“Ten feet.” His eyes plead. “We can run to the corner and back if you like. Come on, Hartley.” He glances to my apartment’s window. “You still have that gym bag I left the other day? You didn’t burn it?”
“Haven’t gotten around to it yet,” I say lightly, but he doesn’t laugh like I want him to.
He’s giving me that look again, the same one from the day we argued at the skating rink and he came after me, and the same one from earlier tonight. Like he needs me to be okay, like he’ll do anything to fix this hurt in my heart.
“Why are you doing this?” I breathe.
“Because you did it for me.” He searches my eyes. “So let’s shake it off together.” He brushes a soft, sweet kiss on my mouth, and my heart lodges in my throat. There’s such careful attention, such protectiveness in that little touch.
My eyes sting, but not for the same reasons as before.
“Okay?” he whispers.
I nod. “Okay.”
He smiles. “That’s my girl.”
Ten minutes later, we hit the pavement. It’s cool out and quiet as the city winds down. We stick to side streets until we reach the seawall. While we run, I replay what my mom said, and what I said.
“Alright, Hartley,” he says after ten minutes of silence. “I’ll make you a bet.”
We’re running along the sidewalk that overlooks English Bay, and the golden streetlights cast shadows on his features.
“A friendly competition,” he adds, and the corners of my mouth kick up.
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I know, and you lost. Badly.”
“Shut up.” I’m smiling, forgetting all the stuff at dinner. Forgetting how I cried in front of him.
“This is your opportunity to even the score.”
The stubborn part of me says don’t take the bait, but my competitive side wants more. “What’s your offer?”
He points at a sign at the end of this stretch of seawall, bordering the beach. “Let’s race to that sign.”
Normally, he’s faster than me. He’s tired from training today, though. I might be able to beat him. “And if I win?”
His smile is smug but his eyes are hot. “I’ll text you something sexy.”
Awareness shoots through me, but I keep the cool mask on my face. “Oh?”
“Yep. Something to keep you warm when I’m away.”
The team is traveling for away games for the next two weeks. A thousand images play through my head, and my pulse beats between my thighs. “And if you win?”
There’s a beat of silence, and I feel like I can’t get enough air as I look up at him.
“I’ll leave that up to you,” he says with a lazy smile. “Whatever you think is fair.”
My heart pounds harder. He basically offered me nudes, so it would only be fair if I sent one back. My stomach flutters at the idea.
“You ever send McKinnon anything?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head, letting out a heavy exhale. “He asked but, um. I never wanted to.”
I never trusted him, I realize. Deep down, I knew something was wrong. Maybe not that he was seeing girls behind my back, but I knew I was an afterthought.
His eyes sharpen, pinning me. “Interesting.”
“Yeah.” I swallow, nerves dancing up and down my spine, sending shivers through me.
What would I even send? I think about the lingerie that keeps showing up at my apartment—the lingerie I keep wearing. He likes softer colors, it seems, because everything is pastels. Pale pinks, blues, lavender, mint green, cream. A light pink lace bodysuit arrived yesterday, and I stood in front of the mirror in it, brushing my fingers over the soft, sheer fabric.
I looked incredibly hot in it, and that’s what I’d wear.
A streak of nervous energy hits me in the stomach at the idea, and when I look up at him, he’s still watching me with a challenging, curious expression. My stomach flops again.
If we do this, one of us is getting a photo. We’re stepping past the territory of pretending. A lot of tonight has felt like that.
His eyebrow arches. “Only if you want, Hartley.”
Something stubborn, competitive, and playful courses through me, and my nerves fade. I want the victory to lord over him, but more, I want to see what he sends me.
Losing is not an option.
“Fine.” I bite my bottom lip, and his eyes follow the motion. “Get ready to have your ass kicked.”
A broad grin stretches across his face, and I mirror it even as a voice in my head asks if I’m a fool for thinking I’ll win.
“Ready?” His legs bend, preparing to sprint, and I match his stance.
“Yep.”
“Go.”
We’re off, sprinting, and even as competition rushes through me, I’m filled with laughter, light, and joy. Our feet hit the pavement fast. Someone moves off the path to give us space.
“Sorry,” I call over my shoulder.
“Yeah, sorry,” Rory adds, laughing.
We’re a hundred feet from the sign. Rory’s a few feet ahead of me, so I dig deep. My legs burn and my lungs sear with the need for more oxygen. I don’t think my blood has ever pumped this hard. I’ve never run this fast. I’m flying. I’m filled with color and light, and when Rory looks back at me over his shoulder with that perfect, handsome smile, I know he’s flying, too.
We’re almost at the sign. Fuck. He’s going to win, and I can’t lose. Not with these stakes. I panic, and with one glance at the sand beside us, I summon all my energy and shove him.
Not my proudest moment. It’s a soft landing, though, so he won’t get hurt.
With a grunt of surprise, he stumbles but doesn’t fall—his stabilizer muscles are too strong—but I take the lead. I run harder and slap a hand on the sign.
When I turn, I see him flop down to seated in the sand, chest rising and falling fast, laughing.
“You dirty little cheater,” he calls, brushing sand off as I loop back to him, heaving for air.
Fuck, that was close. Why did I even agree to that?
Because Rory flicks at something inside me that makes me want to play with him. He knows exactly how to get me going.
I grin at him, still sitting in the sand, and extend a hand, but he pulls me down beside him. I’m filled to the brim with gratitude because this actually made me feel better. Or maybe it’s being with Rory.
We’re both breathing hard still, damp and sweaty, but I smile at him. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t even seen the picture.”
I choke out a laugh as my stomach swoops in anticipation. As we get up and walk home, I think about earlier at dinner, when my mom asked Rory what he was doing for the holidays.
“So,” I start, “about earlier.”
“Which part?”
“The Christmas part.”
He sends a curious glance at me, the corner of his mouth tipping up.
“I know you probably have plans,” I say, fiddling with my fingers.
“I don’t.” His eyes linger on me, bright, interested, and patient, like I’m a flighty bird and he’s gently waiting with his hand out for me to gather the courage to land.
“Right.”