When I meet her beautiful multi-colored eyes, they’re wide and dark like maybe she’s as jacked about this finally happening as I am.

“Your eyes…” Her lips part as I get closer and her gaze darts from my mouth to my eyes. “Tienes los ojos más bonitos que he visto.”

She still doesn’t respond with words but nods ever so slightly as I hover so close our breaths mingle. Her eyes stay locked on mine until our mouths meet. Lashes flutter closed and she meets my kiss tentatively. I want to fucking devour her, but I hold back, refusing to rush this moment. Her kiss is soft and unassuming like she’s trying to savor this moment too. Maybe I’m projecting.

She opens wider and I sweep my tongue in tasting the lingering liquor and a sweetness that I want to bottle up and gulp. In fact, my head spins and as my hands find her hips and dig in, the kiss turns frantic. Her moans meet mine. When did I become a moaner? I feel the blackness creeping in as I push away all questions and try to hold on to her and to the moment, not wanting it to end.

“Ojos bonitos,” I whisper the words against her neck. My hips search for contact, dick so hard it’s painful.

“Wake up, Moreno.” Something hits my face and I register the pillow and the loss of her at the same time. Without opening my eyes, I let my other senses play catch up to the situation. I’m not in my bed, or any bed. The lumpy cushion beneath me and the pillow I spoon. My pulse throbs between my eyes.

“He alive?” I hear someone ask followed by a chuckle.

“Yeah, he’s alive.” I recognize Mario’s voice this time. “Probably nursing a hangover to rival all hangovers.”

I groan in response, all I can manage without fear of my head exploding.

“Wes called looking for you. He said to tell you to get your ass moving. Practice in thirty minutes.”

Well, that’s not good news, but I’m less concerned about that than I am with what happened with Katrina last night. A vague recollection of her getting a text and insisting she needed to go is the only thing I remember after kissing her. I sit up slowly and take in myself and the situation around me. I’m passed out on the living room couch.

I check the time on the cable box underneath the TV. Assuming it’s right, I’m hella fucking late. Our usual morning practice got bumped to mid-day, hence the night of drinking. From November through April we don’t get a lot of nights to let loose. Early morning practices, afternoon workouts that sometimes go well into the evening. Then there are game tapes and oh right I’m also taking a full load of college classes.

So, when Coach moved our morning practice, Nathan and I took full advantage.