5. Cam

CHAPTER 5

CAM

I t’s downright painful being in such close proximity to Sloane, even after all these years. I knew coming back to town would be risky, but I hadn’t counted on this, on her. The two of us being back in Thunder Creek at the same time. And certainly not on us living together.

Sitting at the kitchen table together, pretending to be all nonchalant, is almost impossible when all I want to do is stare into those wide hazel eyes sprinkled with gold flecks. Memorize every angle of this grown-up version of her, the curves and the dips. Touch her smooth skin, run my thumb across her cheek, trace along her bottom lip. Lean in so close I feel the heat radiating from her body just before I press my mouth to hers.

I swallow hard and instead train my eyes on the melted triangle of cheese on the plate to keep me from staring at those full, pink lips and chasing the wild fantasy.

Coach talks about the team and his summer training plan, but I barely catch a word he’s saying—all my attention funnels to his daughter .

Time’s only made her more beautiful, more perfect—but she’s still as off-limits as ever.

Maybe more so, seeing as how I need her dad’s help something fierce.

Besides, I need one-hundred percent of my attention focused on football. No distractions. Not even one as gorgeous as Sloane.

Especially not one as gorgeous as Sloane.

Keep your eye on the ball, Crawford.

“What do you think about that, Cam?” Coach pauses, pizza slice frozen in mid-air as he waits for my response.

Shit. What was he saying?

“You remember the Wild Mustang, right? Three receivers on one side, tight end stuck to the O-line?”

I nod, vaguely recalling the formation.

“Don’t worry, I’ll grab you a playbook after dinner so you can refresh your memory. I’m sure there’s a lot swimming around up there right now.” He taps a finger to his own temple.

There definitely is, and unfortunately, most of it’s not about football.

“Thanks, Coach. Going through the playbook should jog my memory. Last thing I want to do is go out there and mess up your team, get them all confused on plays.”

“Understood. You know, let me get that for you right now. Be right back.” He shoves away from the table, heading out of the kitchen toward his room on the pressing mission.

Leaving me alone with Sloane.

I’m not sure if it’s relief, apprehension, or indigestion flooding my gut—maybe a combo of all three.

“My dad’s really amped that you’re here.” Sloane purses her lips and I can’t quite figure her expression. I’m dying to shoot back, “ What about you?,” but the question feels too bold, too big for the small room.

Instead, I take a long swig of water, trying to calm my nerves. The cool beverage does nothing besides add to the jostling pizza-and-anxiety mix swirling around my stomach. Sloane shifts in her chair, absentmindedly winding a stray lock of hair around her finger, waiting for me to say something, anything.

“Wish I was here under better circumstances.” I cast my eyes down, my chest tight. A familiar feeling now, and I don’t like it one bit.

She leans toward me, into my space, and my heart pumps harder. She smells like summer—coconutty and sweet—and blood rushes south as the scent of her fills my nostrils.

For fuck’s sake, Crawford. Get it together or you’re gonna be blue balling all summer long.

Her small hand wraps around my forearm and squeezes reassuringly. Not helping the dick situation at all, but my chest loosens a touch.

“I’m sure my dad will help get things all straightened out.” Her voice is soft and comforting and I grasp at the words like they’re a life raft and I’m on the damn Titanic post-iceberg collision.

“Here we go.” Coach bustles back into the room and Sloane slides her hand away from my arm so fast there’s a slight breeze. A thick paper booklet hits the table beside my plate and a flood of memories rush back as my eyes trace over the familiar dark blue lettering: Thunder Creek Football.

“You’ve got some homework, son.” Coach thumps the playbook. “Good thing you’ve got all weekend. Tomorrow morning’s conditioning and then we take Sunday off. Come Monday, I’ll expect you to be up to speed.”

“Yessir.” I thumb at the paper, nerves firing.

Coach sinks back into his seat and silence fills the room. I stare at the playbook, not daring to lift my eyes to Sloane’s.

“Everybody finished? I’ve got clean up.” Sloane starts stacking empty dishes, not waiting for an answer. Coach touches her on the arm.

