15. Jackson

Isit by the window staring out, clenching my fists to try and stop myself from getting up and pacing. Freya will be here soon. She'll be here, and she'll bring my chart just like she promised she would yesterday, and she'll tell me I can go back to playing — and then this whole nightmare will be behind me.

It's what I have to tell myself, anyway. I have to believe that this month of agony is going to be over any minute now. I don't know what I'll do otherwise.

Maybe staring out the window isn't my best look, though. I'll just back off a little bit. Not too far, so that I can't see when she pulls up in the drive, but just enough so that when she gets out, she doesn't see me watching and waiting for her like I'm insane.

I can't wait for this nightmare to be over.

At least something good came from it, though — I found her. I've only seen her a handful of times since we went to my mother's, and I've missed her. I mean, it's only been about a week, but still, I've become so used to seeing her almost every day that not seeing her for more than two days is weird.

I'm just glad it hasn't been too strained since what happened after my mom's. That's the kind of moment that breaks friendships — an awkward "will we, won't we?" that some people never bounce back from. But we've just carried on, "business as usual," even if nothing has been the same since.

I should have just kissed her the other day. That's the truth.

She clearly wanted it too. It's not just my imagination. She was leaning into it just as much as I was. If she really hadn't wanted me to touch her, she would have pulled away. I can't imagine she's the kind of girl to get peer-pressured into doing anything she doesn't want to.

And if she'd told me to stop, I would have done. I'm not a bad person. I don't want to force anyone into anything. But the way her eyes had half closed, her lips slightly opened, her chin tilted up towards me… How are those signs of anything other than attraction?

If she doesn't want me after all that, she's giving me very mixed messages. Somehow, I don't think I've got my messages mixed at all.

Finally, I spot her car and jump to my feet. But I don't race to the door. I force myself to walk slowly, counting my steps so by the time she knocks, I still have a couple of paces to go before I get there.

"Good morning," she says, waving the paper in front of my face. "Guess what I've got, before you even ask."

"I was going to say hello first, actually," I say with a pout as I let her in.

"Uh-huh. Sure," she says like she doesn't believe me.

I tear open the envelope and scan the results. "I'm cleared for PT? That means I'm better, right? I can go back to playing!"

She folds her arms. "You know nothing about the how this works, do you? You won't be doing anything like playing sports until they think you're better enough."

"How long's it going to take before I can play?" I ask desperately.

She shrugs, her face softening in pity. "I wouldn't bet on it being less than another month."

I groan. "But we're getting towards playoffs by then! I need my arm to be back in action now."

"And I'm telling you, you can't have it," Freya says sternly, nurse mode activating again.

I know I'm acting like a baby by sulking, but in my defense, baseball is my whole life. This is like me telling her that she's not allowed to be a nurse anymore. That she's not allowed to care for other people. It hurts.

Then something occurs to me. "Wait," I say. "You've brought this from work."

"Yes," she says, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"That means you're off for the rest of the day now, right?"

"Technically, yeah. Matt's staying at a friend's tonight, so I'm in no rush, but I do have a lot of chores that I need to catch up on."

"But you have time to stay for dinner?" I ask hopefully.

Freya hesitates for a second, and I think she's going to say no, that all of this is going to be over and I'm going to mean nothing to her for the rest of time, but then she nods. "Okay. What have you got? Impress me and I'll think about it."

"I think my chef left a curry in the fridge. Otherwise I can order pizza. With mozzarella sticks. And fries. And garlic bread."

She stares hard at me for a moment, but then her face cracks into that warm smile I've come to adore. "You had me at curry."

It's at that exact moment that I know I have to be brave and make this the best dinner I've ever served a woman. If I don't impress her with this, then that's going to be the end of our relationship, such as it is. If I don't tell her how I feel, she's going to slip away from me before we even begin to tap into our potential.

"Do you want to watch a movie first?" I ask, all but batting my eyelids at her.

"No," she says, and I do a double take. That was not the answer I was expecting, and especially not said so bluntly. "I don't want to watch any more baseball movies. But if you pull up News Room, I'll watch that with you all day long."

