The Long Game (Long Game, #1)(66)

Adalyn exhaled, the puff of air hitting my chin.

And I—Fuck. I—

A sharp pang of pain cut straight through the moment, and I winced.

Willow mewed from my arms. And before I could stop her, she landed on the ground and flashed through the open door. I attempted to go after her, but Adalyn’s hand was on my arm.

I looked down, finding her warm, gentle fingers against my skin as they probed, inspecting the scratch. “It doesn’t look deep.” Her tone was concerned and still so goddamn sweet it killed me. What was happening to me? “But I think you should disinfect it.” The tip of her index finger traced the inked skin around the tiny cut. “Does it hurt?”

It did. But not in the way she meant. “No.”

“Will it ruin the… design?” she asked, her thumb hanging over black lines I’d collectively sat down for many hours to get done.

There was barely a spot of skin that wasn’t inked between my collarbone and the upper sleeve of my right arm. Same went for my right pec. And the top of my left thigh. None of them were tattoos I went around showcasing. They were not for anybody but myself and that’s why I always wore long sleeves. Her hand moved, sidetracking me. I’d suffered through some of the most intricate ones yet somehow those delicate, light grazes of her fingers over my skin felt more powerful than all the needles I’d endured.

“This one is so pretty.” Her palm had stopped at the side of my biceps, and I was so emboldened, encouraged by her touch that I turned my arm so she could properly see. “Who is she?”

Out of every possible tattoo she could have possibly chosen to ask about. It had to be that one. The one that held the most meaning. “I think you know, darling.”

“Your grandmother?” she whispered. I gave her a nod and let her inspect it. I was thankful it wasn’t one of the tacky or senseless ones I’d gotten when I was young and mindless. This one was an old-school rendition of a young woman with black hair. Simple. Thick lines. No shadowing or color except for two red flowers atop her head. “What about the rest? What do they represent?”

I had to swallow for the words to come out of my throat. “The beginning,” I said, voice thick. “The end. Everything in between.”

My eyes bounced back to her face. She was biting her lip. “Does Willow do this often?”

I shook my head, barely able to rasp out an answer with her attention on me like that. I liked it far too much. “She’s never acted like that, but perhaps that’s because I’ve never given her a chance to be jealous.”

“Jealous?”

I nodded, my tongue still in twists. My head, too, when all of a sudden, I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had tended to my wounds.

Had it ever happened? Had it ever felt like… this?

“Oh. Oh.” Adalyn jumped back, breaking the contact. My skin felt cold where her fingers had been. She huffed. “Well, she must be a very territorial cat if she’s feeling that way over nothing.” She looked everywhere but at me. “After all, you would love nothing more than seeing me pack my things, leave town, and never look back, right?” I winced, and she shook her head. “This is just temporary. I’ll leave and we’re… working together only because we must. I forced your hand.”

I frowned. I had not expected her to say that. To bring up words I had seemed to make myself forget.

“Anyway.” She walked around me, taking step after step down. “I’ll see you in an hour. When we leave for the, uh, game.” She made it all the way down. “Just horny—Honk! The horn. Or text. When you’re ready and I’ll come out. I guess that’s the one perk of getting saddled with me here, right?”

She broke into a jog and I stood there, watching her get back to her cabin.

Only when her door had closed behind her did I say, “Right.”

Because she was right about this being just temporary and me wanting to see her go.

Right?





CHAPTER TWENTY



Cameron


The girls left the middle of the Rockstone field and made their way toward the guest bench with red cheeks and ponies, pigtails, bunnies, and whatnot sticking in all directions.

I assessed them in silence, one by one, not surprised by the way they were dragging their feet or how they plopped on the ground around me and Adalyn.

“This sucks,” Juniper muttered, taking her frustration out on the grass under her outstretched legs. “We suck. We suck monkey butt. We suck so bad, we probably suck worse than monkey butt.”

Nodding heads created a wave of agreement, and I had to clap my hands to capture their attention before the conversation veered too deep into muddy terrain. “You don’t suck,” I assured the team in a firm tone. “You played a good game. You battled, hard. And left all you had on the grass.”

“But we lost,” Chelsea countered, tugging furiously at the remainder of her braid. Her tutu—which I now considered a lost battle—hung sideways. “We didn’t even score. We’ve only scored once in two games. And it didn’t even count.”

I decided not to comment on the own goal. “You didn’t lose. Nil-nil is not a loss.”

Chelsea threw her hand up, resting it against her forehead as she sighed. “It’s just as tragic as a loss, Coach Cam.”