Page 4 of Off Sides

“Uh-oh . . .” I look in the same direction as Devon when he says that. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to get your fill right now. That’s gotta be the Zimmerman little brother.”

I look at the guy in question. He’s not overly large or athletic-looking, kind of squirrelly and thin, if you ask me. But there’s no missing the slight flex of his bicep when his shirt sleeve rises as he walks. He’s toned. Hopefully from years of football, if these two fucknuggets are to be believed and he’s actually joining the team.

His jet-black hair is too styled. I don’t like it. It’s wavy and perfectly coiffed. He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s a little too tight and clinging to his thin frame. His jeans are doing the same thing, hanging low on slim hips. His jawline is too sharp, it’s almost jarring.

He’s too pretty.

I snarl in his direction, and he must hear it. His eyes—some weird shade of golden brown that flickers—meet mine. He cocks his head to the side, assessing me. All eyes are on him. We don’t often get new blood around here. But his eyes don’t pull away from me.

And then he does the damnedest thing. He smiles in my direction. With bright white teeth, making his whole face light up.

What the fuck is he doing?

“Are we interrupting the moment?” Devon singsongs next to me, and I jolt. Fuck me. I was staring. And they saw me doing it.

The new Zimmerman walks past us with a cool confidence he has no right to feel so soon, and I force myself not to look at him when he does. I glare at Devon and Steven, but I don’t give them an in. I don’t ask them what they’re talking about. I don’t acknowledge them at all.

“Ha.” Steven slaps me on the back. “See you at practice. You better keep it in your pants. I don’t imagine his big brother would appreciate you drooling all over him like you just were.”

I was not.

Fuck!

This guy is going to be a problem.

CHAPTER THREE

jonah

Nope. Keep your eyes on the goal, Zimmerman. Do not stare at the left tackle. He’s here to guard your body and nothing else.

Nothing. Else.

Though he’s not doing that so well at the moment either. I’ve been hit more times today than during any game. The big guy is making it clear I’m not welcome, and the rest of the team seems to be on board with that plan because they’re beating the shit out of me.

Not that I didn’t expect it.

But I can’t stop staring at the big guy. The first person I really saw this morning when I arrived at school. He was standing with a few other guys I correctly assumed were on the team, though something was off about their interaction.

I can’t really put my finger on it. I don’t know how to even describe it or explain how I know, but it wasn’t just friendly banter I walked up on—not just teammates goofing around. There was some serious hostility there.

Hostility I still felt when I walked into the locker room after school and we all pulled on practice clothes. Mr. Left Tackle—or Duke, as I’ve heard a couple of guys call him, though I don’t know if that’s his first or last name—was on the edge of every bit of the team’s antics. They laughed and joked about what they all got up to this summer.

Duke—whether it’s a nickname, last name, or first name—didn’t participate. There were a couple of comments directed at him here and there, but it was off somehow. Jabs. Though I’m still not picking up on what it meant. Why they would have a sneer on their face when they asked what he got up to this summer. And then the snickers from the other guys afterward.

I’m definitely missing something, but the big guy gave nothing away. Just a subtle tick in his jaw as he stayed silent and continued to get ready. As if he’s just doing time here.

Micah blows the whistle after the last hit I took steals the breath from my lungs and leaves me lying on the field for longer than I’m proud of. He looks pissed off, and this is not good. I don’t want this come to Jesus moment I sense coming from him. I told him as much when he wanted to introduce me to the team before practice and I asked to just be thrown into the fold without the big speech.

I pull my helmet off, glad I put it on in the first place, despite it supposedly being an easy practice, and we head to the sidelines to be reamed out for a terrible first practice. Mr. Left Tackle is walking in front of me, wearing a pair of black gym shorts that should be outlawed. They aren’t school-appropriate, that’s for damn sure. Hell, they shouldn’t be allowed out in public because holy fuck, I can see every single flex of his firm, toned bubble butt as he walks in front of me. The nylon clings to his body like a glove and accentuates every glorious movement. My God, I didn’t even know they made asses like that.

The guy isn’t pretty. He’s not refined and beautiful—yet he is art. He’s got to be six foot six, tall and broad. His entire body is made up of thick, corded muscle with a thick neck and defined jaw. Shaggy brown hair and green eyes hide pain and secrets I want to hear all about.

And no.

Damn it, Jonah. No. You’re here to get this year over with and get to college. That’s it. You’re not here to rescue this giant behemoth.

My heart rate ticks up as my brother moves so he’s standing in front of all of us as we line up. “Welcome back.” Micah grins at his players. “I sure hope you had a good summer break, but now it’s time to get down to business.” He points out to the field. “And that was not it.”