He looks back at me with something brighter in his eyes now.
“There she is.”
I narrow mine.
“Do not ‘there she is’ me.”
“You’ve been doing that fake pageant-smile thing all morning.”
The words land harder than I want them to.
Because they’re true.
I go still.
He notices that too.
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.
