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Two can play at this game.

I straighten my spine and reenter the arena, stepping as close to Marcus as I can. I barely have to stand on tiptoes in my heels. I make sure my lips are close to his ear, allowing my breath to skate across his neck. Then, in a very private and sultry voice, I say, “You say my name in a way that sounds sweet.”

I feel the shiver go through him after I speak. Touchdown. I scored.

Marcus turns to me, a glazed and baffled look in his eyes. Then a slow, small smile begins to spread across his face. He narrows his eyes at me and says, “Let’s dance.”

“Dance?” I say, swallowing with an actual gulp.

“Yes, Cass. Dance. They’re dancing out there. You’re my date. We ought to dance, don’t you think?”

His eyes are filled with mischief.

“Oh,” I say. “You want to dance?”

“I do,” he says, obviously under the delusion that he’s going to get to me on the dance floor and overpower me with his charm and the way he says my name in that slow southern drawl.

“Let’s dance, then,” I say, girding myself for war.

Chapter 13

Marcus

And where two raging fires meet together,

they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.

~ Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew

Cass sets her glass of lemonade on the table and turns to me, a steely resolve in her eyes.

I don’t know what I was thinking, asking her to dance.

She’s usually in jeans and a T-shirt, something casual and unassuming. Tonight, when she opened the door, it felt like I’d taken a hit by a linebacker. Everything from her dark lipstick to that slit in her dress … the way her hair is pulled up away from her face but pieces fall loosely in soft curls. It was unexpected—a blindside sack.

So, I’m doing what I do. Resuming my place at the line of scrimmage to regain lost yardage.

I place my hand on her back, leading her onto the dance floor. She jumps at my touch, tensing slightly like she has every time my hand lands on her.

We’re here to put on a show. I’m aware of eyes on us—my teammates, their dates, our sponsors.

I lead Cass to a spot near the middle of the dance floor.

The band transitions from You Are the Reason by Calum Scott to a softened cover of Wicked Game by Chris Isaak.

Cass turns and looks up at me with those big brown eyes. If anyone were watching closely enough, they’d see past the image of a man and a woman staring longingly into one another’s eyes to the glint of challenge.

I clasp her right hand in my left and place my right palm on her lower back. The wince on her face is so subtle. It’s gone as soon as it came, replaced by an ease that’s all show.

She narrows her eyes just the slightest, and a slow grin spreads on her face as she places the palm of her free hand just below my rib cage and runs it slowly up, over my pec to my shoulder, where she rests her wrist lazily, as if she didn’t just send an unwanted chill through my torso.

I grin down at her, swaying us to the music and giving her one soft tug that eliminates the space between us. Her head drops with an intake of breath that tells me everything I need to know.

I whisper, “Your move, Carter,” into her hair, knowing I’ve got homefield advantage at this point in our game.

She tips her head up to glance at me, brown eyes sparkling with mischief and determination. I should be nervous. She’s more intimidating than a defensive tackle about to collapse the pocket. But my mental game is stronger than she knows. I don’t let them get in my head on the field, and I’m not letting her either.

We continue to sway, her moving in time with my lead. To onlookers, we’re enjoying the music and each other.