Suddenly, I’m very aware of how quiet and empty the locker room is around us.
I tighten my brow and do my best to level him with a glance. “I’m checking you out because you’re good,” I tell him. “And you could be great, if you get your shit together. How’s that?”
With a quick glance down at his body, Orlando shrugs. “Glad you like what you see.”
He’s trying to cover up his insecurity by flirting. Instead of accepting that, I keep my stare steady on him until I’m sure he’s heard me.
“And yeah,” he adds. “Thanks for saying all that.”
That’s better. Good to know he can take a lesson when he’s down.
He turns to his locker, rummaging around inside. The fabric of the shorts clings to his ass, hugging his tight muscles.
I snap my eyes back up and frown just in time for him to turn back.
“As far as liking what I see,” I tell him. “Soccer players always seemed a little scrawny to me.”
He blurts out a laugh, surprised. “I don’t know if you still play baseball, but you’ve sure still got the bulky-ass build of a catcher.”
He’s got a T-shirt in his hand, but he doesn’t put it on. Instead, he casually drags his free hand along the waistband of his shorts, trying to distract me.
“You still train just as hard?” he asks, emphasizing the last word.
I don’t balk. “Sure.”
Orlando leans back on his heel. He’s looking at me, a funny glint in his eye. “Show me,” he says.
I frown. “What?”
He nods his head back, encouraging me. “Take that shirt off. I want to see your build.”
Blood rushes to my ears. “No,” I tell him. Anyone could walk in here.
He steps closer. “It’s not like I’m asking you to push me against the locker,” he says, dropping his voice to a rough whisper.
I tighten my brow, irritated that he’s pushing the line too far, saying that where someone could hear us. He’s trying to distract himself from his loss again, I’m sure. Instead of bantering, I decide to ignore it, just like I’m ignoring the lust that twitches alive inside of me.
“You know that sting after you lose a close one?” I ask him, going straight to the hard truth. “The sting you feel right now?”
Orlando grimaces. “Now that you mention it.”
“There’s only one way to make that feel better,” I tell him and step back. “Stop acting like a clown, and stop falling for those goddamn off-sides traps.”
He sobers. “Right. I can do that.”
I nod, glad to see his determination. “And you can take the licks. Hell, I’m harder than this on myself when I’m at my home gym.”
Orlando finally pulls his shirt on. “Home gym, huh?”
“A good one.”
He closes his locker. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll figure out the off-sides problem. Thanks for telling me about the connection to my goals. But to be clear, I bet I’m way harder on myself at the gym than you are.”
“Fuck off,” I tell him. “Pipsqueak.”
“It’s a bet, then,” he says and winks. “You’ll give me a good, old-fashioned baseball workout at your home gym. See if I can keep up.”
The implication thuds against my chest. Like the fake bet we made that first night, where he ended up sucking me off either way.
