I felt sick.
I mumbled something to my teammates and shuffled out of the room and down the hall, toward Drew, who was already on his way in full gear to the practice field. Like he hadn’t just blown up my entire life in the middle of the training room.
“That wasn’t me,” I said quietly when I reached him. “That was all them.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just slipped his arm around my shoulders and started walking us out.
“I don’t like your friends, babe,” he muttered.
I didn’t argue.
We walked in silence for a minute before he spoke again.
“Come on. I’ll take you to dinner after practice. If I take you back to my place right soon, we both know we’ll have our clothes off in twenty seconds.”
I stopped walking and looked up at him.
“Drew. Control yourself.”
He gave me that crooked grin, the one that always made my stomach do something stupid.
“It’s hard not to, baby. This thing between us has been keeping me up at night for weeks.”
I crossed my arms, trying to look unaffected even though my face felt hot.
“Sex isn’t part of this fake dating thing.”
“Negotiable.”
“No,” I said firmly. “It’s not negotiable.”
He just smiled wider, like he already knew he was going to wear me down eventually.
“Whatever you say, Texas.”
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t pull away when he started walking again with his arm still around me.
For the first time all day, I didn’t feel completely alone.
Dinner after his practice, apparently, meant burgers.
Not cute burgers. Not one of those tiny, artfully stacked things with truffle aioli and a sad pile of micro-greens arranged by someone who hated joy. Real burgers. Greasy paper baskets, red vinyl booths, neon buzzing in the front window, fries salted so aggressively my trainer would have staged an intervention if she’d been within twenty feet of the building.
Drew slid into the booth across from me like the place had been built around his shoulders and immediately took up too much space. His knees bumped mine under the table. His forearm landed on the edge like a threat. He looked completely at home here, which annoyed me because I wanted him to look ridiculous. I wanted one thing about Drew Travers to be easy to dismiss.
Instead, he sat there with his cut-off Stanford hoodie, taped wrist, damp hair curling at the nape of his neck, and that stupid, unfair mouth, looking like every bad decision on campus had learned how to smile.
“You brought me here after detonating my entire life in the training room?” I asked.
He picked up a laminated menu even though I had a strong suspicion he already knew every item by heart. “You’re welcome.”
“I did not say thank you.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking about stabbing you with a straw.”
“Hot.” He glanced up, dimples flashing. “But let’s order first. I can’t negotiate fake dating terms on an empty stomach.”
