Power Play (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 2)

His gaze moves back to mine, and I have to swallow. “Sure.”

“Okay, I’ll continue working on what you’re asking for,” he says then, and heat rolls over us like a tide.

“That’s all I can ask.”

He runs his tongue along his lips, and my heart flutters in my chest. Am I hard on him because I want him? Is this one of those playground things, where if you’re mean to the opposite sex, it means you like them? If so, that’s pathetic. But I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t know how to be a normal girl. A flirtatious one who is confident that a guy could want me. I want to reach out, cup his jaw, and tell him that I think he is a fantastic player. That I do care, and please God, take me right here. But I’m sure he wouldn’t want me. How could he when he is so gorgeous, so big, and so strong. Between his scar and his beard, he’s just so damn rugged.

“How did you get that scar?”

Well, damn. Talk about out of left field, Posey.

For the love of God.

Even Boon is taken aback by my question. “What?”

I stumble over my words. “Your scar? You have a scar. How did you get that?”

His lips curve ever so slightly, sending jolts straight to my center. He looks down bashfully. “I got into a fight when I was younger, and this guy sliced my face with a beer bottle.”

I take in a sharp breath. “Why?”

His eyes meet mine once more. “Maybe I’ll tell you the story over some nachos and beer.”

I just blink. “Sorry, what?”

Boon looks away once more. “Man, you’re hard to read.”

His words confuse me. “Huh?”

When his gaze meets mine, he grins. “Have a good day, Coach.”

I watch as he skates toward the locker room, and I really have no clue what just happened here.

But I think he might have been trying to ask me out…

Laughter bubbles at the base of my throat, and I slap my hand over my mouth.

Surely not.

Or did he?

Oh.

Oh my.

Chapter Nine

Boon

The top of my beer rests against my lips as I “watch” the Lakers game. Wes sits beside me, eating a steak. I want to say the game has my attention, but just as they’ve been for the last week or so, my thoughts are solely on Posey. I honestly don’t know what is wrong with me. It’s obvious she doesn’t want a damn thing to do with me, but I want her. Oh fuck, I want her. Bad. When she yells at me, not only does it piss me off, it turns me on like no other. I love how she skates, how she directs plays, and I am obsessed with her lips. They’re basically weapons of torture. She uses her words to slice me up, and all I can think is, damn, wouldn’t it be great to be on the receiving end of those lips?

Our talk this afternoon was much needed. I haven’t felt confident about my play lately, and it’s mostly because no one has ever picked it apart the way she does. After that stint where she blocked every pass I made—which, by the way, if it hadn’t stung my pride, I would have been amazed by her—I needed her to look me in the eyes and tell me it wasn’t personal. I know it’s not. I want it to be, though. I want her to want me. To want me to be better. To see me as more than a player who isn’t doing what she wants. Which I feel is a whole bunch of horseshit—I am doing it, and I’m doing it well; she just wants more.

And I do too—like her, downright naked.

She’s a damn distraction.

I run my lips along the top of my beer as Wes yells at the TV. “That’s a bullshit call, totally charging.”

I nod, even though I have no clue what’s going on. I hadn’t planned on coming out. It’s a Thursday night. I’m tired and I want to sleep, but we have no food and I’m not buying any. Not when we are about to go on a road trip. So free food at Brooks House it is. If I were eating. I’m too busy being lost in my own thoughts.

From across the bar, I hear, “You’re crazy. He was faking.”

I look over the bar to see her. Posey is sitting with another girl, a glass of wine in her hand and a plate of nachos in front of her. She’s wearing the sweats from earlier, all Assassins gear. Her hair is in a high ponytail, while her face is free of makeup. Her eyes settle on me as her lips curve. “You know it’s true.”

Wes scoffs beside me. “Please don’t tell me you’re an expert in basketball too.”

Her face lights up. “What can I say? I love sports.”