He winks at me.
Is Griffin gay? No. No, he definitely isn’t. He’s got a girlfriend. I’ve seen him with her in passing. A walking bottle-blonde daydream with legs for miles and a face made for Sports Illustrated covers. He’s just a flirt. Some people are like that, naturally charming and annoyingly magnetic, which is completely unfair.
I laugh, but it comes out rough and a bit strained to my own ears. “Yeah, I guess so.”
There’s a pause, just long enough to make me weirdly aware of the space between us, of how close he’s standing, and then he says, “Do you wanna grab a coffee before class?”
For a second, I don’t respond. I’m frozen.
Because I know, I fucking know, he’s not hitting on me. This isn’t a date invite. This is Griffin being Griffin: friendly, charismatic, open in that way that makes people feel like they’ve known him for years. But that doesn’t stop my heart from skipping a beat, doesn’t stop that warm stupid thrill from crawling up my spine.
And then it hits me like a slap of ice water.
I’m creeping on a straight athlete. One I have to work with.
Professionally.
Closely.
For the entire goddamn season.
I need to pull it together.
“Sorry, man, I can’t,” I hear myself say, trying to keep my voice light. “I’ve got class like… right now.”
He frowns, just a little, then nods before plastering on that absolutely perfect smile. “Yeah, next time then?”
“Sure,” I say, already turning away before I embarrass myself further.
“What hasyour panties all twisted up?” Hughie calls from the living room.
I want to snap at him, because fuck him for noticing my sour mood, but he’s not wrong, and I’m very aware that I’m stomping around the kitchen like a pissed-off toddler who just got told no.
Instead of answering like a normal fucking adult, I huff, yank open the fridge, grab a beer, and crack it open, draining half of it in about two seconds flat.
“Jesus Christ,” Hugh mutters as he lumbers into the kitchen. He leans against the counter, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “Spit it out before you break something with all the slamming.”
I roll my eyes and glare at the cabinet above his head like it personally betrayed me. “Fucking Lauren got switched to hockey. She’s our second trainer.”
Hughie raises a brow, clearly amused, and smirks. “And that pissed you off so bad you had to terrorize the kitchen?”
“She’s a fucking problem,” I snap, finally looking at him.
He shrugs, unbothered. “She’s a bitch. And she gets around. That shouldn’t affect how you work.”
And yeah, he’s right. I know he’s right. I’ve worked with her before. In theory, this shouldn’t be a big deal. But that doesn’t stop the irritation from crawling under my skin, because Lauren always gets her way, and somehow everyone keeps acting surprised when it blows up in their faces.
I’m not saying her sleeping around is the problem. I don’t give a single fuck how many guys she hooks up with.
Truly. Bang half the campus for all I care.
But when she starts banging the athletes on the team she works with, that’s when shit goes sideways.
Drama ignites like fucking wildfire. Training rotations get messy when a guy can’t stand to be in the same room as her after she uses him, or worse, sleeps with his best friend. It screws with treatment schedules when players refuse to let her work on them because they’re awkward or pissed or trying to pretend they don’t care. It messes with the entire dynamic when half the room is distracted, territorial, or emotionally constipated.
It makesmyjob harder.
And I was so fucking sure, so sure, that after last year, the athletic director would be more careful with where they placed her.
