“Tell me what it is you want from me, Danika. Explain it to me. Slow.”

Her teeth grazed the soft, plump flesh of her lower lip, and he felt the action in his fucking balls. Her gaze flicked over to the boys watching them, then back to Zaf. She spoke so quietly he barely heard her. “I want to sleep with you, Zafir. Don’t take it personally, though.” Her smile was painfully sexy and as sharp as an arrow. It certainly burst his bubble.

No. You’ve always known how she operates. Don’t be disappointed with the sun for setting.

Zaf took a breath as his hopes rearranged themselves into common sense. So Dani had nothing more than sex on the brain—he’d have been foolish to expect anything different, and Zaf refused to be a fool. Here was the bottom line: she wanted him back, at least in one way, and that was hot enough to singe his doubts. Everything in life didn’t have to be black-and-white, did it? There was something between searching for happily ever after and outright celibacy, wasn’t there? He certainly fucking hoped so, because it had been a year since his last relationship and right now his dick was so hard, he felt like it might break. Which definitely couldn’t be healthy.

He leaned closer to Dani, mostly to make sure his hard-on was hidden by the shadows between them. But the arm he’d rested on the back of her chair brushed her shoulders, and she sucked in a breath at the contact.

His focus on her sharpened, and he saw a lust in her eyes that felt as animal as his. She was beautiful, her chest moving with each heavy exhalation, her plump lips parted, the tip of her tongue wet and pink between her teeth. Honey-brown irises swallowed up by hungry, black pupils, her nostrils flaring, her hands gripping the desk. Coming apart at the seams right in front of him, each of her unraveled threads wrapping around him like silk.

Fuck it. Fuck overthinking, fuck playing it safe, fuck saying no when the yes on the tip of his tongue had never tasted so good. He was going to fuck her, and they were both going to enjoy it, and that would be enough. It would have to be enough. He would make it enough, because the roar of lust in him right now was louder than his usual feelings about sex. Wasn’t it?

You can’t do this, Zafir, said a voice in the back of his head. He pretended that voice was anxiety instead of reason, and shoved it out a window.

Then he ran a fingertip over her jaw, savoring the way her lashes fluttered and her gaze grew heavy. For him. She wanted him, bad enough that the ghost of a whimper fell from her lips, and holy fuck, it’d be a miracle if he left this library without coming all over himself.

Don’t do that. Seriously, don’t do that. The administration might be disinterested in #DrRugbae so far, but they’d definitely pay attention if he jizzed in his pants on university property.

Zaf let go of her and turned away to catch his breath, focusing on the food they’d abandoned on the table. “Later,” he told her quietly. His own voice sounded alien to him, rough as sandpaper and thick with suffocating need. He stole a glance at the group of boys a table away, just to remind himself they were there. That did the trick. The reckless fist of desire squeezing his brain eased its grip, and he could think clearly again.

“Later,” Dani echoed, her voice high and faint. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t. But that voice tightened the coil of need in his stomach.

“Tonight, after work,” he decided, then picked up his bagel. Bread was boring. Bread would help.

“I can’t,” she said.

Fuck.

“I told my sisters we’d have dinner together, and I—I don’t cancel on my sisters.”

Warm, sweet fondness flooded his blood, softening the bite of disappointment. Danika, he’d noticed, loved her sisters. A lot. Enough to remind Zaf of his brother, of the way they’d been, thick as thieves despite a seven-year age gap, together forever until the day they weren’t.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said softly. “Have dinner with your sisters. And give me tomorrow.”

He wouldn’t waste it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SUBJECT: Titans Coach 2011

Hi Zaf,

Not sure if you’ll remember me, but I coached you for a while back when you played for the Titans. Always thought it was a shame how you left. Hope the family’s doing better.

Anyway, my kid showed me your hashtag (a doctor, huh? Nice) and we found your charity’s website. Looks good. I coach the under-sixteens now and I was wondering if you offer the emotional workshop stuff without the coaching, since we’ve already got that covered. Let me know and maybe we can talk.

