Page 84 of Chasing Headlines
Was it a desperate student with the skill to do it? Why the athlete angle? I closed my eyes and leaned my head backagainst the not-even-remotely-comfortable edge of the couch. Sleep nagged at my brain, offering to soothe the tired, burning sensation in my eyes.
“I need data . . . Back issues of the Van Weekly. I'm thinking that if I can pull the last issues from each season, I can build out a database of key metrics. Injuries, hit ratios, all kinds of stuff.”
Darkness pulled me closer. Warm, soft . . .
“Yeah, this is the worst.” Lan blew out a breath.
My heart thudded, hard. Light seeped under my eyelids. Something pushed against the warm, wonderful arms of sleep. Why was I remembering . . . Lan? Or was it just reliving the nightmare that was Schorr's anti-technology bent?Think we can safely remove him from the list of possibles. Hah, Schorr the hacker.I sighed and crossed my arms against my chest. The whir of Cathy's computer a soft hum . . .
I'm sure it's cliched in this day and age to consider athletes as all-brawn and no-brains. Even Coop stood out for his custom scouting website. Had its own searchable backend database of his and his team's stats, schedule, roster.
I blinked my eyes open. Oh no.He wouldn't, would he?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Breslin POV
Ihated waking before my alarm went off. Consciousness crowbarred my brain back into reality, allowing a rush of thoughts to tear through—at lightning speed. And they were never anything I wanted to think about. Especially not at five-thirty two in the morning—when I didn't have to be up for another forty-three minutes.
“I'm sorry I won't make it to your big game.” Mom's pale blue eyes watered as she patted my hand.
I shoved that image aside. I had Economics homework to turn in today. I wanted to add ten pounds to my deadlifts.
“You'll be. A good man, Breslin.”
I growled into the silence of my dorm room, rolled over onto my side, and pulled my pillow over my head. “I'll do extra stretches for my hamstring. Dammit, forgot about that. I should probably wait to increase my?—”
“Leave us alone!” I shouted through the mists of rain. A face swam in my vision, blurred. Blood flowed over the knuckles of my hand.
I righted myself and clutched the sides of my head. I clenched my eyes shut. “Stop. Stop thinking. Make it stop.”
Those light-colored eyes flickered in the pale yellow streetlight. “I was hoping they'd draft you.”
Her. Yes.Let's think about her.
Heat thrummed from her body as I steered her, and her see-through shirt, close.
The breathy way she said my name.
“Breslin . . .”
I brought my hand down to my crotch. The mostly useless thing—at least for the past eighteen months—ached, hardened, begged to be touched.
“You know, I never properly thanked you.” She spoke in a low voice as she slid over my lap. My jersey, with number ten and my last name on the back, slipped from her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
And because she was wrapped in my shirt, I wasn't. Her arms wound around my neck. Her hardened nipples scraped against my bare chest as she leaned into me.
“Your shirt, I love to wear it—and nothing else.” Her breath tickled my ear like it had that night.
My entire body tightened as my imagination took over—remixing the bits of memory into something completely different.
We weren’t at the Senior center, she was here, her thighs spread over mine. The heat from her bare sex teasing my length through my boxers . . .
I grumbled. If this was my fantasy, I should already be as naked as she was.
I freed my arousal from my shorts—hard as steel, the tip wet and wanting. I ran my fingers over the top, then down my length. Rough, coarse. Hers would be small and smooth. And her heat, her lips would slick against my shaft.
I blew out a breath as I worked my cock with my hand, fictional images flashing through my brain.