Game On: The Friend Zone Part 5

"Does he wear plaid s.h.i.+rts and drive a red Porsche?"

"Har. Although he does bear a pa.s.sing resemblance to Jake Ryan. Hmm...I wonder if I could get him to rent a Porsche and wait for me in front of a church." Fi nibbles her bottom lip as if picturing this Sixteen Candles reenactment.

"You'd actually have to attend church," I say. "Which would put you at risk of being struck by lightning."

"As if you can talk." She pins me with her stare. "I give it one month before you jump Gray's bones. And that long only because I know you're stubborn."

"Shouldn't you be napping?"

"I've napped enough. I may puke sometime in the near future, but I'll be sure to let you know when."

Making a gagging face, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. "Brilliant. I'm going to shower this airplane funk off me."

Fi's voice follows me as I escape to the sanct.i.ty of my bathroom. "Glad you're home, Iv!"

"Glad to be home, Fi," I call back.

"I dare you not to think of that s.e.xy mountain of man while you wash your lady bits!"

I slam the door on her evil cackle.

Gray

"So." Drew's voice comes at me from beyond the loud pounding of my heart in my ears. "Tell me about this Ivy."

I glance at my best friend. I'm at his house because I'm finally getting my truck back. Anna borrowed her mom's car, which is automatic, and he no longer needs mine. I made a half-hearted protest that he could keep the truck longer, but truth is I've missed the old girl. Drew, on the other hand...

The f.u.c.ker is kicking back on a sun chair, drinking some fruity drink Anna made for him while I bust my a.s.s sprinting back and forth between two cones set ten yards apart. f.u.c.king shuttle drills. My thighs burn, my lungs are on fire. And still I go faster. I grunt as I crouch down to touch a cone before launching back up to book it to the next.

"She's not...'this' Ivy," I pant out. Dip, touch, turn, sprint. "And what's to tell? She's..." I touch the next cone. "My friend."

"Hmmm..." Drew takes a pull on his straw-Jesus, the drink has an umbrella. I swear he put one in it to f.u.c.k with me. It's forty degrees out here, and he's acting like he's on a beach somewhere. "And yet you're attached to your phone like it's become your second d.i.c.k."

"Don't see a problem with that." I grunt. "Two d.i.c.ks, twice the fun." One. More. Set. f.u.c.k.

Drew watches me with that stare of his that always sees more than it should. There's an evil light in his eyes that looks way too pleased for comfort. "Yeah, as much as I'd love to discuss your disturbing, multi-d.i.c.k fantasies-and believe me, we really ought to discuss that issue-I'd rather talk about your new girlfriend."

I race through my final drill, panting as I grab my bottle of Gatorade then guzzle it with enough zeal that sticky rivulets of drink run down my chin and drip on to my bare chest. Sweat stings my eyes and I ache all over, a hum of sensation that causes me to shake. Is it sick that I love the feeling, love pus.h.i.+ng my body to the brink? It's as close as I can get to the aftermath of hot s.e.x without the awkwardness of "thanks babe, see ya" getting in the way.

Drew tosses me a towel while the bottle is still at my lips. I pluck the towel from the air without looking then use it to wipe my face. When I chuck the damp towel back at him, Drew lurches to his feet, the long cast encasing his left leg making the move awkward.

Though I'd never admit to it, the sight hurts me. Until a brutal sack broke his leg, Drew was our starting quarterback and the team's undisputed commander. The injury ended his season. And as much as I hate to think it, I'm afraid our team will be lost without him. We were a well-oiled machine, a f.u.c.king brilliant team. Now what? The conference champions.h.i.+p game is next, and our mojo is all off.

Worse, I hate seeing Drew hobbled because I know how much it tortures him. But Drew seems to be getting on all right lately. Much of it having to do with his girlfriend, Anna. According to Drew, being in love does that for some guys. Personally, I think it's the steady diet of s.e.x with a hot girl, but what do I know?

Which reminds me... I toss away my empty bottle and give him a look. "Ivy is my friend, who happens to be a girl. Not my girlfriend. Big difference, sweet cheeks."

"Ha." He grabs a football from the ground beside his chair. "You do realize that when a guy has to define that difference, he's usually lying to himself."

I snort. "You just want me to be all cow-eyed in love like you are. And then you won't look like such a sap in comparison."

He grins. "Nice try, Gray-Gray. Now spill it."

Jogging to the back of Drew's yard, I get in place for him to throw me the ball. I might have gone to practice at the school's stadium, but I want to keep Drew company, and the more I can get the football in his hands the better it is for him.

"She's fun, easy. I like talking to her." I take off running, halt, turn, and catch the pa.s.s Drew drills into my hands. Tucking the ball tight against my side, I turn again, run back to my starting place then toss it back to him. "And, no, I don't want to f.u.c.k her."

