But while I’m getting better, so is Abrams. Maybe it’s being back under the demanding eyes of Coach Cole or maybe he’s just got his head on a little straighter after having played for a year. Either way, I’m losing ground as fast as I gain it, which means there’s no time to take it easy.

The cold shower means there’s no steam to fog up the mirror, and I have to look myself in the eye during that last thought, knowing that spending time with Dallas sure as hell falls into the category of taking it easy.

But she’s too damn hard to resist.

I pull on a pair of clean jeans and a gray T-shirt instead of the sweats I would normally don for the night. She’s dressed for a party in dark, slim jeans, a tiny leather jacket, and a long green shirt that matches her eyes.

I take a second to collect my thoughts before I leave my room, but all my thoughts about her are stubbornly polarized. I want to be the friend she’s asked me to be. I want to convince her we can be more. I want to run in the other direction. So I push all those things aside and just decide to do whatever feels right.

As I walk into the living room, she’s sitting sideways on my couch, my playbook resting on her knees, chewing on her thumbnail as she surveys the page.

“I thought this was a football-free zone,” I said.

She jumps and practically throws the thing off her lap. Then, with a little more composure, she says, “I was bored.”

“And that was the best snooping you could do?”

“I wasn’t snooping. I was just mildly curious to see how Dad has changed things up.”

I pick up the playbook and sit beside her, resting one of my elbows on top of her knees.

“You know you could ask him if you really wanted to know.”

She dons a look of horror. “I said mildly. If I mentioned it to Dad, he would talk my ears off for hours.”

I pick up the book, full of combinations and variations that I’m busting my ass to memorize should I ever actually get a shot to play. “So you can actually make sense of this?”

She scowls. “I’ll have you know, I knew that thing backward and forward when I used to help . . .”

She trails off, wiping the scowl and every other hint of expression off her face.

If I were a nicer guy, I’d let her get away with it.

“When you used to help Abrams? You guys used to be together, right?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, and in that leather jacket she looks as intimidating and sexy as I’ve ever seen her.

“Fantastic. What is he telling people now?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, I’m sure Levi just casually dropped into conversation that we dated over two years ago with no ulterior motive. Sounds just like him.”

I let my arm slip off her knee, wrap it around her legs, and give her a squeeze. “I heard you’d dated. I didn’t bother listening beyond that because, frankly, I didn’t want to. He’s a dick, and I don’t like him. I sure as hell don’t like thinking about you and him even in the same sentence.”

“Welcome to the club,” she mutters.

“Okay. Enough of that. Someone promised me I could ask personal questions.”

“What? My love life wasn’t personal enough for you?”

My jaw tenses when she says love life. Of all the words she could choose to describe her past with Abrams, that one is way, way down the list of what I prefer to hear.

And since I don’t have any right to feel territorial, over Abrams or that hipster outside that party or anyone, I choose a very different subject.

“Why dance?”

“Why football?”

“Because it’s the only thing in my life I haven’t dreaded or hated or failed miserably at. It’s what I’m good at, in comparison to everything else anyway.”

Her head tilts to the side, and she sits up, leaning toward me. Her stomach grazes the arm I have wrapped around her legs, and that brief touch is all I can think about.

“Do you love it?” she asks.

“Cole, you’re the one griping at me for working out too much. What do you think?”

She doesn’t miss that I haven’t answered the question, but she sits back against the armrest anyway, taking away any chance that she’ll brush up against me again.

“Your turn,” I say. “You love to dance?”

“Yes,” she answers firmly. She arches her brow like a challenge and continues. “I have fun when I’m dancing, but I also, I don’t know, feel more intensely there, too. When I dance, it’s like I finally have everything figured out, like I’ve crossed over from the ordinary and am on the verge of discovering something wonderful. Inspiration, I guess. But it’s bigger than that. I am bigger when I dance, like my heart fills my whole chest, and it’s leaking out of me with every step and every breath.”

Her green eyes are lit with such passion, and the smile playing about her lips is the most gorgeous one I’ve seen yet. I think I feel more exuberance and life just radiating off of her than I’ve ever felt about something myself.

The way she talks about dance is a little like how I feel when I look at her. Overwhelmed and fulfilled and falling apart all at the same time.

I climb off the couch and pull her to her feet, suddenly desperate to see it.

“Show me.”

She’s still in a bit of a trance, caught up in her thoughts and emotions, and it takes her a few seconds to say, “What?”

“Show me. I want to see you dance.”

Her eyes widen, and she chokes on a laugh.

“I can’t just show you in your living room, Carson. I’m in jeans and boots and there’s no room and no music and—”

I grip her arm and tug her away from the couch and out into the open space where I occasionally work out at home.

“To quote your dad: don’t give me excuses, Cole. Give me results.”

Irritation blooms across her face. “Ugh. Why did you say that? I hate when he says that.”

I laugh, and move my hand in gesture that tells her to get to it.

“I’m waiting, Daredevil.” I stick out my arm, closing my hand in a fist. I throw her a playful smile and add, “You can use me as your bar thing, if you want.”

“You are not seriously making me do this, are you?”

“Come on. What are you afraid of?”