Hitting the Crossbar

2: Fate Is an Evil Spirit

2

Fate Is an Evil Spirit

Sometimes, I forgot that my boyfriend was rich.

When I stepped into the penthouse Sam and Peter were living in, the reminder hit me in the face. It was so big that their bedrooms were located in different hallways. That was a good thing, seeing as Peter claimed that he liked to walk around naked.

I had taken a long bus ride over to their place immediately after my practice had finished, only to almost trip on one of Sam's Converse shoes in the hallway. After I took off my Jordans and made my way to the kitchen, I dropped my camera bag and backpack on the counter. I was ready for the game. My Chelsea jersey was underneath my sweater, and my pride was on the table . . . 
along with a box of Pop-Tarts.

I was tearing into a packet when Sam's voice rang throughout the apartment. "Hazel?"

"Kitchen!" I yelled back.

Sam came into the room, flipping through the back of a calculus textbook as my gaze dipped down to his exposed torso. The only clothing on his body was a pair of blue-and-green neon socks I was certain Caleb had bought him and gray sweatpants. He looked great in gray sweatpants. Not that I would tell him to his face. "How was practice?"

"Fine," I said, my mouth filled with Pop-Tart as he put the book down, reaching into the fridge to get a bottle of water. "How was yours?"

As he was about to raise the bottle to his lips, he stopped and raised an eyebrow at me. "It was fine?"

"My legs feel as if they tried to run around the world at least eight times. I could barely keep my eyes open on the bus. So I am totally and completely fine." I closed my eyes and sagged against the fridge, feeling the refreshing cool steel against my back.

"My poor baby." I could clearly hear the mocking tone even as he included the stupid term of endearment.

I reached out, hitting him lightly on the chest. "Don't be a jerk."

Sam didn't retaliate. Instead, his fingers toyed with the zipper of my sweater. "I'm not being a jerk," he said quietly. Then he tugged, pulling the zipper down until it reached the bottom. "Am I being a jerk now?"

I didn't answer him. This happened more often than I'd thought it would. I glanced down at his torso, then up to his lips. He didn't change his calm expression, but I knew if I put my hand over his heart, I'd feel his pulse rapidly fluttering against my skin. When he pushed the sleeves off my shoulder, my sweater fell to the ground. Then his warm hands found their way to my hips. He broke eye contact as he pushed my jersey up by a fraction before brushing his thumb along the sliver of my skin that was exposed.

I exhaled, goose bumps manifesting where his hands resided. Sam tilted his head, getting closer to me as he asked in a low voice, "And now?"

"Honey, I'm home!"

Both Sam and I let out a breath at the intrusion. I wasn't sure if I was grateful for Peter or irritated. Definitely a mixture of both. Sam, on the other hand, was annoyed. "Shit," he whispered, not taking his hands off me as he looked over his shoulder at Peter.

Like every boy in the Cahill orbit, Peter was attractive, with wavy brown hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin. Usually, he was a great guy. Funny. But right now, the irritated side of me was taking over as I plastered a fake smile on my face. "Peter."

"Macy!" he called in a singsong, walking over to a cabinet and taking out an energy drink.

"I thought you were leaving for Toronto," Sam said, taking his hands off me as I released a breath. Too much.