Her breath catches and she parts her lips. I stare at her, and a flash of color catches my attention. I take a step back, and that’s when I realize what she’s wearing. A jersey. My jersey. With nothing but bare legs underneath it. “What are you—” I run my fingers across the neckline and down the front, tracing the numbers that sit over her chest. She arches her back and her breaths come out in soft, strangled pants. “Why are you wearing my jersey, Maven?” “Because,” she whispers, and her fingers hook in the belt loop of my jeans. “You said it was mine for the rest of the season. It makes me
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