I sigh audibly, slumping in relief. She really had me going then. "All right. Awesome."

We wander into the living room, and I flop onto the sofa, grabbing the remote to flip on the TV so I can open one of the seven thousand streaming services I subscribe to.

Lately, we've been watching this show, News Room, a mockumentary about TV journalists in an office doing their thing and getting caught up in the usual drama of romance and careers and whatever. It's pretty funny, and the episodes aren't very long either, so it's been good whenever she's been in a hurry.

It comes up fast, and I hit play on the next episode. As I settle back into the seat, I try not to notice my heart beating faster at the idea of sitting next to her. Doesn't help that I swear I feel her move towards me a little too, shuffling in as if she's debating whether or not to lean onto me, like she wants to settle into my arms.

I barely manage to concentrate on the show at all because I'm too busy thinking about holding her, about stroking her hair and caressing her body. And then my mind turns down a route I've been trying to avoid; I start imagining pressing my lips to her skin — and then I can't stop, the fantasy turning into slipping my hand under her shirt and feeling her soft belly, then roaming up to her firm breasts, which I've been trying not to notice at all.

I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts that it feels like only a second has passed before the end credits are rolling. I glance down at my smartwatch and blink. "This is an acceptable time to eat now, right?"

"Maybe, if you make it slowly," she says, sticking her tongue out teasingly. I have to look away to stop that thought process going any further.

"How about a glass of wine to entice you?"

"I shouldn't. I'm driving."

"You can always stay in the spare room," I say, then clamp my mouth shut hard. I can't believe I let that slip out. Better, I guess, than saying well, you can always stay in my room, which is what my thought actually was.

She flushes bright red, and I feel like I've made a horrible mistake. "Let's go find that curry," I say quickly, trying to cover my gaffe. Freya nods and follows without a word, her face still flushed.

I'm dying to ask her what's going on in her mind, to put me out of my misery about the way I feel, but, like a good coward, I don't say anything at all.

I grab the curry from the fridge, glad that I wasn't remembering wrong, then dump it unceremoniously into a bowl. Freya watches me closely, hawkishly, like she's afraid I might not know how to reheat my own dinner.

"Get comfy," I say, wanting to get her to look at anything else but me. "Take a seat."

She does, but I can feel her eyes still on me. They make my skin prickle.

The microwave hums, filling in our silence, and when it beeps, I make the mistake of touching the hot bowl with my bare fingers. I grit my teeth to stop myself wincing, then poke it with a fork to stir it. It smells great and it's bubbling, but I throw it back in for another thirty seconds to be sure.

And the whole time I'm "cooking," I stare at the microwave so I don't have to face her.

Finally, I can't avoid it anymore. "Thank you," says Freya as I hand her a bowl.

"My pleasure," I say, then take my seat on the other side of the table. It's like a showdown I don't want to face.

Why does this feel so hard? We've done this a hundred times before. And yet, everything is different now.

"This is really good," she says as she eats.

"I know. Pierre is the best. I'm so lucky to have him."

"I wish I had a personal chef," Freya mutters, and I find myself feeling guilty for reasons I can't quite put into words.

"You should come over more often," I say, trying to be brave.

She scoffs at that. "I come over nearly every day."

"No — I mean not for work."

"Because?" She can clearly hear that there's an end to that sentence and she's urging me on her with her wide eyes and full, kissable lips.

"Because," I say, more grumpily than I mean to, "I like having you here, okay? You're a good friend."

"Friend…" she echoes, and I can't tell if that's disappointment in her voice or not.

"Would you want it to be more?" I ask, deciding that the direct approach is the best one.

"Would you?" she asks back, decisively not answering my question.

Is this her way of letting me down gently?But she deserves my honesty, so I simply say, "Yes."

With that Freya sets her fork down, rounds the table, takes my face in her hands, and kisses me hard.

For a second, I'm too taken aback to react. But then I melt into it, her lips pressing hard against mine, her tongue flicking against me in exploration, her hands warm on my face. Eventually I manage to regain enough of my senses, but when I go to place one of my hands on her waist, she pulls away a little.

