“What’s that?” I ask, glancing at him over my shoulder. He’s a lot closer than I had realized. So close that I feel his breath on my cheek as he speaks.

“It’s the type of pass the quarterback throws. The ball moves through the air, spinning like this,” Grayson says, as he turns the ball in slow motion. “The whole game revolves around the perfect pass. This is it.”

“Okay.”

“So, hold the ball with a good, firm grip. Place the tips of your fingers on the laces. That’s right,” he says, guiding me. “You need a little gap between your hand and the ball.” He moves it into position.

My breath catches at his touch.

“Perfect,” he says. “Now lift the ball high on your chest. That’s right. Relax your shoulders and let your arms hang loose.” He presses his hands down on my shoulders.

Having him touch me like this, while standing so close to me…it’s torture.

The best kind of torture.

“Okay, now put your feet shoulder-width apart. Good, that’s right.” He praises me as I move my feet into position. “Now put seventy-five percent of your weight on the back foot.”

“Seventy-five. That’s very specific.”

“I’m a specific kind of guy,” he says, grinning.

I feel that grin like a soft caress between my thighs.

“Now,” he says as his hands go to my hips, “as you move through your throw, shift your weight from the back of your foot to the front.”

He rocks my body forward, demonstrating, and his hips press into my ass.

I feel something very significant prod me in the butt and I have to hold back a moan.

“You got that?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I dare not speak because I’m afraid I’ll say something I shouldn’t.

He moves to my side. I almost sigh with relief. “Okay. Now,” he says, “when you throw, you’ll draw a circle with your elbow like this.” He moves my arm, keeping his hand on my arm while he shows me. “Let the ball roll off each finger, starting with your pinky, so your wrist rotates. Your index finger should be the last thing to touch the ball as it leaves your hand. That’s what generates the spin. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say.

“Okay, so come back on your heels. That’s it,” he says, standing behind me. “Now, bring your weight forward, drawing that circle with your elbow, and then rotate your wrist as you throw.”

The ball leaves my hand, going farther than I can normally make it go. It’s even spinning, though it’s a little bit wobbly. I admire my throw, but it’s nowhere near as perfect as Grayson’s was.

“I did it!” I shout as I turn to face him, beaming.

“You did good,” he says. He reaches up and tucks a stray piece of my hair behind my ear. His fingers linger on my cheek.

I’m around 99 percent sure that he’s going to kiss me again. And I really want him to. But then I hear the ringing of a phone.