Drew proceeds to show me how to hold the ball, placing my fingers on the laces, and my thumb positioned beneath the ball. “Hold it lightly with your fingertips. Finger control is very important.”
“Oh, believe me, bud, I’m a big proponent of finger control,” I say, just this side of saucy. Oh, but it’s a mistake to joke, because I’m remembering those long fingers of his pushing inside of me, curling just so to find that spot that drives me wild.
Sunlight gilds the tips of his long lashes as he blinks down at me. A flush crests his high-cut cheeks. “Stop trying to distract me, Jones. Your cheap seduction tactics won’t work on this hallowed field.” The roughness in his voice tells me otherwise, but I decide to be good.
“Can I throw now?” I fight down a grin. “Or do you have any more deluded fantasies running through your brain?”
“I have tons of fantasies. But you only get to hear them when we have a place to act them out. Now do as you’re told, Miss Jones.”
I submit and place myself in his capable hands as he rattles off instructions—step back this way, hold the ball up by your ear, wind up your arm like so, throw it here, step thusly. I’ll be surprised if I retain half of it.
“Remember,” he says, stepping back to give me space, “let the ball roll off of your fingers. Your power comes from your core and your legs. It’s all about momentum and confidence.”
“Right.” I’m going to mess this up royally.
Drew grins wide. “Yes, the first throw is going to suck.”
“Get out of my head,” I mutter.
He just laughs. “More like reading your expression. Now stop stalling.”
I go through the motions, feeling like an idiot. And the ball wobbles through the air to land with a dull thud some ten feet away. Awesome.
“Welp,” I dust off my hands. “That was fun.”
I turn to go, when he grabs my arm, still laughing. The moron. “Nice try, Anna. But I don’t think so.” He slaps the ball back in my hand. “Again.”
“So bossy.”
“You like it.” His eyes are gold now, glinting in the sun.
Yeah, I do. I grumble and try again. And again, with Drew stopping me every once in a while to give me pointers. Suddenly, it’s fun. Not spectacular fun, but kind of addictive. I say this to Drew, and he positively shines when he smiles down at me.
“Exactly,” he says. “Why do you think I do this? It’s the need do better every time.”
“To do better?” I stare up at him, shocked. “But you’re already perfect.”
His expression turns soft, warm, and he steps close. “You think so, huh?”
I know that tone too. And when his lids lower, his gaze going to my mouth, my heart kicks in my chest. I grip the ball between my hands. “Show me,” I blurt out.
He blinks, his eyes lifting to mine, and a furrow wrinkles between his brows. “What do you mean?”
“Show me how far you can throw the ball.”
One corner of his mouth kicks up. “You want me to show off for you?”
“If I have to ask, it isn’t showing off. But, yeah, I want to see what you can do.”
Drew studies me for a moment, the soft breeze lifting the ends of his hair. Maybe he knows I’m avoiding things, maybe he wonders why. Or maybe he just thinks I’m crazy. As if he’s come to that conclusion, he shakes his head slightly. “Okay, but you’re going to have to snap the ball to me.”
“Snap the ball?” I make a face. “Like bend over...”
His grin is evil. “And I put my hands between your legs. Don’t give me that look. Dex does this for me every game.”
“Is this the point where I launch into a diatribe about the blatant homoeroticism found in football?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. But since we’re talking about me putting my hands on you, I don’t think it applies here.” He leans close to my cheek, and his proximity makes my skin tighten. More so when his deep voice rumbles in my ear. “I promise to let you know the next time the team hits the showers.”