This is mostly true. Mac has a natural s.e.xiness that I'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice. But I'm not going to even entertain thoughts of s.e.x and Mac. No. Way. That would make me a dirty, low b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and I don't want to be that with Mac.

Drew palms the ball. "I didn't ask that."

I catch another pa.s.s, this one launched far over my head, forcing me to leap high. "You were thinking it."

Drew laughs a little. "Yeah, okay, I was. But only because you usually want to f.u.c.k any girl who comes into your orbit."

"Okay, fine," I admit, starting another route. "You got me, I am a s.e.x G.o.d." I talk over Drew's obnoxious snort. "Truth? Had we met before the texts, I'd have tried something. She's funny and smart and hot. Who wouldn't want her? s.h.i.+t, I don't know, man. I just like her. I really like her. She's the first person I want to talk to. Every day."

Drew c.o.c.ks his head, his mouth twitching as if he's fighting a smile. Annoying. "Uh, bud," he says with a barely repressed chuckle. "That's how I felt about Anna. From the very start."

I frown, gripping the ball tight in my hands. "Ivy and I are just friends, though."

His silence is deafening. And I resist the urge to s.h.i.+ft my stance. "This relations.h.i.+p is important to me. h.e.l.l, she flat-out said she feels safe with me because we're just friends. I'm not going to f.u.c.k up that trust by hitting on her." I want to be better than that. For her.

My oldest friend in the world looks at me like I've grown horns, then slowly blinks. "You're not tucking the ball in fast enough when you catch on the right," he says. "Take better control."

a.s.shole. But he's right, so I can't complain. "That's it?" I ask him instead. "No more ribbing?"

"Naw." Drew spins the football on the tip of his finger before he palms it. "I was just curious."

Right. Sure. I continue to run short routes, catching each ball Drew sends my way, practicing quick hands, tight ball tucks, and balance. He waits until I'm done and dead on my feet, a fresh batch of sweat coating my skin and soaking the waistband of my shorts, to attack.

"I want to meet her."

Why that idea breaks me out in a cold sweat, I don't know.

Four.

Ivy

Gray sends me a pa.s.s to view his practice. Due to the intensity of prepping for the post-season, the coach has put the stadium on lockdown, not wanting a bunch of fans watching his team as they prepare. So only a few people are allowed inside.

Since I now have my car, I head over, parking in the student lot. Being on a campus brings back memories of my own school. And as much as I loved college, I'm not sorry to leave it behind.

The team is already in the thick of it when I arrive. It's a cold, crisp day, the winter sun weak yet s.h.i.+ning onto the field and my section of the stadium. Snuggling down further into my puffy coat, I cup the cocoa I brought with me and watch.

Even though he has his helmet on, Gray is easy to spot, tall and lean in comparison to the stocky linemen he's standing next to. They're sporting full pads and jerseys today but wearing running shorts on the bottom. I track Gray's number eighty-eight as they huddle then break to get into formation.

I love sports. It's always been a part of my life. Football is no exception. I grew up with Hall of Fame winners coming over for Sunday dinner. I have numerous Super Bowl-winning "uncles" and have standing tickets to all major sporting champions.h.i.+ps. I might easily have turned jaded. But I haven't. I still get a thrill watching athletes perform at top level.

But it is abundantly clear that Gray's team is off their game. Missed pa.s.ses, bad timing, sloppy defense, uncoordinated offense. Squabbles break out, players' tempers on edge. Oddly, when viewed as individuals, it's also clear that the players are excellent. Their talent is evident. It's when they must play as a team that the weakness is exposed.

The head coach seems to agree. He nearly has a fit after yet another bad play. I say nearly because he's one cool customer. Most would be shouting. The offensive coordinator is, his face purple as he bellows at his players to get their "d.a.m.n heads out of their a.s.ses and f.u.c.king get it together." The defensive coach has been reduced to ribald cursing that's basically one long spew of, "f.u.c.k!" But the head coach merely whips off his hat and slaps it against his thigh before pacing along the sideline.

Whistles are blown and the players go to their respective coaches. The rest of practice consists of endless and brutal drills.

When they're finally set free, the guys trudge off the field with their heads hanging low. It's too silent, and I ache for them. Slowly, I make my way down to the field. One lone player has remained. Gray pulls off his pads and jersey with a single tug, sliding the entire kit over his head and tossing it next to his helmet on the ground with a look of self-disgust.

"Hey, Cupcake," I say softly as he plops onto a bench seat.

"That was some s.h.i.+t, eh?" His usual smiling mouth is a flat line. "f.u.c.k it, we're so f.u.c.king off now."

