"So what about Levi makes you mad?"

I can't. I couldn't explain it to Coach, and I won't explain it to her.

"I'm not talking about this, Dylan."

"You asked me how to fix it. How am I supposed to help if you won't let me?"

"I don't actually expect you to help-"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not your charity case."

She stands and crosses toward me, and my kitchen feels too damn small with her this close. All I can see are all the surfaces I want to press her against to end this conversation.

She lays a soft hand on my forearm, and her touch burns.

"You're not a charity case."

I thought the night that we met that she was one of those "good girls" looking to take a bad boy and pretty him up to take home to Mom. I've had my fair share of those that I have gladly kicked to the curb. I'm not about to let someone else change and manipulate me to make me into something that makes them happy. Then I thought she was a nice girl looking to get a little wild, maybe freak her parents out.

But looking into her eyes, I don't think that's her anymore. She wants to help me for my sake, not for her own. I am her charity case, no matter what she says. But I'm not so sure I mind that.

"Maybe I want to be your charity case. Would you do that? If I asked?"

Her eyes widen. "Do what exactly?"

I drag my hands through my hair and pace away from her. "I don't fucking know. Fix me." She makes a noise almost like laughter, and I cross back to her and grip her shoulders. She swallows, and her eyes are serious on me now. "It sounds stupid, I know. But I'm so close to losing it all, Dylan. This life I have now . . . it's everything to me. And Coach is ready to cut me if I don't completely clean up my act. I've been doing it my way, and I'm failing. So I think I need to try something different."

Maybe it's not enough anymore to pretend that I belong here. I have to change.

"I'm just not sure what you're asking of me, Silas."

Goddamn it. Neither am I.

"You help people. That's what you do. That's what I'm asking for. I need to be better . . . be good. For the team. For me. I just need to get my shit together."

"Just the fighting? Is that what you're talking about?"

"All of it. The fighting. The partying. Booze. Pot."

"Bad-boy rehab?" She still looks skeptical.

"I'm supposed to be a leader, Dylan. I'm supposed to make this team stronger, but right now I'm its biggest weakness."

And God, I must look so fucking pitiful, because she bites her lip, her big eyes soft and sorry. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll help."

I want to fucking kiss her. Pull that bottom lip between my teeth, instead of hers. But I settle for pulling her against me and squeezing tight.

She makes a little squeak, and it takes her several long seconds before she rests her hands lightly against my bare chest.

"You have to actually listen to me, though."

It's distracting, feeling her breath against my skin, but I nod and say, "I will."

"And you have to talk to me. Answer my questions. I can't get to the root of your actions unless I know what you're thinking, how you're feeling."

I stiffen. I know she's right, but that doesn't mean I relish the idea of talking about my shit . . . especially not with her.

When I don't reply, she tries to pull back, but I keep my arms locked around her waist. So with her stomach still tight against mine, she leans back her shoulders and looks at me.

"If you want my help, that's the price."

I ask, "What if we worked out a trade? Like the other night."

Pink floods her cheeks, and her tongue peeks out to wet her lips. "You want me to kiss you to get answers to my questions?"

"I was thinking more a question for a question, but I'm fine with your idea."

She shakes her head quickly. "No, question for a question sounds good to me."

I must be twisted because the more she tries to pull away, the more I want to kiss her. Maybe there's something to that whole hard-to-get thing after all.

"First question," I say. "What are you afraid of?"

"What do you mean? Like spiders? Heights?"

I smile. "No. I mean what are you afraid of with me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I trail my fingers along the smooth skin of her jaw and cup her cheek. "You want me. I know you do. But every time you get too close, you run. So what about me scares you so bad?"

She exhales, and her breath fans over my mouth, teasing me.

"It's not you. Not really."

"It's not you, it's me? That's what you're going with?"

"I should have said it's not completely you. You're intimidating, definitely. But it's more that . . . I don't know what I want."

I use my other arm still around her waist to tug her body tighter against mine. "Liar. If the number of times you've looked at my mouth in the last minute is any indication, you know exactly what you want."

"I can't trust that. Myself. Have you ever woken up one day and realized that you're not who you thought you were? That you have no idea who you really are? Because I have. And it's awful. To not be able to trust your own mind. And I can't think about what I want because I'm too busy trying to find the rug that was pulled out from beneath my feet."

"Sounds to me like you're thinking too much."

"I have to think. Otherwise, how can I-"

"No, you don't, babe. I might not know much, but I know the things that matter, the things you love . . . you don't have to think about that. You just know." Like I know that I'd do whatever it takes to stay on the team. Because it's what I want . . . more than I want to party and have a good time, more than anything. "Fact is, knowing what you want and knowing who you are . . . those are two separate things. One is complicated. The other isn't. You're trying to take something simple and make it hard, and there are enough hard things in life without you adding more for yourself."

She closes her eyes on a sigh, and her lashes are so long against her pink cheeks. She says, "I don't actually think you need me to help you. You've got a better handle on things than I do."

"Not true. You might think too much, but I don't think enough."

