Second Dive: A Second Chance Sports Romance (Kings Of The Water Book 3)

by Jasmin Miller

  "Noah?"

  That voice.

  That damn voice that torments me, even in my dreams.

  I wait for a heartbeat before I turn around—just to immediately wish I hadn't. Because Chloe’s in only a workout T-shirt and shorts.

  Both are tight. So very tight.

  Just like my balls all of a sudden.

  I hate them. Loathe them.

  Of course, my body has to betray me when it comes to the one woman that’s on our shit list.

  "Sorry, I'm a mess. I just got done working out." She brushes her hands over her hair, trying to calm the flyaways. Unsuccessfully so.

  "You work out? Voluntarily?"

  Her mouth twitches before a chuckle escapes. "Yeah. Every day, actually. Who would’ve thought, right?"

  Something feels off about her voice, her smile never fully reaching her eyes, but what do I know? She's clearly not the same person she was ten years ago, and why should she be? Neither am I.

  "Right." I try not to flinch when I hear the bite in my voice.

  She hasn't done anything—at least not since she came back—but I can't seem to let go of my past anger. How can I still feel so . . . much after all this time?

  It’s suffocating.

  My muscles clench, trying to erase some of the tension in my body. My hands form into fists by my side, almost crushing the book in my hand. Wait a second. The book.

  With almost stiff movements, I lift my hand and wave the book in front of me like I’ve lost my mind. Which might be a pretty solid representation of my current state of confusion.

  Chloe slaps a hand over her mouth, her already red face turning a shade darker. But this time, it’s not from working out. Nope. If I had to guess, my money would be on the half-naked guy on the book cover. And the ripped bodice. Let’s not forget about that little detail.

  “Whoops. That must have fallen out of my bag in your car.” The words are muffled since she still hasn’t taken her hand off her mouth.

  “Uh-huh. Must have.” My eyes track her every move as her gaze flitters between the book in my hand, my face, and the ground.

  Why can’t I look away? Why do I still feel the same pull that was like second nature to me all those years ago? I always thought it had something to do with being in love. Something extra mushy you tell yourself only happens because you’re a teenager and your hormones are out of fucking control.

  I can’t say I’ve dated a ton over the years—at least no lasting relationships—but I’ve not once come close to feeling any sort of pull to any of the other women. Not the way I did with Chloe.

  And here we are. The devil from my past gets thrown back into my life in more than just one way and zap, that intense feeling is back.

  But this time, it feels almost cruel. Bitter. With an underlying thrill to it, which marks another notch on my way to officially becoming a masochist.

  And who needs that?

  Being around her clearly screws with my brain.

  Her hand stretches out toward me, palm up, and I stare at it like the idiot I am.

  “I’m so sorry about leaving that behind.”

  Oh, she wants the book. Of course.

  She takes it from me and almost drops it when I pull my hand away too quickly. Anything to try and avoid touching her.

  Her gaze lands on the cover and she snorts. “Historical romances are my mom’s other new obsession, besides puzzles. I totally forgot I got this for her too.”

  “Oh.”

  “Thanks for dropping it off. You didn’t have to come by just for that.”

  Right. She still doesn’t know I live across the street.

  “No problem.” Nope, still not telling her.

  “And thanks again for last night too. I really appreciate your help with everything. Your uncle called earlier. He doesn’t have the part he needs at the shop, but he’s already ordered it for me. That means the car won’t be ready until Monday, but at least he said it’s an easy fix, so I can’t complain.”

  “That’s good.” I push my hands into my athletic shorts. Why am I still here? “You can ride with me to the hospital later.”

  Fuck. Why did I just say that?

  Her eyes widen. “Oh.” She brushes her hand down her neck. “No worries, I already have a ride, but thank you.”

  I nod. Thank God she does. Right?

  Hopefully, it’s someone trustworthy.

  “Well . . .”

