Things Liars Say (#ThreeLittleLies #1)(15)

Calvin,

Who would I even TELL about your love for Aaron? My sorority sisters? The Twitterverse? Anyway, I don’t get why guys never want to talk about their feelings for each other. It’s really stupid if you ask me. A slap on the ass among men during a sporting event hardly a brotherhood makes. Wait. Did that even make sense??? Whatever, I’m not deleting it. Haha. You probably won’t even see this because you’re getting ready to rugby. Grey





Cal: Oh, I saw it.

Grey: You’re there!!

Cal: Grey, it’s only noon. Lol. Where else would I be?

Cal: And for your information, rugby players do NOT slap each other on the ass. Ever. I’d get punched in the face if I ever swatted another dude in the ass.

Grey: Want to test that theory? Swat someone on the ass and see what happens…

Cal: No.

Grey: Boo, hiss.

Cal: So. Got anything going on tomorrow afternoon?

Grey: Maybe. I don’t have afternoon classes on Fridays, so the girls and I might take a short trip.

Cal: That sounds… terrible.

Grey: That’s ‘cause you’re a party pooper.

Grey: Incidentally, if you had a drink of choice after your game, what would it be?

Cal: Um…??? That’s really random.

Grey: Humor me.

Cal: Probably a green tea lemonade.

Grey: Ah, a Starbucks man.

Cal: GTG. Team meeting in twenty.

Grey: :)





Calvin





I’m pulling the slobbery mouth guard off my teeth when I see her.

I briskly shake my head side to side, beads of perspiration flying out of my damp hair, and squint up into the stands, convinced my eyes are playing tricks on me.

Under the stadium light, among the SMU and Notre Dame fans donning their navy and gold school colors, Grey stands, her long blonde hair whipping in the wind as she makes her way, one metal bleacher step at a time, down towards the rugby field.

I shake my head again. Holy f*ck. What is she doing here?

My breath catches as I blink in her direction—not just from being winded from the hard-fought game we just won. No. I’m suddenly winded from an adrenaline rush of another kind: Lust. Anticipation. Uncertainty.

I stand frozen on the sidelines, surrounded by my teammates packing up their gear. Another bead of sweat rolls down my neck and drips onto my already soaked jersey.

“Hottie approaching at three o’clock,” the team’s athletic trainer, Paul, announces. “Wow. She’s… wow. “

“That’s no ordinary hottie, Paul,” Mason announces, slapping a hand down on my shoulder. “That’s Tighthead’s stalker. Steer clear.”

Paul stares, captivated, at Greyson’s encroaching figure. “Why would anyone want to steer clear of that?” Lucky for Paul, he just sounds fascinated, not perverted.

Aaron stuffs a towel and sweatshirt into his duffel before joining in the mocking. “Holy shit, man. It looks like your stalker really is a stalker! Were you full of shit when you said she wasn’t stalking you?”

“Are you guys being serious?” Paul, armed with this new information, tilts his head and appraises her. “She’s a stalker? No way.”

“Stop being an *, Mason. And stop f*cking using that word,” I growl, shoving him out of my personal space. Grey’s throng of friends lingers behind her, obediently up in the bleachers as she approaches me, her bright white smile lighting her stunning face.

A low whistle of appreciation escapes Paul’s lips. “Damn, Tighthead, that girl is into you? No offense.”

Shit. Fuck.

“She is way out of your league, bro,” Mason charitably points out.

Don’t I know it.

She’s gorgeous, and I’m a mutt, and Mason’s reminder pisses me off.

“Would you all just effing go away,” I demand with another shove, and he laughs, giving Grey a little wave before hefting his equipment bag over his shoulder and retreating towards the university’s field house.

“Come on, guys. Let’s give Tighthead and his girlfriend here some pri-va-cy.” The way he says it has everyone, including our coach, snickering.

“Fuck off, all of you,” I sneer, embarrassed and irritated. Several of the guys are avidly checking out Greyson, and that’s pissing me off too.

“Tsk, tsk. That’s not a very nice way to talk to your friends,” Grey calls out to me, and I hear several of my teammates laughing in the distance as Grey steps onto the playing field in those same wedge sandals she wore the day we met, her dark jean capris hugging her long legs. And are my eyes deceiving me, or is she eyeing me up with unconcealed appreciation?

“I didn’t see you smacking anyone’s ass during the match,” she teases. “That’s a tad disappointing. I thought maybe you were lying when you said you never did that.” Her eyes roam to Mason, who keeps glancing back at us as he trudges to the building.

Greyson’s keen eyes notice. “What’d he do to piss you off?”

She’s thirty feet away.

I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “He was being an ass.”

Fifteen.

“Well, never mind him.”

Five feet.

She extends her hand, presenting me with a large green tea lemonade from Starbucks. “The ice melted because I couldn’t give it to you sooner. Sorry.” Perspiration slides off the plastic cup.