Her gaze meets mine again, and this time she's smiling.

"Maybe we can both learn a thing or two from each other."

"Deal," I say.

"Deal?"

"You help me get my life back on track, help me turn things around, and I'll help you figure out what you want."

"And I suppose in your plan, us sleeping together is the first step to figuring out what I want?"

"It's an option."

"Silas . . ."

"When I look at you, I see a girl who has it all together, laced up tight like mistake isn't even a word you know. But I think you're starting to suffocate. I think that's why you got arrested Friday, why you came with me, because you needed to breathe." Her top knots by her neck in a silky bow, and I pull on one of the strings, undoing it. She doesn't stop me.

"Don't you think this will only complicate things?"

"Not if you let simple things stay simple. We don't have to sleep together, not to figure out what you want. I could just touch you. Because Jesus, Dylan, I've never cared less about my problems than when I had my fingers inside you. I think I could forget the whole world if I had my tongue there instead."

And if I were really inside her, inside that tight heat, Christ, I'm aching just thinking about it. She swallows, and when I run my hand down her neck, I can feel her pulse fluttering wildly beneath her skin.

"Silas . . ."

I wait for her to continue, but she doesn't, and I'm fine with that because I like the way she says my name. Breathy and sweet.

I run my thumb over her pulse again and again, and I know she feels the pull just as strong as I do.

"Don't think," I tell her. "Not this time. Go deeper. What do you want? Not what should you want. You want me gone, push me away. You want me here, pull me closer. Simple as that."

"Simple," she repeats.

Then she kisses me.

It's tentative at first, but she doesn't hesitate when I open my mouth against hers. She tastes just as sweet as I remember, and her tongue slides against mine, hot and needy. Her hands on my chest slip down to grip my waist, and that glide of skin against skin is so damn good. But not enough. Not even close.

I press her back against the counter, and these athletic shorts do nothing to disguise how much I want her. My hardening cock pushes against her belly, and she breaks the kiss to lean back onto the counter and look up at me. I imagine her that way on my bed, propped up on her elbows, waiting for me to crawl up her body.

Now that the bow on her top is undone, I can see that the line of buttons extends all the way up to her neck. She looks so prim and proper, and it drives me fucking crazy. I just want to rip those buttons off, but the shirt probably costs more than most of my belongings combined. Instead, I carefully slip the first button out of its hole. She doesn't move, only stares up at me, so I undo a second one.

"You look like you're thinking again, Pickle."

Her hands fly up to my chest again, and she pushes me back a few inches, enough that she can stand up straight instead of leaning back to look me in the eye.

"I swear to God if you call me that again, I'm walking right out the door."

A smile stretches across my face, and I don't know how she does it. How she pushes everything away until she's the only thing left in my head. Before she knocked on my door, my head was so fucking dark . . . I'm not sure what I would have done.

"That sounds a little like someone is catching their breath."

I grip the counter on either side of her and push forward. Her arms bend until they're trapped between our chests. I lean in until our mouths are inches apart, until I can taste her breath.

Quietly, I ask. "You want me, Dylan?"

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth for a second, and when she lets go, it's wet and rosy, and I want to pull it between my teeth, too.

"You don't have to have everything figured out. God knows, I don't. I'm just asking about right now, in this moment. Do you want me?"

Instead of trying to push me away again, the hands on my chest smooth upward. Then slowly, she slides her hands around my neck until my chest is flat against that smooth, silky shirt.

"Of course I want you. Have you seen you?"

"I see you."

She swallows, and her eyes bore into mine when she replies, "Yeah, I think you do."

I pull away enough to pop open another button, revealing the top of her cleavage. She shifts closer, and she's soft everywhere I'm hard, and the friction turns my spine into a live wire.

"For the record, I still think this might be a bad idea."

"For the record, I think it's the best idea I've ever had."

Her fingers trace lightly back and forth over the back of my neck, and I'm a ticking time bomb. Each stroke makes my fuse a little bit shorter, and I need to get those buttons undone before I forget about not destroying her shirt.

With an agility and speed that I was missing today in practice, I have the rest of her buttons undone and her shirt open in seconds. Her bra is this pale purple that cups her small breasts perfectly. Her narrow waist flares out into curvy hips covered by a snug skirt. I can't decide whether I want the skirt off or hiked up around her waist.

Deciding on the latter, I grip her hips and lift her up onto the kitchen counter. There's a certain appeal in seeing her still in those fancy clothes, but pulled and bunched and revealed however I can manage. I love to see her go from pristine to disheveled all because of me. Slowly, I push the edge of her skirt up her thighs. When I can't move it any farther, I say, "Lift up your hips."

She wets her bottom lip, and my cock twitches at the sight. Her nerves just kick up my adrenaline. I give her a few seconds to adjust, taking two steps back to look at her.

She snaps her legs closed and sits up straight. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to decide exactly what I want to do to you."

She hunches over, shaking her head and laughing under her breath. "It's like you're trying to give me a heart attack."

"I don't want to give you a heart attack. I want to make you come. The question is just how."