Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(41)

His laughter dies off. His eyes search mine.

I stare up at him, my hands slipping between us to the tightest knot of fabric stuck low between our hips. “Not so funny now?”

He laughs nervously. “It’s uh…” He swallows, tries to shift, which rubs our bodies together again. I hiss in a breath as his eyes snap shut. “Maybe not as funny as I originally thought.”

“Exactly,” I say through clenched teeth, attacking the knot between us. “Now be still.”

For once, Oliver does as I ask, quiet, hands braced on either side of my head, as my hands make slow progress on the sheets, my knuckles brushing his flat stomach, making it jerk. Our breaths echo in the room. I glance up and watch his throat work in a swallow, fresh sweat beading down his skin.

Peering back down, I keep my eyes on my task and scour my brain for something horrible to knock down my erection, but nothing—nothing—is working. If Oliver’s trying what I am, he’s just as unsuccessful.

We’re both as hard as when all this started, which I try very much not to think about.

Unfortunately it’s all I can think about.

Finally, the knot gives. And then Oliver Bergman moves faster than I have ever seen him, flying in a tangle of white sheets streaking behind him as he races toward the bathroom. “First dibs on the shower!” he yells.

The door slams.

I lie on the floor, willing my dick down, praying my body can forget what just happened.

It’s absolutely hopeless.





I’m dressed and ready when Oliver reemerges from the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his cheeks flushed. I tell myself that’s from a hot shower, though the chances he took a hot shower when it’s still sweltering in our room and he had an iron-hard erection are virtually nil.

I turn away, giving him privacy while pretending I’m actually reading the emails that roll in on my phone.

And then a few minutes later, he’s there, close behind me, that familiar clean, warm scent wafting from his skin, chewing the last of a banana.

I turn back as we both say, “Sorry.”

Oliver shakes his head as he tosses the peel in the wastebasket. “It’s okay. It was an accident.”

I nod. “Right.”

He glances away, cheeks heating, an infuriating smile on his face. He snorts a laugh.

“It’s not funny.” I grab the keycard and my bag, then wrench open the door.

He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder, strolling past me out into the hallway. “It’s kinda funny.”

“We’re never talking about this ever again. It didn’t happen.”

He wrinkles his nose, staring up at the ceiling and completely ignoring me. “What I wanna know is, how did we move that many pillows? I mean you had a veritable pillow Fort Knox between us.”

“Bergman. Drop it.”

He lifts his hand in surrender, and we stroll down the rest of the hallway in silence. When we get to the elevator, there’s music playing, a funk song that Oliver starts shimmying to, before he transitions to the chicken dance and uses his elbow to hit the button.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Lots,” he says matter-of-factly. “But while using my elbow might look funny, it is good hygiene. Buttons, handles, doorknobs are germ central.”

The elevator door opens with a ding, and I gently shove him in. “Captains of professional soccer teams don’t do the chicken dance.”

“This one here does. And the moonwalk.” Oliver slides backward across the elevator. I am dangerously close to smiling.

“I’m embarrassed for you.”

“C’mon, Hayes.” He starts doing the floss. “It’s the only way we’re going to get past the awkward. We gotta dance our way there.”

“Absolutely not.”

He spins on his heels and starts the running man.

I bite my cheek and stare up at the ceiling. “You’re a menace.”

“But a smooth-moving one,” he says on a wink. The door dings, and he moonwalks his way out of it, then promptly spins and straightens up professionally, a breezy smile in place. “Good morning, Donald!” he calls to the guy at the front desk.

“How the fuck do you know his name?”

“He’s got this thing he’s wearing called a nametag. You need spectacles, Hayes?”

I squint at it. The nametag’s a blur. “The fuck you can read that.”

“Believe it, my friend. Believe!”

“Bergman.” I yank him by the collar toward the breakfast room. “Food first. Football later.”

“Ah, right.”

From there, the morning is a merciful blur of a bus ride and my pregame ritual of Tiger Balm and ice, wraps and braces, then warming up at the stadium.

Oliver is incorrigibly upbeat by the time we’re out on the field, making the guys laugh, even putting Coach at ease long enough to smile at him before she returns to huddling over her clipboard with Rico and Jas.

Out of habit, she looks my way when it’s time to round everyone up.

I’m about to holler my usual and get the team together, but watching Oliver, I pause. And then I call his name instead.

He glances up, then jogs over. “What’s up, co-cap?”

I blink at him, searching his expression. That’s when I see it, what’s hiding beneath the wide smile, the dance moves, and nonstop chatter. He’s nervous.