“We’re teammates,” he continues. “And we’re going to continue being teammates for this entire year, and the next. Unless you’re planning on quitting.”
I scoff. “As if you could make me quit.”
“Good,” he says, sounding like he’s actually happy to hear it. “Then get used to me. Because I’m not going anywhere either.” He lets his gaze drag over my face like he’s cataloguing every twitch.
“And before you get your panties in a twist and start spiraling,” he adds softly. “I want to point out that I haven’t done a single thing to threaten your ego, your secrets, or your top-dog spot on this team.”
My pulse stutters at his mention of secrets, as if mentioning that I have one is akin to threatening to tell everyone.
“So,” Brody finishes, stepping in even closer, “either you get over yourself, or I’ll show you just how easily I can put you in your place.”
He walks away before I find something to fire back. I can’t, because I’m too frozen with the humiliating clarity of what the feeling in my chest and abdomen are. The realization that occurred when it flared to life with his words.
It’s not jealousy or apprehension or even heartburn. It’s far worse than that. It’s…
Want.
The Howl is a blur of pulsing lights and thumping base that vibrates all the way into my teeth. It’s packed in here, the air thick with the humidity of a late August night and sweaty bodies grinding together.
I’m perched on a barstool, trying to pretend that I’m here because I want to be and not because I have an image to maintain.
The guys are scattered across the club. Fish is playing pool with Jay and Aaron. Roman and a few other teammates are doing tequila shots from some girl’s cleavage. Sean is laughing with his roommate Carl, talking closely, probably so they can hear each other over the music. I look over at the dance floor where Cade is dancing with two, or maybe three, girls at once.
Which of course leads my eyes right back to Brody, at the center of it all. The gravity that keeps pulling my eyes back unwillingly. His shirt is off and tucked into the back of his jeans, his hair slicked back with sweat, golden skin glowing under the neon lights.
He’s dancing with girls and guys alike without hesitation, laughing when someone pulls him close, throwing his head back like he belongs here more than anyone else in this room. His jeans are unreasonably tight, sitting low on his hips. Every roll of his body sends a ripple down the defined slope of his torso. His abs flex with every shift of his weight, every grind of his hips.
It’s obscene. And I can’t stop my eyes from wandering in his direction.
Brody’s ability to not give a single fuck what anyone thinks of him is easily his most infuriating trait. He has no idea what it’s like to live under the weight of expectations and obligations. Meanwhile, everyone expects me to bethatguy. The perfect, reliable, straight as an arrow, professional man my father raised me to be. Men like us don’t falter. We don’t slip. And we damn sure don’t want things we’re not supposed to want.
I force myself to face the bar to keep my eyes anywhere else. The bartender is pretty and slender, almost feminine even. Not exactly the type I’m supposed to want, but close enough to pretend. The type that fits neatly into my life without threatening to unravel it. He gives me flirty smiles every time he catches me looking—smiles I don’t return, but he still reads interest in my stillness. Guys like him can always sense it.
If I stood up right now and walked towards that dark hallway behind the bar, I bet he’d follow. I wouldn’t even have to speak.
It’s predictable. It’s the safest kind of risk. It’s something I’ve done a few times, when the pressure builds too tightly inside me. In moments like this, it’s easy to remember how much I hate myself after.
I’m weighing my options when the air shifts beside me. A familiar, unsettling presence leans against the bar, far too close for my liking. I can smell his sweat and the underlying soapy scent of his bodywash.
Brody reaches for the water the bartender hands him without even being asked, like he’s been waiting for his cue. Brody’s smile is easy and warm, making the bartender suddenly forget I exist.
I don’t know why I feel embarrassed. It’s not as if either of them know where my thoughts had gone. But it still feels like a calculated move on Brody’s part to humiliate me, to take something else from me. He pisses me off so fucking much. I turn to glare, ready to say something cutting, but he’s not even looking at me.
He tilts his head back and chugs the water, Adam’s apple bobbing, throat flexing. A bead of condensation rolls off thebottle and slides over his fingers, then drips onto his chest. It traces a path down his sternum, slips between his pecs, glides over the ridges of his abs. Lower and lower it trickles, gathering speed as it dips into the waistband of his jeans.
And I watch it all the way down. I can’t not. I don’t want to. I don’t mean to. But I can’t tear my eyes away.
His jeans cling like they were molded to him. The V of muscle on his hips draws my eyes down and traps them there, where his button-fly strains.
My mouth is dry, and my groin has a pulse.
I have just enough wherewithal to blink back up at him, and my face heats when I see he’s watching me take him in. The bastard winks and leans in.
His breath brushes my cheek, warm and humid from dancing. “So are you out or what?” he murmurs. It’s so casual. So calm. So devastating.
I jerk back as though he slapped me. “What?” I choke out. “No. What the hell? I’m not into guys.”
One eyebrow inches up, slow and deliberate. Then he leans in again, closer this time, his sweat-dampened curls brushing the back of my neck.
