Page 88 of Almost Ours

Josh takes one touch forward and the defender backs off. Someone inside shouts for the ball, but he keeps it, waiting until another De Montfort player comes across to help before stopping so abruptly that both men move towards him. The space behind them opens and Josh sends the ball low across the front of goal, straight into the path of the striker arriving at the back post.

The striker boots it right past De Monforts goalie and straight into the back.

Two-one.

Everyone around me erupts, and I stand there and watch Josh. He doesn’t chase after the scorer with the rest of the team. He turns away from the celebration and bends with both hands on his hips, dragging air back into his lungs while the others pile into each other behind him.

Then he lifts his head and looks straight at me.

Emma is shouting beside me and people are jumping around along the fence, but Josh doesn’t scan through any of them. He doesn’t look left, then right, trying to find where I am. His eyes come up and land exactly where I’m standing.

He already knew.

I don’t know when he noticed me, whether it was during the warm-up or sometime in the first half when I was busy watching him and convincing myself he hadn’t noticed, but there’s no chance he found me that quickly by accident.

His face is red from running, mud streaked across one cheek with a bruise beginning to form from where he hit the ground earlier, and his chest is rising hard beneath the blue shirt while he stands there looking at me.

He doesn’t smile.

There’s no cocky grin or wink or anything I could laugh off, just Josh holding my gaze from across the pitch with unmistakable heat.

I forget about the score, the shouting, Emma beside me, all of it, because Josh Hardy has just created the winning goal and the first person he wanted to look at afterwards was me.

It occurs to me why they call it eye contact. It feels like he’s touching me everywhere without laying a hand on me, my skin scorching while a sharp pull starts low in my stomach, dragging every thought towards the distance between us and how badly I want his hands on me again.

Like they were the other night.

The moment only breaks when Oscar hooks an arm around Josh’s neck and drags him backwards.

Emma turns towards me. “What the fuck was that?”

I rub both palms down the front of my jeans, breathing hard. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” She’s incredulous. “How can you not know?”

I look back towards the pitch and Josh has been swallowed by the rest of the team, but his head turns in our direction before the referee gets them moving.

Emma follows where I’m looking. “Oh my God. Are you and him a thing?”

“No! We’re friends.”

Her face is calling bullshit. “That was not a casual look, Rubes.”

“I know.”

“You like him.” She declares.

I can’t lie now, not when she saw whatever the fuck that was. “So what if I do?”

“You should do something about it.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But telling him might be a good start.”

“Yeah,” I blow out. “Maybe.”

Not a chance.