‘Ah. Okay.’ He seems a little relieved, his brow less tense, but a look of disappointment flashes across his face. It’s gone before I can single it out. ‘It was dumb, anyway.’

It was absolutely not dumb. It was earth-shattering. He doesn’t need to know, just like he doesn’t need to know that—

‘This morning, we … that was totally unintentional,’ says Colt quickly. ‘I’m so sorry that happened. I swear, the fucking pillows must have just …’

‘Hmm.’ It’s my turn to shift awkwardly now. I had hoped this one wouldn’t make its way out of my treasure chest of secrets, but even Colt, as dense as he can be, has the keenness to recognize we somehow slept like a married couple last night. Fine. As long as he doesn’t realize that it was my leg that ended up splayed across his. My head that found its way to his chest. ‘I guess. It happens.’

Chapter Eighteen

The Ballad of Hot Rod

May

‘Today, we hit on the no-look twizzler, something a close friend of mine particularly excels at back in New Haven …’

Colt, with the whistle and keys around his neck, commandeers the clinic like he’s been coaching for an eternity. I’m afraid it’s a good look on him, Rider Orange. The thought is unwelcome in my brain, and I immediately shove it right out the back door the second it enters. He does a good deal of pointing, a couple of waving gestures towards the goal. Were his arms always that jacked? Was he always that jacked, Colt? And sweet mama, how are his calves still stunning? For crying out loud, the man was in a knee brace for two months. There’s still tape all over his leg. Stunning calves. Beautiful quads. Quads that could probably crush a watermelon—

‘May!’

‘Huh?’ My eyes snap up from calf-level to meet Colt’s stormy ones.

‘I was asking if you’d like to demo for us.’

Demo? It’s his shot clinic. I blink, waiting for Colt to call me on my BS or turn this into an opportunity to flame me for being off my game, but the switch-up doesn’t come. One of the most complex goals out there, and the MLL’s star scorer isn’t demonstrating it himself?

‘Yeah.’ I slowly adjust my grip on my crosse, stepping up towards the goal, although I’ve still got an eye on Colt. He steps away with a nod towards me. ‘Jordan’ll set you up.’

What? There’s no way he can’t even set me up. It’s our fourth shot clinic and the pattern is striking. When has Colt actually picked up his crosse and demonstrated or passed or anything of the sort? I can think of maybe one instance, other than for our bet when he’d first arrived, and for said MLL star scorer, he’d done a piss-poor job.