Page 96 of The Way We Touch
“Just give him one of Thomas’s burgers. You’ll get a Michelin star for sure.”
Rolling onto her side, her whiskey eyes turn deep. “I saw your hand. In the middle of my brother hauling you all over the field, you were thinking of me.”
“I’m always thinking of you, Deedee.”
“I wish I could kiss you right now.”
“I wish I could put my hands under that jersey.”
“I wish I could get on my knees in front of you like I did at your apartment.”
“Fuck, that was hotter than one of your peppers.”
Our conversation takes a sexy turn, and before long, we’re flushed and sweaty and sated—or as much as we can be from a thousand miles apart.
We don’t say goodbye. Instead, we fall asleep with our phones on our pillows. I talk to her until I hear her breathing become slow and rhythmic, and I know she’s asleep. Then I close my eyes. When I wake in the morning, my iPad is dark. I hate it, but I know what I have to do.
I have to put my head down and work, practice, play. I talk or text Dylan every chance I get, but I’ve set my goal for this season. I have to stay focused on accomplishing it.
My numbers are improving every week, and she’s right, I’m setting records. But “the sports guys” are right, too. I’ve got players on my tail, and this is a competitive field with athletes out to beat me.
If this is going to be my year, I can’t let up on training, so I push myself every day, not even taking our optional days off.
I’m doing this for us and our future, because I want to be with this beautiful girl, and I’ve got a plan.
Thanksgiving is just around the corner. I’m in the gym with a bar across my back doing squats when the door slams open, and Garrett barrels in like a raging bull.
His hazel eyes are shooting fire, and I straighten, letting the heavy bar drop to the cushioned mat with a crash.
“What the fuck, Logan?” He shoves his phone into my chest, and I take it from him.
Swiping my finger again and again, I shake my head. “What is this?”
“That’s what I want to know. Did you talk to these assholes?”
I tap the top of the screen and I see it’s the feed of Too Much Information, TMI for short, one of the most notorious gossip sites on social media, and one of the meanest.
“They’ve got pictures of the two of you on your balcony.”
“The fuck?” I scroll quickly to the bottom of the story where they posted a grainy photo of Dylan on her knees.
I’m sitting in a chair with my head tilted back, and a blur bar is across my lap where her head is located—when she gave me the best blowjob of my life.
“What the FUCK?” My voice goes louder. “They can’t print that without permission. How did they even get it?”
There’s a reason I live on the top floor in one of the tallest buildings in Midtown. Privacy.
“I don’t want to talk about that.” He snatches the phone back, reading the caption. “Trust-fund baller Lightning Murphy might be setting records, but it won’t stop this gold digger from sucking him dry.”
Heat flashes through my chest and neck followed by cold. My ears roar, and I’m moving. I’m not even thinking. My phone is out, and I tap the numbers on the screen as I push through the door.
“Where are you going?” Garrett follows behind me.
“Tell Coach I have a family emergency.”
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Dylan