We shuffle through the hall, the sea of bodies parting for Coop like he’s the Second Coming. He tends to have that effect on people, which comes in handy at times like this, when my mind is being pulled in a thousand different directions. Or, more specifically, in one direction.
Carter.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. Her performance today, her reluctance to hang with us, the way she looked at me like maybe, just maybe the walls were coming down. At least, that’s what I thought until she hit me with the bald-faced lie about studying.
Suffice it to say, I’m off my game. Distracted. Stewing in frustration. Happy to let Coop run interference for the rest of us, doing most of the schmoozing, high-fiving, and fist-bumping as we make our way to the alcohol-stocked kitchen.
I’m not big on the party scene, outgrew it last year, which is why I don’t live at the football house. But I need to be seen and chill with the guys, so here I am bumping elbows with sexy coeds and douchey frat guys that care more about tapping ass than delivering against their mission. I probably shouldn’t be so hard on Greek life. Coop says there are some decent guys here and I know for a fact he wouldn’t tolerate any shady shit, but I’ve seen enough on Greek Row to be jaded.
Like the sloppy couple dry humping on the counter as I slide past, needing that drink more than ever.
“Party’s lit,” Parker says, rolling his shoulders as he scans the room. Coop liberates four bottles of lager from the fridge and hands one to me. “I’ve got some catching up to do. What’ve you got besides beer?” Parker asks, reaching for the bottle Coop offers.
“Now you’re talking,” Smith says, grabbing a beer. “Where do the brothers hide the good shit?”
Probably in their locked bedrooms, if they’re smart, but I watch in disbelief as Coop opens the bottom drawer of the stove and reveals a trove of liquor bottles. It speaks volumes about their lifestyle.
I twist the top off my beer, taking a long pull of the amber liquid.
“How about whiskey?” Coop asks, holding up a bottle of Jim Beam. There’s a wicked gleam in his eye, and I suspect we aren’t supposed to help ourselves, but I’m not about to intervene. It’s our only night off and these are his brothers. He can sort it out himself if they get pissy about the missing alcohol.
Coop lines up a couple of red plastic cups and pours a generous shot into each. They’ve got to be at least doubles, but hey, we’re big guys, and, fuck, maybe the liquor will take the edge off my nerves.
Coop raises his cup and we follow suit. “To Carter and her amazing fuckin’ legs.” The asshole winks at me over the top of his cup, but I ignore the bait. The last thing I want to do is shoot the shit about Carter’s legs and he knows it. The alcohol burns as it slides down my throat, warming my belly and giving immediate release to the tension coiled in my shoulders. I tell myself it’s from the game, that I should see the trainer for a massage, but the lie falls flat.
“To Carter and her amazing fuckin’ legs,” Parker echoes, his appreciation for her legs apparent in his tone as he slaps his cup down on the counter.
“Show a little respect.” My temper flares white-hot and the words are out before I can stop them, sounding more like a threat than a warning. “She’s your teammate.”
“Hey, man. No disrespect,” Parker says, a lazy grin spreading over his face. “I’m thinking about asking her out. I’m kind of digging the hard-to-get vibe. I mean, I know she’d never go out with this asshole,” he says, nodding at Coop, who clutches his chest like he’s wounded, “but I figure I might have a shot.”
Like hell. Carter needs a guy who—well, I don’t actually know what she needs, which is half the problem, but I know Parker’s not it.
I crumple my cup and toss it in the overflowing trash can. “Keep your dick in your pants unless you wanna ride the bench. Coach doesn’t want any funny business.”
Smith snorts and gives me the side-eye. “Who the fuck says ‘funny business’?”
“You really think Coach would bench me for taking her out?” Parker asks, skepticism etched in the lines of his face.
“You wanna find out?” I take a pull of my beer, doing my best to look impassive despite the irritation roiling in my gut. Parker and Carter? They’re all wrong for each other. Anyone could see it.
“Dude, you guys are bringing me down,” Coop declares, pouring another shot of whiskey and thrusting it into my hand. “This place is full of women dying to congratulate us on a hard-fought victory today. Can we please go enjoy the fruits of our labor and quit standing around with our dicks in our hands?”
Against my better judgment, I throw back the shot and follow the guys to the living room. We’re immediately swarmed with well-wishers who want to rehash the game. Smith and Parker slide in on the beer pong tourney, and it’s not long before a smoking-hot brunette drags Coop upstairs, her barely there skirt giving him a preview of what’s to come.
I can’t imagine what Carter would think of all this. I’m all for no-strings hookups, but I get the feeling she’s not a fan of casual sex. The idea of bathroom BJs would probably offend her sensibilities and leave her fifty shades of embarrassed.
It has a totally different effect on me.
An image of Carter with her thighs backed up against the bathroom sink plants itself front and center in my brain. It’s easy to imagine cupping her ass and lifting her onto the vanity, her sexy legs parting to allow me access. She lifts her chin, revealing the long line of her neck as her hair tumbles over her shoulders, and it’s the sweetest damn sight I’ve ever seen. I’ll bet she tastes like flowers and honey and sunshine and—fuck. Why am I thinking about Carter?
She’s off-limits.Wayoff-limits.
Hell, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even like me.
Okay, no big deal. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had sex and teammate or not, she’s the woman I spend the most time with. It’s only natural she’d appear in my fantasy, right?
Doesn’t mean a thing. Except that I need to get laid.
