The Friend Zone
Page 16

And I realize that I’m in his lap, sitting on his thick thighs that bunch and flex against my butt. My palm cups the hard curve of his shoulder, and his skin is smooth and warm and slick. All I want to do is stroke it, run my finger down the valley of his chest, maybe circle the little indent of his belly button.
I let my hand fall to my lap and clear my throat. “‘Lady lips’ will soon be a faint memory.”
“Nope,” he says, wrapping his arm around my hips. “It’s burned in my brain.”
“My work here is done then. Now go and take a shower, Stinky, before you freeze to death.” The truth is that Gray’s sweat-slicked body doesn’t smell bad to me. No, it’s the opposite. I have the mad urge to burrow my face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in. Which is bad.
He laughs again, not letting me go, but pulling me against his tight chest. Jesus, his body is gorgeous up close. So solid and steady that I want to press into all that strength, ease this sudden ache in my breasts. His voice is a luscious rumble in my ear. “I’m in no danger of freezing right now, Special Sauce. Believe me.”
I don’t know how to interpret that. Or what is going on with me. “Boundaries, Gray.” I edge back, because I’m in danger of doing something stupid, like drooling. “Sweaty, gross boundaries.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, loosening his grip. “I’m going. Only one thing first.”
His eyes gleam, shining lapis blue in the winter light.
“What?” I ask, slightly weary of that glint.
“Is this overstepping boundaries?” he asks with mock innocence, right before the shithead crams my head into his sweaty armpit.
* * *
Gray
I’m still smiling as I make my way into the locker room after my shower. Mac’s squeals of horror were adorable. She fought the good fight, but still ended up with a face full of my sweat. Which is disgusting but oddly satisfying to me, in a caveman kind of way. I might feel bad about it, if it weren’t for the fact that Mac had been laughing her ass off the whole time we wrestled. That, and she’d gotten a few good hits in.
“What’s with that smug look, Gray-Gray?” Dex asks me as I pull out my boxers. The big center is far too perceptive and I’m not about to go under the microscope.
“Nothing.”
Johnson glances at me too. “Uh-huh. Got anything to do with that hickey on your chest?” He shakes his head, sending his long yellow hair flying around his shoulders. “Damn, boy, only you could fuck around with a girl five minutes after practice.”
I look down at my chest where a small bruise is forming near my nipple. My grin grows and I rub the spot. “Not what you think, man. Mac pinched me.” Hurt like a bitch but totally worth it. “We were just messing around.”
The guys all stop to look at me with varying expressions of disbelief.
“Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” Dex asks.
“Yeah, well she was kind of pissed that I gave her a noogie.” I button my jeans.
“Mac?” Diaz, the big—usually silent—Puerto Rican lineman is putting on his shoes. “That the tall dark-haired honey watching our practice? The one who looks like Strawberry Fields from Quantum of Solace?”
“Gemma Arterton,” Johnson supplies. “Nice.”
I suppose Mac does kind of look like her. Especially with that hairstyle. Only Mac is more appealing. “Yep. Oh hey,” I look around at all of them. “Palmers is doing Eighties Night. I told Mac we’d go.” Already I’m texting Drew. He wanted to meet Mac. Now’s his chance.
Silence greets me, and I lift my head to find my guys playing a game of Let’s Not Acknowledge Gray.
“We’re going out,” I tell them emphatically. “So stop pouting about practice and fucking get with the program.” The guys need to relax and, frankly, we need to bond or whatever. We need this.
“Fine,” Dex mutters. “But only because I have to meet this girl who is your ‘bud’. I’m pretty sure this might be one of the seven signs of the apocalypse.”
“True dat,” Diaz agrees with a short.
“She’s awesome.” I tug on my shirt, then look at Rolondo, who's rubbing lotion on his elbow like he’s auditioning for Silence of the Lambs. “You’re coming, ’Lo.”
It wasn’t a question, but he treats it as one. “Naw. I’m not up for it tonight.”
“Bullshit. You’re going.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Rolondo Jamal Smith, don’t make me drag you out by your ass.”
His eyes narrow but he’s obviously trying not to laugh. “You imitating my mama, G?”
“Hell no.” I totally am. “I’ve no desire to piss her off. That woman is a sweet-potato pie-making goddess.”
’Londo smirks. “Damn straight she is.”
“Speaking of, when is she sending another shipment? Tell her I love her, okay?”
“Little suck up.” He tosses his lotion into his bag with a sigh. “All right. I’ll go.”
Grinning, I give his head a nudge, and get a slap on my arm for my efforts. Rolondo saunters off, still grumbling about punk-ass, shit-talking white boys, but his step is lighter.
It’s only when all the guys head out, leaving me to finish dressing, that I notice Cal Alder, our new starting QB, coming in from the showers. He’d been in there for a while and now moves with a reluctant slowness that I know far too well. I’ve had shit games after when I’ve sat under the spray of the shower like a zombie, hoping the water would wash away the shame of defeat. Never works, though.