulsating through me. Every part of me aches for him, craves his touch. And every memory of the time we’d spent together floods through me. Even though I would never admit it aloud, I miss it. Miss him. He was such a good kisser. For a short time, he was nice, a good boyfriend, even. Until he changed. Or maybe I changed. I never understood why he did the things he did to me.
With the helmet in his hand, Bash wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, his skin glistening in the sunlight. Eye contact proves to be too much for me. I can’t stand another minute around him. My willpower crumbles, and if we weren’t in a crowded stadium, I would be in trouble. That’s why I do crazy things like drop classes when I know he’s in them. Or change directions when I see him coming toward me on campus. It’s silly and childish, I know. But I have no control over myself when I’m with him.
Bash pushes a hand through his cropped black hair. He could be posing for the cover of Sports Illustrated with the way he’s positioned himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if that becomes a reality for him someday. He’s a good enough running back to play in the NFL. He won the Heisman Trophy last year for Christ’s sake. And he sure as hell has the looks to be on a magazine cover.
Bash smiles at me. “I guess I’ll see at the after party.”
I don’t respond to his comment. He takes my silence as an answer. Just by showing up with Jessica, he already knows I will be there. Before he puts on his helmet, I get one last wink from Bash, and then he walks onto the field.
To say I have trouble catching m
y breath would be an understatement. I was practically holding it the entire time we were together. My chest is so tight it hurts. Combined with the pain in my head and the welt growing on my cheek, I hadn’t even noticed all the air Bash was sucking from the space around me.
“I’m Dr. Holland,” the man says, getting down on one knee next to me on the ground. “I need to make sure you don’t have a concussion. You got hit pretty hard with the ball.”
I feel like such an idiot, surrounded by an entire stadium of screaming fans, while the doctor nurses my bruised cheek. I’m always the girl who sings to her own tune, so why would this be any different? Once the game starts back up, no on notices me anymore. All eyes are on the field, as they should be. Thank God.
“I’m sure I’ll be okay.” I press my fingers to my cheek and cry out in pain. It hurts like a bitch. “See, it’s just a bruise. I’m sure it will heal on it’s own. I don’t have a concussion.”
Sitting behind me on the bench, Jessica squeezes my shoulder to let me know she’s still there. She doesn’t say a word as the doctor goes about his business.