Best,

Mac Stevens

Before this whole viral video thing, Zaf had spent his evenings after work coaching the kids at Jamal’s foundation, planning new workshop sessions, and stumbling through requests for funding from various trusts. Ever since he’d become one-half of a viral hashtag, he’d also started reading articles on social media marketing and checking his emails every half hour for journalists who wanted a quote.

Mac’s message blew that routine out of the water, though.

Zaf read it for the third time, or maybe the fourth, or maybe the twenty-fifth. His first urge was to pick up the phone and call Danika, but that was fucking ridiculous. For one thing, she was busy with her sisters tonight. For another, he was trying not to think about her too much in case he accidentally talked himself out of sleeping with her, which was exactly the kind of travesty his anxious mind was capable of if he didn’t watch himself. And then there was the most important part: Dani would have no idea why an email from the coach of his old pro team had Zaf so conflicted. Because there was a lot she didn’t know.

Like how messed up Zaf had been after Dad and Zain Bhai had died—or the fact they’d died at all. How he’d closed himself off from everything and everyone, letting his dream slip through his fingers because he’d been too numb to want it anymore. How hard he’d worked to get past the grief, to get a handle on his anxiety, to let go of his anger and his regrets. That wasn’t the kind of thing you shared with a woman when you were trying to, er, maintain emotional distance or whatever. That was the exact fucking opposite of what you shared.

So Zaf put his phone on the coffee table, firmly out of reach, and studied the email again. Maybe he should think back to his old therapy sessions—hell, to the techniques he taught in his own workshops—and try to untangle his knotted feelings.

Or maybe he should stick to his usual coping mechanism, tried and tested, of shutting down this blast from the past before it could do any damage. After all, Zaf had survived by drawing lines. His old life had been thrown off a cliff when his family shattered, but they were better now. Someone from the section of his life labeled Before reaching out to him in the Now wasn’t a bad thing, but it was—it could be—complicated. No need to blur the edges between the old and the new when he’d done so well at leaving the past behind.

In the end, he clicked away from the email. He didn’t delete it, though. He’d . . . think. He needed to think.

But not right now. Right now he answered more emails from press and cautiously interested schools, focusing on the progress he’d made, his overheated laptop burning his knees and a slow smile curving his lips. This publicity thing was working. It was really, actually working. And tomorrow he was going to touch Danika Brown, which he probably shouldn’t include on his mental list of accomplishments, except it definitely felt like an accomplishment, so—

A knock reverberated through the flat, jerking Zaf out of his thoughts. He closed his laptop, abandoning emails and Twitter notifications, and headed to the door, already knowing who it was.

“Evening, mate.” Jamal was like a river: calm, steady, and powerful enough to wear away mountains. As soon as the door opened, he wormed his way into the flat, went directly to the living room, plonked himself down on the sofa, and opened Zaf’s laptop.

“Yeah, make yourself comfortable,” Zaf muttered.

“Cheers. Put the kettle on.”

“Go fuck yourself. What are you doing here?” He sat down, then realized Jamal had already logged into the computer. “And since when do you know my password?”

“Bonkers, right?” Jamal deadpanned. “Who could’ve guessed your password would be Fatima2001?”

“Shut up.”

“And I’m here to take over your social media for a bit, since all your replies sound like they came from a waiter at the end of an eight-hour shift.”

“Oh, piss off,” Zaf said, but there was no heat in his voice. Jamal was right, and he was grateful for the assist. “Er . . . thanks.”

Jamal rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to respond. “By the way, Zafir—”

“Zafir? What, did I stack your cones up wrong or something?”

“—when were you going to tell me,” Jamal went on, “that you and Doctor What’s-Her-Face are pretending to date?”

“Never,” Zaf lied cheerfully. “But, since you mentioned it—who did tell you?”

Jamal looked shifty.