*Jane*

Noah doesn’t even bother showering at the stadium.

We barely greet anyone before we disappear to his car. My hand is on the back of his neck playing with the hair scraping his nape, and his one hand rests on my thigh, ever so often sliding up higher than it really needs to. The hand he keeps on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, his grip tightening every time I find a new sensitive spot on his neck to play with.

The ...