"Was that okay?" she asks almost nervously.

"God, yes. I say do it again."

She leans down and presses her lips into mine again, passionate and warm with just a hint of desire. Something starts stirring inside my stomach, a lustful attraction that I've been trying so hard to hold back. But now her lips are on mine and our hands are tangling and roaming, and I don't need to hold back any longer.

"Freya," I whisper into her mouth, dragging my teeth over her lower lip to make her gasp. "I want you. I want you now. I want you so badly it hurts."

"Me too," she whispers back. "I have for a while."

It's tempting to start arguing, to question why she's never acted on these feelings when we've both been wanting this for so long, but I don't. I have more important things to do. Instead, I just lean up to kiss her again, rising to my feet so I can wrap my arms around her properly and pull her into my chest.

Carefully, I run my hands down her back, then wrestle with the hem of her shirt so I can touch her bare skin. She shivers slightly, grinding into me like we're about to start merging into one. My cock is definitely paying attention now, my erection starting to grow in my pants. "Freya," I growl, "let me take you to bed."

I take hold of her hand, threading our fingers together, and as I do, her other hand sneaks down to feel my hard bulge. She draws a deep breath. "You really do want me."

"You have no idea how much."

I don't waste any more time talking. I scoop her up so she can wrap her legs around my waist, and we keep kissing as I carry her to the stairs. "This is so bad for your elbow," she says as we hit the bottom of the staircase.

"Hey, I'm back in commission. I need to try it out."

"You're not that much better yet. At least let me walk up the stairs."

Reluctantly, I put her down, already missing the warmth of her body against mine. We all but run to my room and barely stop for breath before collapsing onto the bed, our hands all over each other, my fingers working at her shirt so I can feel her bare skin.

She moans as my fingertips dance over her stomach, her muscles clenching like she's not quite ticklish but sensitive enough to react. Emboldened, I move higher, pushing her shirt up more so I can cup her breasts through her bra, tracing the lace and imagining what must be underneath.

"Fuck, Jackson, stop teasing," Freya groans as I let my lips press into her skin.

"We're wearing too many clothes for anything else," I protest, and with that she wrestles us back to sitting up so she can tear off my shirt and start unbuttoning my pants. I let her get as far as pushing them down, but then flip us over so she's beneath me, half-naked and panting. "Not so fast. I want to see you first."

I kick off my pants, and when I look back, she's reaching around her back to unclasp her bra, letting her full breasts fall free. All I can do is gasp with want, then bend down to devour her.

She writhes underneath me as I kiss and nip at her skin, my hands and mouth getting to know every inch of her breasts until finally I make my way down to her pants. I pull them from her legs in one smooth move, and just seeing her wetness glistening makes my own hardness ache.

"Freya, you're fucking beautiful," I say, and mean every word.

She blushes and tries to tell me to shut up, but I shake my head, not having it. "I am going to make you feel so good," I whisper, and they're the last words I get out for a while because my tongue is too busy doing other things, making her explode around me.

She makes the cutest noises when she comes.

Her legs tremble through another orgasm, and even though my jaw is starting to ache, I'm not about to move until she's completely satisfied.

Eventually, she pushes on my head, and I come up for air. Her hair is a messy halo around her head, her cheeks pink and dimpled from her smile, her breasts rising and falling with her chest. "You're good at that," she gasps.

"I try my best," I grin.

"Fuck me. Now," she demands, and I can't disobey.

I scramble across the bed to my nightstand so I can rummage in the drawer for a condom. Fortunately, I've got one, and the second I've rolled it on, she grabs me with both hands and flips us over so she's straddling me, her hair dropping down into her face, her smile as wide and lovely as ever.

"Fuck, Freya," is all I can say, my hands coming to her hips to grip her soft skin.

"That's my plan," she grins, then slowly — so slowly it's a delicious kind of agony — she sinks down onto me, her mouth in a perfect "O," our hands twisting together until she can't sink any further.

And then she starts moving her hips, and I start seeing stars.