“You’ve got a good batch of guys, Christos. I wouldn’t worry.”
The Dingbats might suck as a team, but with Leroy at the helm and Christos navigating, they’ll put up a good fight. Too bad I’ll be too busy chasing my own wins to watch their games.
“So that’s it?” He rolls his shoulders back, but his posture doesn’t get any straighter. “We go about our merry ways, ignore that we’ve seen each other’s dick, and pretend this didn’t happen?”
“You’re really fixated on my dick.”
Without missing a beat, he says, “Thatiswhy I invited you over.”
I try not to feel flattered, but my face is heating up. I do my best to swallow down whatever it is that’s bubbling inside me; lust, infatuation, admiration—I refuse to let myself discover which.
He notices my hesitation, offering me a soft smile.
“Sorry. I guess forgetting any of this happened really is the way to go about it.” He stands up, and I follow. Somehow I’d forgotten how large he is. The tips of his horns threatening to scrape the ceiling. His face is the same as out on the porch, welcoming, even if we’re about to say goodbye.
I tell him, “Good luck.”
He smiles. “Like you said, the Dingbats have some solid guys. This will be our season.”
“I meant unpacking.” I nod at another pile of boxes I’ve noticed in my periphery.
He looks at the boxes like they’ve popped into existence. “Right.”
“You won’t need luck this season.” I smile up at him before taking my leave.
He holds the door open for me. I think about that gesture the whole bike ride back to campus.
Chapter
Four
Terrence flipsthrough his class syllabus as we walk to the dining hall for lunch. “So, with the Olympics happening, does that mean you won’t be able to edit my lab reports?”
I hang my head and sigh, putting a hand on Terrence’s shoulder in faux bereavement. “I fear so, friend.”
“You’ve read my work, have I gotten any better since freshman com?” he asks, hopeful.
I pat his shoulder. “A little!”
“Enough to pass Advanced Nutrition 302?”
“Sure. No one in your department cares about sentence structure anyway.”
Terrence’s face scrunches. “I dunno man.”
“You’ll be fine. You know you can get a tutor, right?”
Terrence has already lost interest in his doomed academic career, his bereavement glossed over in favor of the real prize. “Coach and Leroy are grabbing lunch together.”
Sure enough, the two men sit near the dining hall entrance. Leroy’s hands are flying faster than a hockey puck in overtime. Whatever he’s saying has Christos absorbed, his expression stony as he nods along.
“Leroy give you any sense of what kind of guy he is?”
“What do you mean?” Terrence’s brows furrow with confusion. “He’s a coach. They bust your balls and you say, ‘thank you Coach, can I have some more?’”
I know this is just Terrence being Terrence, but the imagery he’s conjuring contradicts what I do know about Christos. “Yeah, but some coaches are better than others. What did you like about the last coach?”
“Old Man Finke? He reminded me of my grandpa. Which is also why he sucked as a coach, real old school. We’d run plays from the 90s and he’d straight up call me an enforcer. And look, I love throwing elbows as much as the next guy, but it didn’t exactly win us any matches.”
