Chapter 2: Second Game — Tension Builds

That text burned behind my eyelids long after the house went dark. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the fan blades turning lazy circles above me while Ethan’s soft snores drifted down the hall. Every breath felt too loud in the silence. Derek’s kitchen brush replayed on a loop—the solid wall of his chest grazing my backside, the low rumble of his voice against my ear. Not the exact words anymore, just the heat of them, the way my skin had prickled like it remembered being wanted. My hand moved before my brain caught up, slipping under the sheet, under the waistband of my sleep shorts. The first graze of fingertips against my folds was tentative, almost guilty. Months since I’d touched myself like this. Years, maybe. But the memory of that earthy, sun-warmed scent clinging to his jersey flooded me, and suddenly I was slick, aching. My hips lifted on their own. Two fingers circled, then pressed inside, and the release hit fast—sharp, shuddering, a bitten-off moan swallowed against my pillow. My thighs trembled, toes curling into the mattress as the aftershocks rolled through me.

Then the crash came. I curled onto my side, knees to chest, hot tears soaking the pillowcase. “I’m a terrible mother,” I whispered into the dark, voice cracking. “He’s Ethan’s friend. What the hell is wrong with me?” The words tasted like ash. My boy was twenty feet away, trusting me to be the steady one, the parent who kept everything together after the divorce. And here I was, coming to the thought of his teammate like some starved, middle-aged mess. The phone on my nightstand lit up with a notification—another reminder from the client about the rebrand project. Deadline looming in four days. I hadn’t opened Photoshop once today. My stomach knotted tighter. Money was already stretched thin; one more missed email and I’d be explaining to Ethan why groceries were tight again. I squeezed my eyes shut, but sleep refused to come.