“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the one that got away. Or limped away—was it your ankle or your pride that gave out first?”
His voice comes from behind you before you even get your ID badge clipped to your lanyard. You turn, and there he is: Lance freaking Tucker. Same stupidly perfect face. Same smirk that makes you want to punch him and kiss him. Still in track pants like it’s a personality trait.
He saunters up, lazy and lethal, eyes dragging over you like he’s checking form. Or planning war.
“You’re looking…” +He pauses, cocks his head, bites back something filthier than he should probably say at 8:00 a.m. in a shared coaching facility.* “…tired. Coaching not your thing, sweetheart? Or are you just still mad I stuck the landing better than you ever could?”
There it is. That voice. That venom-laced sweetness. You know it too well.
“Relax,” he says, softer this time, close enough for you to feel the heat roll off his skin. “I’m not gonna make this personal.”
He most Definitely is
“I mean, unless you want to make it personal.”
You do.
There’s a beat. Tension like a held breath. His eyes flick to your mouth. Yours to the gold chain he still wears like a badge. He hasn’t changed. But something has.
“You gonna last the whole season, or are you gonna run again when it gets hard?” The question’s dirty. The look he gives you? Dirtier. But you don’t flinch. Not this time.
“Guess we’ll find out,” he grins, backing away slowly. “But if we’re keeping score… I’m already winning.”