  “Hey, I know this sounds lame, but I was just about to push the button on the blender, and you’ve always loved smoothies. Would you like to come inside and have a shake? I always double the recipe. I promise it’s delicious and super healthy.” The words rush out of her mouth, and she bites on her lower lip when she’s done.

  My mind is blank.

  A total shutdown.

  “As a thank-you for all your help. It’s the least I can do.” Her eyebrows move up in question.

  My brain finally reboots, powering up with a big, fat “Fuck no, absolutely not,” as I lift my shoulders and say, “Sure.”

  I mentally shake my head at whatever part of me that’s acting like a total loser. I’ve lost sight of who’s in charge of me right now, but it certainly isn’t the rational part of my brain. To make a point, and show my utter displeasure, I scowl like my life depends on it.

  Since it doesn’t seem to deter Chloe, I follow her into the house, keeping my eyes up, on the back of her head. That’s a safe spot. I will absolutely not look at her ass. No fucking way.

  The kitchen is just around the corner. It’s small and clean. Simple. Wooden cabinets, light countertop. A few random items strewn around. The backyard is just beyond the window and patio door, flooding the kitchen in bright morning light.

  “Let me just get this started quick.” Chloe picks up the blender from the other side of the counter where she must have put the ingredients together.

  The blender base is right next to where I’m standing by the stove, and I barely move out of the way before she touches me when she clicks the jar into the base.

  Her finger pushes the smoothie button as she turns toward me, and that’s all I remember for the next few seconds as total chaos descends on us.

  “Oh my gosh!” Chloe squeals, her hands flailing around amidst the smoothie attack. She bumps into me as we both try to shield our faces from the liquid the blender continues to throw at us and pretty much everywhere else in the kitchen.

  I beat her to the button by a second, and the monster machine turns off.

  Our gazes collide, both of us wide-eyed and looking like . . . I’m not even sure like what. We look hideous, that’s for sure. Covered in muddy-green goop that’s dripping down our hair, skin, and clothes.

  Chloe looks back at the offending machine. “I swear I pushed the lid on tight. At least, I thought I did.”

  When her gaze meets mine again, I press my lips together.

  I mean, what is this? After all the strange meetups in the past week with this woman. Now this. And it was supposed to be her thank-you to me, and look at the mess.

  Is this the universe’s way of telling me to listen to my inner voice that’s telling me to turn the other way whenever Chloe is involved? Because that voice sounds incredibly legit, now more than ever. It actually couldn’t be any louder. Yet, here I am. Ignoring it over and over.

  Neither one of us moves, too shell-shocked.

  And then Chloe laughs. Full-on laughter accompanied by her signature snort. She laughs so hard, that after only a few seconds, she’s gasping for air. Right before she slaps her hands on her thighs several times. Something she’s always done when she has a laughing fit like this. She also manages to fling some more smoothie my way, hitting me almost in the eye with it.

  Me, on the other hand . . . all I can do is stare at her. It sounds so much like the Chloe I knew. It’s subtle, and I’m almost ready to admit that I miss it—miss her—but I’m not there yet. However, under the surface, something shifts inside of me.

  Thin
gs have always been effortless with her, and I suddenly crave it like nothing else. This easiness. The familiarity. Something that isn’t loaded with a ton of pressure and a million responsibilities or expectations like everything else in my life seems to come with these days.

  Swimming used to be easy for me. It used to be my happy place where I could let go of everything and just be. But something has changed there too in the last year. It’s started to feel lonely. Too lonely.

  Damn it, my sister was right. My whole life’s started to feel lonely. Even with all the people in my life. Not only do I help my sister with her two sons a lot, but there’s also the guys, my swim buddies Ryan, Jace, and Hunter.

  But since Ryan and Jace have found their other halves and welcomed kids into the world, and Hunter’s been more busy than usual too, I haven’t seen as much of them as I used to.

  And there really isn’t anyone or anything else.

