Next Time, Longer [Flashback]

Next Time, Longer [Flashback]
The campus parking lot was almost empty that evening. The sky was a pale orange, the cars lined up lazily as if waiting for their owners to come back, and all I wanted was to get into mine, blast music, and erase every last word Rosa had just dumped into my brain.
My hand had just touched the door handle when something..no, someone, wrapped both arms around my waist from behind. 
My breath caught on instinct, my body tensing. Every muscle was ready to twist around and land a punch on whoever was stupid enough to try this.
“Easy, Gee…” The low voice came right at my ear, warm and rough. “Don’t kill me.”
I turned my head just enough to see those gray eyes looking at me over a smile way too relaxed for someone who was seconds away from getting decked.
 “Do you want to die?” I said sharply.
He let out a quiet laugh, the sound like a lazy guitar string being plucked. “Not die… just making sure you remember my face before tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” I asked, trying to pry his arms off. No use. They were solid as steel but warm, holding me in place like a trap.
“The game,” he said, his mouth dangerously close to my ear. “You’re coming, right?”
I sighed, half annoyed, half—fine—thrown off by the closeness. “I have a life, Milano.”
“You are my life,” he shot back without hesitation, and I could practically feel his smirk without looking.
I rolled my eyes, my heartbeat skipping a little. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he whispered. “You in the stands, me on the field… I guarantee you won’t be able to look away.”
He finally let go, only to turn and lean against my car, blocking my door. One big hand came up, fingers tucking a stray piece of hair away from my face.
“I’m not asking for much. One hour tomorrow. Sit. Watch me. That’s it.”
I stared at him, trying to read what he was really after. But Reagan Milano had one of those faces that always looked like he was plotting something, and worse, he loved making people guess.
“I’ll… think about it,” I said, letting out a rough breath.
His eyes narrowed, then he gave a slow smile. “That means you’re coming.”
Before I could argue, he leaned in, one hand braced on the roof of my car, and brushed his lips against my cheek.
Quick. But enough to set my skin on fire.
Then he pulled back, walking away at an easy pace, leaving me there with my car door open and my heartbeat still a little messed up.
::::
The bleachers were packed that afternoon. Whistles, the roar of the crowd, the pounding of cleats on the turf, it was all too much for a brain trying to stay detached.
I sat in the middle rows, wedged between Naomi and Joy, both of them already hyped.
Joy had somehow brought purple pom-poms. I didn’t even want to know from where.
“I can’t believe you came,” Naomi said, leaning in with a knowing grin.
“Me neither,” I replied, twisting the cap off my water bottle. “Don’t think this means anything.
Right then, the cheers swelled. I glanced at the field, and there he was. Reagan Milano. Helmet in one hand, uniform clinging just right to every hard line in his shoulders, white jersey already streaked with grass stains, and those gray eyes scanning the stands.
His gaze finally landed on me in the crowd, and his mouth curved. Not a wide smile, something smaller, sharper, the kind that said I told you you’d come.
I rolled my eyes, but my gaze stayed on him.
The game moved fast. Reagan running, dodging, catching the ball, and every so often glancing toward the stands. Toward me. And every time our eyes met, something in my chest tugged.
Naomi sighed dramatically. “Okay, if he looks over here one more time, I’m standing up and yelling that you two should get married.”
“Try it,” I warned, even though my cheeks were heating.
The final quarter ended with an explosion of cheers. Final score? Reagan’s team crushed it.
Players hugged, helmets flew into the air, the coach shouted with pride. I stood, ready to blend into the crowd and disappear. Of course, that didn’t happen.
“Gee!”
The voice came from the sideline. Reagan was walking toward me, still sweaty, jersey collar hanging loose, breath heavy, but his eyes locked on mine.
“Not here,” I muttered, but he was already in front of me, one big hand wrapping around my wrist.
He didn’t yank, but his grip was firm enough to pull me toward him, past the railing, down the small steps to the field. Naomi and Joy were laughing like they’d just won the lottery.
“I just wanted to say—” I began, but stopped when he suddenly turned, closing the space between us. His breath was warm, still carrying the edge of post-game adrenaline.
I didn’t even have time to form words before his hand was already at the side of my face, his thumb brushing my temple. And before my brain could put together even one reason why this was a terrible idea… his mouth was on mine. 
It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t innocent either. Just enough pressure to make me take a half-step back, and heat that spread all the way to my fingertips.
The world shrank to the space between us. The cheers in the stands, the sharp blast of the whistle. Gone, swallowed up by the sound of my own pulse pounding in my ears. Reagan’s lips moved with the kind of confidence that made it feel like he knew exactly how to dismantle every defense I had. 
Warm, deep, and a little too intoxicating for a brain that usually prided itself on being rational.
I didn’t even realize when my hands lifted, searching for something to hold on to, until they were looped around his neck. My fingers brushed the warm skin at the back of his neck, felt the damp strands of hair sticking from sweat, and God, I hated it.
…hated how natural this felt.
He shifted slightly, deepening the kiss, his body leaning into mine, that big hand still steady against the side of my face, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone like he was memorizing the shape of it. 
And I… I let myself get pulled under. Just for a second.
Then my brain finally screamed enough. I pulled back, our breaths colliding, my cheeks burning and not just from the cold air.
“Reagan—”
He just stood there, smiling… oh, that smile. Smug and challenging, completely infuriating.
Without thinking, I lifted my hand and gave his cheek a light slap. He laughed low, that deep voice rolling over me like a sweet threat. 
“Next time, you’re kissing me longer,” he said softly, close enough to make me want to shove him away… or pull him back in.
I blinked, trying to school my face into something that didn’t scream exactly how much that had affected me. “Go, Milano. Your team’s waiting.”
He stepped back, but his eyes stayed locked on mine until the last possible moment. Before leaving for good, he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to my temple.
Light, almost innocent....but somehow more dangerous than the one before. Then he turned toward the swarm of teammates shouting his name.
I stood there, breathing unevenly, my lips still burning, and one thought slammed into me like a ball across the field.
Reagan Milano was trouble. And I had just cracked the door open for him.