Page 33 of Under Pressure

“That’s fair. I had a feeling you were going to be.”

I grunt. “So, you were bored, then, and wanted to see if I’d throw a punch?”

“And risk your money-making hands? No, I was curious how deep this obsession with the barista had gone.”

“You could have just asked me straight up.”

“Also fair.”

Closing my eyes, I press my thumb deep into the space between them to try to work out the knot growing there. “Why are you fucking around? I’m not going to sleep with someone just to entertain you.”

“Nah. If I wanted entertainment, I’d go fuck someone myself. I was trying to see just how screwed you are for that girl. You need to either buck up and actually convince her to give you a chance or walk away. ’Cause you’re too distracted lately, and I’m not about to watch you get taken advantage of. Quinn could be just tugging you around for attention, and that’s not right, man,” he says, his grip on my shoulder tightening. “You’ve got a lot to offer her, and if she’s not gonna give you the time of day, then get out of there before it’s too late. You need help convincing her, then tell me, and we’ll make it happen. But no more desperation.”

“You don’t know her,” I argue, grimacing at the slur in my words. Straightening, I try to sound more intimidating this time. “And I’ve made progress.”

He palms his hips. “How much progress? Last I checked, it’s been months, and it didn’t look to me the other day that she’d given you any encouraging signs here.”

I scowl, trying to shake the buzz from my mind. “I’m not going to explain myself to you right now. Just . . . let it go, yeah? For now.”

“I don’t want you getting fucked over, Beck.”

“She’s not gonna fuck me over. Trust me here.” I reach for him, slapping his shoulder. “I appreciate you looking out.”

He sighs heavily, like he’s finally giving up. “Fine. But I’ll be watching.”

“In silence,” I add pointedly. “And you’re still going to give her a chance.”

“No promises.”

“I’m going inside. You staying or coming?”

His lips quirk before he says, “Staying. For a bit, anyway.”

He’s already turning back to the pool when I open my mouth to speak. To remind him to be safe in a cage full of piranhas before he winds up as fish food. There’s no point. He can take care of himself.

Besides, I have texts to check.

13

Squinting at my phone,I swipe past another photo before I have a chance to read the comments.

The next post that fills my screen is possibly the worst one thus far. In the last forty-five minutes, I’ve tortured myself by examining Beck’s social media pages. It was a moment of weakness. I was bored, alone, and a bit angry with myself for running away from him earlier.

I helped myself to the lone strawberry lemonade–flavoured cooler in my fridge and drained half of it in one go before beginning my perusing. The fizzy drink has settled funny in my stomach, but it’s nothing compared to the weird scratchy sensation I feel when I skip past a comment of only two emojis. The tongue and water give away exactly what their reaction to this video was . . . and I don’t disagree.

Clearly, Beck is some sort of poster boy for this sportswear company. He’s lying on his back in a fancy, well-lit gym, doing a set of quick crunches. The black mat beneath him is wet, as if he’s been working so hard that he’s drenched the thing in sweat. I don’t doubt that actually could be the case, considering his skin is glistening, too. Every inch of his bare, muscled chest has asheen to it. The chain around his neck is just downright slutty. Having him keep it on for this was such a filthy call. I feel for anyone watching while they’re ovulating.

My pulse thrums in my throat as I linger on the video, my thumb frozen. He seems to go faster now, as if he has something to prove. The bunching of his abs is borderline pornographic now, and I hold my breath when he lifts his arms behind his head, linking his fingers. His biceps tense, bulging as he licks a droplet of moisture from his upper lip and smirks.

I force myself to swipe away.

The heat clinging to my skin is almost as bad as the tingle between my legs. I swallow, finding my mouth far too wet. At least the next few photos are tame. Normal. Respectable.

There’s a set of three photos from a home game weeks ago and a singular one where he’s got his arm around a familiar man and woman. The years have been easy on them. His mom’s hair is still as black as ink, and his father’s mustache is even bushier than it was then.

Lucky to play so close to my family. Blessed, huh, Ma?

I swallow, ignoring the pang in my chest that rattles my ribs.