As promised.
But I’m starting to understand that everything I do—or don’t do—this season, will be amplified by the mere fact that I have ovaries. As if they’re my defining characteristic. Like, it’ssohard to believe a woman can kick a ball because she has*gasp*ovaries.
Thank the stars above I’m not a real ballplayer. That crap would get old real fast, and I have more important things to worry about, like my GPA and the upcoming ACME Student Design Competition, now that I’ve popped my football cherry, so to speak.
And it was good. So. Good.
Hell, it was better than sex.
Although, to be fair, Two-Minute Mike wasn’t much to write home about, so my assessment could be skewed. (Seriously, my vibrator gives better orgasms than he ever did.) But when that ball sailed through the upright? The applause was insane. I swear the ground trembled beneath my feet. And the knowledge that all those people were cheering for me? Talk about a head trip. Not that I’m turning into Coop or anything (God forbid), but you know what they say: you never forget your first time.
When I round the corner outside the men’s locker room, freshly showered with my damp hair hanging in limp strands over my shoulders, I’m swallowed up by a sea of bodies. Reid and a few of the guys from the O-line are standing around, messing with their phones and rehashing the game-winning touchdown. The one where Reid punched through the defense to bring it home. It was incredible to watch, his muscular body moving with such speed and agility as he plowed through the defenders. I’m sure there were hot-blooded women all over the stadium wishing for a fan, myself included.
“Just the lady we were waiting for,” Reid says, pushing off the wall and rising to his full height.
He’s wearing a pair of tight jeans and a collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his muscular forearms to reveal a smattering of dark hair. He looks good—all the guys do—making me immediately self-conscious of my worn Converse and the red and black S T-shirt tucked into the front of my cut-off shorts. Reid’s eyes skate over me, and I resist the urge to tug on the hem of my shirt. I do not care what Reid thinks of my wardrobe choices. A fact that bears repeating after we practically had a moment on the sidelines.
A moment I refuse to consider beyond the weird post–field goal high. Because Reid and I? We cannot have a moment for about a billion different reasons, not the least of which is my promise to my mom.
“We’re heading to the Diner to grab dinner and then we’re going to hit up a party at Sig,” he says. “You should come with.”
I hesitate, chewing my bottom lip. I’m starving and the Diner has the best milkshakes in town, but partying? With the football team? So not my scene. And they’ll definitely make a scene. Freshly showered—possibly in cologne if my burning nostrils are any indication—and dressed to kill, they look like they’re ready to go hard.
Hell, they look like postcoital bliss and bad decisions.
Definitely a combination I can do without. Especially with the lines starting to blur, with Reid jamming himself into my life—my thoughts—at every turn.
“My treat,” Reid says, fixing me with the dimpled smile that’s my kryptonite. “Thanks for a job well done today.”
I can feel the expectant gazes of my teammates, although my eyes are locked on Reid. They expect me to say yes, to fall in line as if I’m one of them. But the thing is, I’m not. Football is just a means to an end for me, not a lifestyle. Sure, I enjoyed the thrill of the crowd today, but I’m not like them. I thrive on control, order, and commitment.
Not booze, partying, and casual sex.
If I say yes to dinner, I know I’ll let myself be talked into the party. I can already feel interest stirring in my belly, weakening my resolve. It wouldn’t take much, because, honestly? It would be nice to just…let go for a few hours. It’s been ages since I’ve gone out, always too busy or too tired from trying to juggle work, studying, and soccer.
For once, the prospect of warm beer and house music doesn’t sound so bad. Which is exactly why I have to stay strong. This is how it starts. One minute you’re hanging with the guys, playing beer pong and ogling the QB’s ass, the next you’re piecing your heart back together over a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
That’s how it was for my mom, anyway.
“I appreciate the offer,” I say, flashing my teammates what I hope is a friendly smile, “but I’m going to pass. Have fun tonight.”
“Come on.” Reid gives me a nudge, sending a jolt of electricity racing up my arm. “We’re a team. At least have dinner with us.” His eyes are doing that thing again, boring into me like we’rethis closeto having a moment.
Abort! Abort!
“I have to study,” I lie, wrapping my arms around my waist where they’re in no danger of touching Reid again. It’s a lame excuse. Even I know that, because, hello, it’s Saturday night. Plenty of time to study tomorrow, but I’ve thrown it out there and now I have to stick with it.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.Should’ve said I had plans with Becca, which would have been far more believable, but Reid’s touch seems to have temporarily short-circuited my brain.
“Riiight,” he drawls, his voice as smooth as Dove chocolate. Heat rolls off his body, and it’s all I can do not to fan myself. “You have a three-point-nine GPA, one of the highest on the team. I’m pretty sure you could take the night off if you wanted to. Hell, you’ve earned it.”
Indignation flares, burning hot in my belly. “How do you know my GPA? Have you been creeping on me?”
He shrugs, that sexy smile shifting to an infuriating smirk my li—fingers—are just itching to wipe off his face. “No need to creep. I saw the grade book on Coach’s desk.” He laughs, a low rumble that sounds like sex personified, falling from his lips. “It was open.”
I narrow my eyes and plant my hands on my hips, scanning the group of players, all of whom are suddenly balls-deep in their phones. No help there. Not that I expected any. He’s their ringleader, after all.
“That’s an invasion of privacy,” I say, feeling like a complete bitch. I really am not this uptight person. What do I care if Reid saw my GPA? It’s hardly a national secret. Hell, it’s on my resume. It’s just that the idea of him checking up on me, getting to know me more intimately makes me uncomfortable. Like my skin is too hot, too tight.
