I cannot take my eyes off him when he’s back on the field. I hardly know what’s happening with the other players because I’m watching only him. I wonder why he wanted me here. Why he wanted me to see how he possesses that ball, how strong he is, athletic he is, how fucking hot he looks with that visor. Passing fast, facing off, possessing the ball, time and again, shooting high to high, high to low, shooting into the ground at an angle that bounces in front of the goal and goes in.
The game lasts about two hours. Red wins 20-1, completely squashing their competitors.
The crowd cheers and whistles as their victory is declared. The players shuffle out, but rather than leave, I watch with accumulated nervous energy and excitement as zero-zero heads toward the stands.
He jerks off his sweaty jersey with one gloved fist. His visor tips upward in my direction.
He balls the fabric and in one powerful throw, just like the ones he did on the field, he throws his dirty, sweaty jersey directly onto my lap.
My seat neighbor reaches out to catch it with a thrilled, hungry little gasp.
“Nope,” I tell her, yanking it free from her hands.
I frown when I realize how possessive I sounded but, thankfully, double zero is already striding toward the lockers. Thank god he didn’t see me get territorial.
I can smell the testosterone on his shirt as I head down the stands and into a sheltered hall with exits to the parking lot.
“Hey! You with Roth?”
A guy from the Red team is looking at me questioningly.
I nod.
“Get over here.” He motions me to follow him, then leads me farther down the hall and straight into the men’s locker room.
I follow him, a little bit uncomfortable at all the men in nude and semi-nude states.
“So fucking cold today, you get hit with a metal stick and it hurts like hell,” some guy says.
“Don’t play on off-season then,” another retorts.
“T, swear to god, you’re the only lacrosse player who whips ass and likes baseball too. Real men play lacrosse. Hell, you almost killed someone today. All baseball guys do is stand there and hit the ball.”
Following the voice coming from the second row of lockers, I head down and around the corner. I spot a pair of white custom gloves with Roth embroidered on the wrists on a wood bench. The guy who had been speaking presses ice against a burn on his thigh, and I notice the long, tanned, muscular arms of Tahoe bearing the same burns.
I glance upward, and he’s in a towel, his chest bare.
I try not to notice the damp rivulets trailing down his torso, dipping into the dents between the squares of his abs.
He senses me and turns. Seeing his blue eyes without the visor sends a shock of electricity through me. His face breaks into a smile, and he’s so amped up I can feel his energy.
“My lucky charm,” he drawls.
He lifts me up and twirls me so fast I get dizzy. I hear him chuckle and it makes me laugh, then I punch his shoulder so he’ll put me down.
His eyes darken a little when he lowers me to my feet.
“Always this noisy in the locker room?” I ask, not knowing why I’m whispering.
“That’s the sound of victory.” He takes me in as if he’s thrilled to see me, then he turns back to his locker and pulls out a clean long-sleeved crewneck and shoves his head and arms inside. “It’s dead quiet after a bad game,” he says with a wink.
“Really?”
I glance around. The players are hyped up, slamming doors and slapping each other’s shoulders with good energy all around.
The coach walks in with two other coaches flanking him. One clap from him, and the players fall silent.
“That was good, but keep working on your shit—no more of the streak we were in. Got it?” He scans the players, all nodding happily, then locks his gaze on Tahoe. “Good work, Roth.” Respect and admiration echo in his voice.
“Good work, Coach?” a player yells after him. “We fucking destroyed the other team! Fucking smothered them.” He laughs and comes to slap Tahoe on the back, already dressed and ready to go. “Plus no one got injured.”
He walks away, and once again, I notice the burn mark streaking across the back of Tahoe’s hand.
“No injuries? What’s that?”
“Nothing. That comes with the turf.” He grins and turns around, whips off his towel, bare-ass naked, and eases into his jeans.
I turn away, my cheeks heating to a thousand and one degrees from the sight of the most perfect freaking male butt I’ve ever seen. It’s as tanned as the rest of him, which only confirms this guy sunbathes in the buff.
While I do anything but look at Tahoe, another player walks up to him.
“Twenty to one—that’s demoralizing. Just what my ego needed after our losing streak.” His eyes fall to me in appreciation. “Is this the lady I need to thank for your excellent performance, Roth?” the guy asks.
Tahoe smirks but slams the door of his locker. “Yeah, but you can thank her another day,” he says. His gaze falls on the sweaty jersey I’m holding against my chest. “You caught my jersey.”
It’s just him and me now in the aisle.
“I kind of had no other choice, it was either catch it or let it fall on my lovely face.”
“Ahh, we can’t have that, can we?” He laughs and pokes the tip of my nose with his fingertip.