“You okay, baby? I’m sure today was hard for you.” Sloane winces, staring down at the floor.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Right as rain, actually.” Her voice tips up into the forced-cheery range and she shrugs, narrow shoulders drooping.

“Better off now than later,” Coach says, patting her arm. “All for the best.”

She nods and huffs out a breath, then pivots toward the sink, turning her back on us.

“Yep.” She turns on the faucet full blast, aggressively rinsing the plates, and I wonder what exactly they’re talking about.

But I don’t dare ask. Whatever it is feels personal.

“All right. I’m gonna go catch the ESPN highlights. You two are welcome to join.” He hooks his thumb in the direction of the living room.

“Maybe later,” Sloane says, still scrubbing.

“Okay.” Coach squeezes her shoulder, then grabs his beer and ambles into the living room not giving me so much as a backward glance.

Because he trusts you with his daughter.

The thought weighs heavy on my mind as Sloane sashays past me, gliding from the sink to the table, then back again. She’s wearing the same T-shirt from earlier, but threw on a pair of tiny denim shorts before supper. The type that’s so short the pockets hang lower than the frayed hem, leaving miles of upper thigh exposed.

Good god, this is going to be a long, hot summer.

Sweat beads on my lower back as my eyes travel up her legs, landing on her juicy ass. An ass I’d definitely like to caress, squeeze, maybe even smack.

But no matter how badly I’d like to hit that, Sloane’s still the coach’s daughter.

Firmly off-limits, an unspoken rule for every member of the Thunder Creek football team.

Date anyone you want, as long as it’s not Sloane Carter.

And I’m betting that rule still stands, especially with me accepting shelter and coaching from her father.

Besides, I can’t afford to fuck this up.

There is no back-up plan.

Football is—and always has been—the whole plan. Now’s not exactly the time to take my eye off the ball.

“Cam?” Sloane’s voice interrupts my worrying. “Can you bring me the rest of the silverware, please?”

She tips her head at the knife sitting next to the pizza box and I snatch it up, standing.

“Sorry, I should have offered to help with the dishes.” I meet her at the sink, handing over the knife, and she gives it a good scrub before rinsing the bubbles away.

“It’s fine. You’re the guest.” She swipes at the hair flopping over her eye with the crook of her arm, pushing the dark fringe out of her way.

“Technically, I suppose. But I need to pull my weight around here, if I’m going to be staying for a while.”

“Agreed. How about I let you take out the trash?” She shoots me a cheeky grin, and I can’t help but laugh.

There’s the Sloane I know, always quick with a comeback. It’s one of the many things I loved about her. That and her smile, a smile that stretches from her mouth all the way to her eyes, instantly making you feel better, special.

Like you were the only person in the room, quite possibly the world.

Something always floated in the air between us, but I never had the balls to act on it. There was a hard line drawn when it came to Sloane Carter, and not one member of any Thunder Creek High football team ever crossed that line. At least, not to my knowledge.

Does that line still exist?

Because she’s not a teenage girl anymore.

Now she’s so much more, all curves and woman. And the chemistry that flowed between us back then still feels as strong as ever.

You cannot go there, Crawford. No matter how good she looks in a T-shirt. Or how great she’d look out of it. You’re here to get your shit together, land a new contract, and play pro ball.

I clear my throat.

“Deal.”

“The trash goes out around back. Pick-up’s Monday, so we have to take it to the street Sunday night. And by we, I mean you.” She flashes her white teeth at me and I pretend to grimace.

“Fine. I’ll try to remember.”

“Don’t forget. Because we have big ole’ bugs here during the summer and they’ll start partying in the garbage. Maybe you blocked that fun little nugget from your memory.”

“Oh, trust me, I didn’t.” I heft the trash bag from the can, cinching the plastic tie.

She shuts off the water, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “I’m going to grab a quick shower. Holler at my dad if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

Spinning on her heel, she glides out of the kitchen and I’m glad Coach is glued to the television screen, fully engrossed in the latest sports news. Because I have a raging hard-on that’s impossible to conceal, courtesy of his darling daughter.

I’m not sure how long this cozy little arrangement’s going to last—and it’s only night one of quite possibly the longest summer of my life.