  Sure, there are my parents, but since Daisy and I have left the nest, so to speak, they’ve been traveling the world a lot. Working with charities, making rural areas in Third World countries a better place. Their work is admirable, and important, but it’s definitely not the same without them here.

  Which means my life has mostly revolved around watching my family and friends move forward with their lives. Taking steps I once thought I’d someday take too. Witnessing it firsthand has only amplified how stagnant my life has become.

  Chloe hiccups. “I’m so incredibly sorry, Noah. I don’t know what to say.”

  I hear her words, but my mind is still busy with my latest realization.

  Do I have any “old” friends I could add back to my life?

  Chloe is an old friend.

  Could I ever be friends again with her?

  This is messing with my head.

  As if to prove a point, she touches my chest, and a current of electricity zaps through my body.

  “I can’t believe I made such a mess.”

  My thoughts exactly. Although, I’m not sure she’s talking about now or what she did to me ten years ago.

  Eleven

  Chloe

  I didn’t mean to touch him.

  I mean, I kind of did, but not in an I-want-to-rub-myself-all-over-him way. But that’s exactly what my body is yelling at me to do right now.

  Rubbing, rubbing, and some more rubbing. With lots of touching in between.

  Knowing that’s the last thing Noah wants is a huge help though. He’s scowled at me over fifty percent of the time, which is an excellent indicator that we haven’t gotten anywhere.

  Not to mention, he openly admitted yesterday that he doesn’t like me.

  Can’t get more transparent than that.

  But that’s my doing, and I have to live with it.

  Obviously, my brilliant idea to give thanks in a small way by offering him some of my smoothie—as strange as that sounds—couldn’t have gone more wrong.

  Now we both look like mud monsters, and I’m sure we’ll smell like some sooner or later too.

  Somewhere in this whole debacle, I snatched a towel to dabble at his chest. Which I’m still doing. My hands are on autopilot, and I'm not sure there’s an end in sight. Because it’s not awkward enough yet.

  But I also haven’t been this close to a guy in way too long, and despite the smoothie-smell—that's slowly taking over my sense buds—I’m weirdly enough enjoying this moment.

  Maybe, I should find a therapist here after all. Can’t hurt to check. My last therapist can attest that I'm a stellar client.

  “Chloe.” Noah’s raised voice pulls me out of my thoughts, a second before his hands grab my wrists.

  He’s touching me, actually touching me—not just pulling me off him or pushing me away—and I shiver, especially when I glance away from the spot where he's holding me and up to his face. Our gazes lock, and I go weak in the knees.

  This man has always done it for me. From the first moment until the end, and actually well beyond that. And seeing him again has only confirmed my suspicions from the last few years . . . No other man will ever consume me the way he does.

  Too bad I’m not looking for anything long-term. It's just not in the cards for me.

  If it was, Noah would definitely be in my number-one spot. That is, if he stopped disliking me and actually wanted me.

  Yet, knowing all of that, it’s still impossible to ignore the electricity that almost vibrates under my skin from his touch. His thumb sits right on my pulse point as the current zips its way up my arm and through the rest of my body like it’s supposed to light me up from the inside. Maybe I'll start glowing from the sheer power of it soon.

  “Stop rubbing my shirt, it’s fine.” He still isn’t smiling at me, but at least his scowl is gone. Mostly.

  The smoothie has started to dry in places, and it looks like we’re having an awkward—and very unplanned—spa day.

  Definitely no thanks-so-much-for-everything feelings going on here.

  My gaze flickers to his filthy shirt for a second. "You can't get in your car like this. You'll get everything dirty."

  He could always take off his shirt, of course, but somehow, I don’t think he’d appreciate that suggestion.

  He huffs. "Don't worry about my car."

  "What? Why?" I swear there was more I wanted to say but he's started rubbing his thumbs across my wrists, and it's distracting as hell.

  The motion is barely noticeable, but my body is on high alert.

