A very large, very smug, very unfortunately good-looking neanderthal. Who is dynamite in bed and I hate him for it.
Like someone fed Greek statuary 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.
“Do not sweetheart me.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for a second.
Then back up.
Too slow.
Too deliberate.
And all at once I remember the dirty things Drew Travers did to me weeks ago that had me taking cold showers, trying memory erasing hacks I found on TikTok, after I snuck out and ran from his bed like a terrified defiled medieval milk maid.
My only saving grace was that his season was in full swing and he didn’t have the time to hunt me down, especially with his schedule full of away games. But now he’s back and I’m not sure if I want to lick or bite him. Probably both.
“Okay, Texas,” he says now. “What do you want?”
That throws me.
“What?”
“You’re glaring at everyone like you’re about to start handing out death sentences. What’s the move?”
I laugh without humor.
“The move is surviving the training room without committing homicide.”
“Done. Sit by me.”
I blink.
“That is your solution?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s stupid.”
He tilts his head.
“People will stop giving you pity eyes if I’m sitting here looking mean enough to eat drywall.”
I look him over.
Massive shoulders.
