Maintaining any professionalism between us has been a slow, painful torture that has had me leaving every session on edge, desperate for a way to release the escalating sexual tension. 
I should text him back and ask if he's sure, or maybe I should clarify what he means or wants. 
You should come over. 
The text turns blue on my phone before I consider the full implications of what I've done. With one message, I'm starting an affair with the much younger star player of the Bellerive Bullets. 
I drop my phone onto the couch, suddenly realizing that my sleep shorts and my braless tank top might not be how I want to greet him. 
Then the doorbell sounds, and I check the time on my phone. I'm an idiot. Of course he'd be almost here when he texted. Classic Logan. If he's caving to the parameters I've set, he knows I'm a sure thing. He plays to win.
Screw it. I'll answer the door just like this.
I leave my phone on the couch, and I go to the front entrance. When I open the door, I leave my hand stretched along the edge. Backlit from the house, my paper thin florescent yellow sleep outfit is probably close to transparent. Provocative confidence that feels familiar and foreign settles over me. Did I used to be like this? Or do I just wish I had been?
A slow smile spreads across Logan's face. He doesn't even try to hide how his gaze travels over me, taking in my outfit, lingering on my breasts that have puckered either from the night air or him—probably both. 
"Waiting for me?" he asks.
"For you to come to your senses?" I ask, matching his cocky grin. "One hundred percent."
He steps across the threshold, and one of his arms eases around my waist, drawing me flush against him. He peers down at me, but emotions are flickering across his face in a pattern I can't quite decode.
"Tell me what you're agreeing to by coming here, Logan."
"We're not hiding. But we're casual, even if it's just you and me. End of this season, we're done. No matter what. I can't waste your time." He swallows after the last line, as though it's the hardest for him to reconcile. 
"Perfect," I agree, even though my stomach sinks at the finality of what we've agreed. We're not a good long-term fit, but I've never been the type to have meaningless sex. 
Out with the old and in with the new, I guess.
He walks us back another step, his hand never leaving the small of my back, keeping me secure against him. With his foot, he kicks the front door closed. Then he leans back to lock it before his other hand slides into my hair, and he searches my face.
It's criminal how much I love looking at him. There's something about his build paired with his minty smell and connected to the way his eyes often seem hungry for the sight of me that breaks through all the barriers around sexual desire that I tried to erect after Dalton.
When I left Dalton, I wasn't sure if or when I'd be ready to trust another man with my body. Seemed impossible a few short months ago. 
"I got the terms of our agreement right?" he asks.
"You did."
"Does that mean I get to kiss you now?"
"It means you get to kiss me anytime you want until the end of the season."
He lets out a low groan, and I expect him to sweep me into his arms, devouring me whole. But he doesn't.
Instead of giving into the fierce desire, he rubs his nose gently against mine, and he draws us closer in the tiniest increments, his hand tightening in my hair, as though he's waiting for me to change my mind. Given the back and forth that we've had so far, I can't blame him.