Because it’s true.
I go still.
He notices that too and his voice drops a notch.
“People are staring.”
I cross one leg over the other and fix my gaze on the trainer’s desk.
“Yes, Drew. I have noticed.”
He follows my line of sight, then leans in just slightly.
“Want me to start a fight?”
I turn so fast I almost throw my own neck out.
“What?”
“With who?” he says, shrugging one shoulder the size of a tactical vehicle. “The internet? The pity squad? Volleyball Twitter? I’m flexible.”
I just stare at him.
Because that was not the answer I expected.
At all.
He shrugs again.
“What? You look like you might enjoy violence today.”
I let out one short, disbelieving breath.
“I am not starting fights.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“Also you are not my bodyguard.”
His grin returns.
“No, but I’d be excellent at it.”
God.
He is such a neanderthal.
A very large, very smug, very unfortunately good-looking neanderthal. Like someone fed him nothing but creatine and bad ideas. I look away before that thought can do anything embarrassing.
“Don’t you have a ball to hog somewhere?”
“Later.”
“I’m shocked you had time to stop admiring yourself in reflective surfaces.”
“Not all of us have your discipline, sweetheart.”
My eyes cut back to him.
