Page 49 of Playing Her Game

I push up to a seated position. “Oh no, you don’t, pretend I said nothing. My medical issue will not ruin the time we have.”

He grips my hips firmly, with the one hand not fisting the head of his ‘manhood’. “Anna.”

“Miscarriage when I was way too young, naive and trusting, followed by a diagnosis of cervical insufficiency.”

His jaw tenses. “I thought you two didn’t⁠—”

“We didn’t. A schoolmate. But Lenzin helped me through it all. As I said, he’s my best friend.”

“I’m so⁠—”

He stops when I grab his seriously massive balls. “I was serious when I said, pretend I said nothing. My medical issue will not ruin the time we have.”

“If that’s what you need.”

I release his balls and look back up at him, feeling my face burn.

“You’re blushing now? You just had my balls in your little paws. I probably have nail marks.”

“I didn’t.”

“Shh,” he pops a kiss to my head and leaves his lips right there. “It was kind of hot.”

“Go get cleaned up, I’m starving.”

“Oh, that’s right, you were going to cook,” he says, a smile curving his mouth.

“You interrupted me.”

“True.” He doesn't sound remotely sorry.

I tug the sweatshirt back and pull on the warmest pants I’ve ever worn as he heads to the downstairs bathroom, and then I get to prepping.

When he walks out, I look at him, making sure I didn’t just completely mess up everything by trauma dumping.

The heat still in his eyes tells me I did not. “Make yourself useful.”

“Doing what?”

“Unpack. Grate cheese. Try not to distract me again.”

“Can't promise that last one.”

I give him a look that lands somewhere between warning and amusement, then pull out the ingredients. Chicken, heavy cream, garlic, spinach, lemons. Everything I need for creamy garlic Parmesan pasta, a proper dinner without anything too complicated.

Rez moves around the kitchen, finds the utensils, and pulls out a cutting board. He washes the spinach while I season the chicken, then takes over grating the Parmesan when I hand him the block.

Working beside him means getting in each other's way. He reaches past me for the olive oil, his chest brushing my shoulder. I turn for the lemon zester and nearly walk straight into him. Neither of us makes much effort to avoid the next close call.

The television plays in the background, a steady stream of commentary and crowd noise. I'm searing the chicken when the broadcast shifts to defensive positioning, and one of the analysts makes a sweeping claim about how forwards exploit gaps.

“That's not how it works,” I say, glancing at the screen.

Rez looks up from the cheese grater. “You disagree with the expert?”

“He's oversimplifying. A forward doesn't just find the gap. You create it by pulling the defender out of position first.”

His eyebrows lift. “You've been paying attention.”