"Is it because of Drew?" Losing the starting quarterback can often mess with a team. From talks with Gray, I know Drew was their leader and their friend.

Gray runs a hand through his hair. He's cut it, the thick ma.s.s shorter on the sides and sticking up along is his crown in a messy fauxhawk. With his current scowl and fine features, he reminds me of David Beckham. Well, if Becks was giant and had a smooth, s.e.xy voice.

"I think we're spooked. And something's going on with Rolondo. f.u.c.k if I know what, though."

"What position does he play?"

"Wide receiver. Jersey number four."

"Ah." I'd watched the wiry guy with long dreads. Rolondo had been off, dropping catches and getting in two scuffles with the defensive backs who'd been covering him.

"Yeah," says Gray with a sigh, "'Ah'."

His unhappy expression sends a pang through my chest. But while Rolondo might have been off, Gray played to perfection. I now know why my dad wants to rep him. Gray's what most would call a freak of nature, though I prefer the term gifted. He's quick, coordinated, and huge. Insanely strong, once he gets hold of the ball, he does not drop it, no matter who knocks into him, and his blocking abilities are killer. A triple threat, because he's also excellent at plucking the ball out of the air with deft precision.

Whatever happens during this season, Gray will be a big contender come draft time. But I know that won't make him feel better now. "You guys will get it back," I tell him. "Anyone can see that you are a first-rate team. You just need time to reorganize."

"Time we don't have." With another curse, Gray grabs his water bottle and takes deep pulls on it, his throat working.

The silence draws my attention elsewhere, to how he's now half reclined and nearly all on display. Dressed in nothing but a pair of silky red basketball shorts over tight workout shorts, his long, toned body glistens with sweat. And sweet baby Jesus, he's a specimen.

Muscular bodies shouldn't faze me. I've seen dozens. Gray, however, is on another plane. He's so perfectly sculpted he could be an anatomy lesson. He doesn't just have a s.e.xy V-cut; his lower abdomen is so defined it lays like a plate of armor over his narrow hips.

And while some guys get too bulky with muscles and others too ropey, Gray is like my own personal Goldilocks story come to life because he is just right, lean yet strong, cut yet smooth.

And all that honey-gold skin s.h.i.+ning in the afternoon sun.

"Look your fill?" Gray's tone is amused. "Or should I just send you a picture of my rockin' bod?"

Caught.

Horrified, my gaze shoots to his face to find him wearing a smug grin. He wags his brows while slowly rocking one leg from side to side, the movement overtly s.e.xual, if not for the fact that he's obviously teasing me.

It's a struggle to keep my expression neutral. Hopefully I do. "You have no body hair." The first stupid thing I can think to say.

Gray's cheeks pink a bit. "I'm not a particularly hairy guy, no. Though I can a.s.sure you I have hair in some key places."

I should drop the topic. But better to tease than admit I can't take my eyes off him. "Your legs look as smooth as mine." Hairless though they might be, there's nothing feminine about Gray's thick, strong thighs.

The pink on his cheeks deepens to red. "Yeah, well, my legs can cramp up a lot and the PT has to ma.s.sage them." Gray clears his throat and scratches his jaw. "It hurt like a b.i.t.c.h when he'd pull on the hairs so..."

"You shaved your legs for better ma.s.sages," I supply with a wide grin. Lots of athletes do, but it's kind of cute that he's embarra.s.sed.

Gray scowls but then nods. "Did it one time. Then tried to grow the hair back, you know? f.u.c.king itched like the devil."

I laugh. "Oh, I know. Fiona once talked me into getting a full Brazilian-"

Gray chokes on the water he'd been drinking, spitting it out and sputtering. Blue eyes glare up at me as he wipes his mouth with his forearm. "Jesus, Mac. Don't tell me these things. I cannot be imagining you all..." He waves a hand in my general direction. "Bare down there."

I snort at his indignant look. "Oh please. I'm not bare down there anymore-"

"Not helping the situation," he says darkly.

"I'm trying to commiserate, you noodle. Because the itching was torture when it grew back. And do not get me started on the pain of waxing. I was certain that evil woman had ripped my lady lips off."

"Lady lips? Oh, Christ." His gleeful laughter echoes through the stadium.

"This is so not funny," I protest, my hands on my hips as his abs clench-which, unf-and he cracks up. "It was the worst pain of my life. And I've broken my arm in two places."

Wheezing with laughter, Gray wipes a tear from his eye and tries to control his humor. With one last snort, he grabs hold of my wrist and tugs me onto his lap. I land with a yelp as he wraps an arm around me and gives my cheek a big, smacking kiss. "You always make me feel better, Mac."