  What is happening? I feel like I've entered the Twilight Zone.

  My eyes aren't sure where to look, flicking back and forth between his face and the spots where his big hands encircle my much smaller wrists.

  Then his movement stops. When I notice that his gaze is fixated on my left wrist, I realize my mistake. Major mistake.

  I try to pull my hands out of his, but he only tightens his grip.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Chloe, what is this?” His voice has dropped an octave, a dangerous edge to it.

  I ignore it. I ignore him. Continuing to pull.

  “Stop trying to get away and answer my question.”

  Sweat starts to form at the back of my neck, but I stop moving. I push away the sensation of not being able to get enough oxygen into my lungs and inhale deeply. Only then do I meet his gaze and immediately wish I hadn’t. The intensity of it heats up my body even more as adrenaline floods my system like it has an expiration date and needs to be used up right this second.

  Despite everything, I lift my chin and ignore his flaring nostrils and dull eyes that don’t blink. With one more hard yank, I finally get out of his grasp and get some distance between us, almost slipping on the messy floor.

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I refuse to look away first. “It’s nothing.”

  The words didn’t come out as strong as I wanted them to.

  “What . . . the . . . fuck . . . is that on your wrist?” Noah’s words are quiet, but so piercing, they reverberate through every particle of my soul.

  He takes a step toward me, and I take one back, which puts me flush against the kitchen counter. If he comes even closer, there’s nowhere for me to go. Unless I try to get around him to make a run for it. And let’s face it, the chances of making it past him are slim to none, especially on the slippery floor.

  Thankfully, he stops.

  Looking up at the ceiling, he clasps his hands behind the back of his neck and takes several deep breaths. “Was it you? Did you do it?”

  The backs of my eyes burn.

  Why did I invite him inside my house? Stupid. I shouldn’t be so close to him. Even less so when we’re alone.

  I wanted to apologize to him, and I did that last week at the restaurant. That should have been the end for us. For good this time.

  The fact that we work together on the volunteer project was unexpected, but we’re adults, so what the heck. We can manage to co-exist and work together for a few weeks, right?

  But this . . . it’s a lot.r />
  It’s too much when all I want to do is curl into a ball and have him hold me.

  To have him soothe my many wounds, especially the ones invisible to the naked eye. I have plenty of those too, but they don’t hurt nearly as much as the ones I hide on the inside.

  His hands fall back to his sides, his posture sagging like he’s about to fall in on himself.

  Why does that make me want to comfort him?

  This is all so screwed up.

  And so confusing.

  His Adam’s apple bobs several times before he clears his throat. “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He bares his teeth at me, and his clenched fists are almost vibrating next to his body. “The fuck it does.”

  “Noah, please.”

  He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to crush his teeth.

  When he opens his eyes again, they are softer. Only marginally, but it’s better than nothing. “You can’t expect me to just walk out of here and ignore the fact that you have a scar on your wrist from cutting yourself. It doesn’t matter if you cover it up with a tattoo, it’s still right fucking there.”

  “I know.”

  My thoughts are all over the place, and it’s hard to focus on any one of them. The past mixes with the present. The present mixes with the past. It’s too much.

  A moment later, my ears start ringing, and I’m a little lightheaded. I lean more of my weight against the kitchen counter and put my hands on it for extra support. “I’m . . . I’m sorry about your clothes. Let me know if you need me to pay for anything or want me to clean them or whatever.”

  He sends me a murderous look.

  We’re both a total mess, and Noah and I stare at each other for a prolonged moment. It’s awkward. It’s strange, yet familiar. Overwhelming. Comforting. How is that even possible?

  Have I thought about what it would be like to see him again after so long? To talk to him as my friend? To confide in him? To fill in the many gaps of our time apart? Of course, I have. Plenty of times.

  But the whole time, I was so focused on figuring out the words that I needed to apologize. That was my top priority and made me anxious enough. I didn’t think much beyond that point.