The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs, #2)(30)

“Oh? Good.” Troy lifts a worn ball cap from the couch, and I pray he doesn’t put in on backward, it’s my weakness, but he does.

Bastard.

The minute he stands, crowding my space, I feel my lady bits spike to life.

“T-the pumpkins look great.”

“Yeah,” he glances in the direction of Dante’s room, the hint of a smile on his full lips, “he did a good job.”

“I’m quite sure he didn’t do it alone.”

“Mostly, he did. Hey, I wanted to ask you something.” He takes a step toward me, and I find myself backing away. I don’t miss his expression when he notices my retreat.

“What are you backing up for?”

“Nothing, it’s hot in here. Did you turn the heat on?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s seventy degrees outside.”

“Oh, well, I’m hot.” I begin to fan my face, and his smirk widens as he trails his eyes down my body.

“Are you?”

“Hmm. So, what’s your question?”

“I was hoping,” he takes off his glasses and folds them in his hand, “that maybe I could go trick-or-treating with both of you next week.”

“Sure. Y-yes. That would be okay.”

When he hears my stutter, he smiles so big it reaches his eyes, and I grip my purse at the strap so hard I think I’ll break it.

Get it together, woman. This is how you got pregnant.

Everything about him is huge, his presence, his smile—his fucking blinding white smile.

“Awesome.”

“Awesome?” I ask, confused.

“Yeah, you just said I can go trick-or-treating.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

He draws his brows. “You okay? Are you getting sick?”

“Sick, no?” I open my mouth a mile wide to fake a yawn, but it backfires because I’m no actress. Instead of looking tired, I look like I’m ready for a bite of something from a fork he’s not holding out.

“Tonsils look good,” he chuckles.

“I’m clearly tired!” His eyes widen, a full-on laugh escaping him when he hears the fight or flight in my tone. I used to be a lot better at this. I used to have game, but this man single-handedly ruined it by way of a stretched-out vagina and sand dollar sized nipples.

“Thank you for taking care of the yard.”

“So polite,” he taunts, taking another step forward and playfully tapping my nose. “Dante has impeccable manners, just like his mother.”

He smells heavenly, like man soap and fresh cologne. I gather my wits from the hit of it and remove myself from arm’s reach. “Thanks.”

“He’s so well mannered, half the time I forget I’m talking to a kid.”

“Yeah, he’s got a way about him.”

“So does his mother.”

I ignore the compliment and head for my kitchen. “Maybe I’m not feeling well. I’ll make some tea. Would you like some?”

“No, thanks, I need to get ready for work.”

I look at the clock and see it’s close to midnight. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to be out so late.”

“You know I’m good with it.”

“You didn’t get nearly enough sleep.”

He shrugs. “I got a nap after class before I came over, and I’ll grab another hour at home.”

I shake my head. “I don’t see how you do it.”

“Years of practice,” he says, gathering his bag and pulling an envelope from it before walking over and handing it to me.

“Another check? You’ve already given me one this week.” I open the envelope and look at him over the torn edge. “Tickets?”

“I thought, maybe, for my birthday, you could bring him to one of my games before the season ends.”

I nod. “I’ve been thinking about it. I’m sorry—”

“No apologies. It’s a home game for the first of next month, and I thought maybe if you felt comfortable enough, you could bring him. There’s one in there for a friend.”

“That’s,” I swallow, “that’s very considerate of you.”

He nods and heads toward the door. “See you later?”

“Sure…Troy?”

“Yeah?” He turns back to me, and our eyes connect. “You…you’ve come a long way with him in a short time. I think it’s going just fine.”

He chuckles. “Just fine, huh?”

I nod. “Yes. He talks about you all the time.”

This earns me another flash of teeth. “Good to know. Night, Clarissa.”

“Night.”





Troy



Kevin squawks from where he sits at the bench between lockers. “Jesus, I’m dying. I can’t fucking reach my cleats. Dude, take these off me.” He stretches his foot toward me, and I swat it away.

The whole locker room is grunting in a collective heap of pain. “I hope it was worth it, you mother fucker!” Someone shouts, earning whimpers of agreement.

Coach Elliot is riding us harder than ever. Someone on the team hooked up with his daughter, and he’s had his nose rubbed in it. He’s not sure which number sacked his own kid, so we’ve all been paying the price. None of us are safe. Coach hasn’t let up, and from the looks of it has plans to punish all of us for the whole of the season. We’ve squeaked by with a few wins, but nothing behind the scenes indicates solidarity for the team. All I know is he better get his shit together because my whole future rides on this season, and we’ve barely managed to hang on with the wins we have.