Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(29)

“I can spot you,” Aiden calls, getting off the treadmill.

“You just wanna see if I can press more than you.” I get settled on the bench and wait for him to prep. He’s a competitive bastard, but it’s good for both of us.

“Two hundred?”

I roll my neck, cracking my fingers. “Two twenty-five.”

He chuckles, moving the weights for me. “Now we’re cooking with oil!”

I roll my eyes at his southern slang. Straining, I get the first ten reps up; then my arms tremble.

“Come on, pussy; you gonna quit now?”

Sweat drips down my forehead, and my fingers curl tighter in the gloves. “Been playing longer than you. I got this.”

Five more pushes, and my arms burn.

Aiden leans in. “Who are you? Who the hell are you?”

“Devon Walsh,” I mutter, shoving the bar up.

“That’s right, motherfucker. You’re a constant threat. Running or getting the ball. Your body is a well-oiled machine, the best wideout in the NFL. You make defensive guys cry. You catch a jump ball as easy as a post. Shallow, deep, or on a slant. Nobody can catch your ass.”

I grunt. “Tell me how pretty I am.”

“So damn pretty. Not as much as me, but nobody is.”

“Not working,” I heave as I struggle to get the bar up for another rep.

“Twenty, man, that’s all you got? Hollis beat your ass yesterday with five more. Push it up, or I swear I’m gonna escort Giselle Riley all over Nashville. She’ll be in love with me, ’cause come on—who isn’t?” He pops my leg with his towel. “I might just love her back. I’m sick of the women, dude, annoyed with the attention, and she’s not like the rest. Did you see her in that skirt? I went to bed thinking about her—”

“Shut up,” I call, the bar wobbling.

“Why? You got a hard-on for her?”

“No!” I shout.

He gets in my face, his voice low. “Why are you so angry? Huh? You think I’m blind? I might be a farm kid from Alabama, but I ain’t stupid.”

“I’m going to kill you,” I say, letting loose a long string of curses.

“You can try. Just don’t hurt the throwing arm.”

I glare up at him, seething.

“Come on, old man. Three more, and you’re done.”

The bar rests on my chest, and I swallow. Digging deep, I press my lips tight, clench the bar, and push it up for three more reps. Once it’s secure, I jump up off the bench, adrenaline pumping. I point my finger in his face. “Don’t use her as motivation, man—not cool.”

He holds his hands up between us. “Whoa, man. So you aren’t into her? ’Cause last night in the VIP room, you had this look on your face. And you took her to dinner. Was that your errand? Did you hook up—”

“She is my friend!”

He scratches his hair, studying me. “For real? You swear?”

“Yes!”

“Huh.” He paces around me. Something about the look on his face, almost hopeful, causes my shoulders to coil and tighten.

“What’s eating you?”

He stops, rubbing his face. “All right, all right, I won’t talk smack about Giselle. She’s your friend, and it bothers you. I’m glad you clarified, because I was wondering—I mean, I know I joke around a lot, but she’s got something about her, you know?”

My hands ball up, dread pooling.

He paces around. “It’s been years since I had a real date with a girl who wasn’t after my money and fame. I’m tired of coming home to an empty apartment and not having someone I can vent to. Hard to trust people, especially after what Jack went through.”

Jack’s ex wrote a tell-all book about him full of lies. It was a bestseller and nearly killed his career. Aiden took her out once and claimed she was a devil.

“Giselle gets the lifestyle—she knows we’re real people, and she doesn’t care who I am.” He rubs at his neck, a slow blush crawling up his face. “She’s interesting. I like how she thinks. Plus . . . she’s looking for someone.”

“Jack will flip.” It’s all I can come up with, battling the impulse to put my hands around his throat.

He holds his hand up. “But . . . but if I do this right, maybe talk to him and explain that she’s different, that I’m not doing it to piss him off and rattle him . . . I’ll be on my best behavior. I’ll wine and dine her—like, really woo, no pressure—be sweet and give her time before I throw the whole charm at her. If we clicked—and obviously we will—I could have what Jack has. A chance for a real relationship . . .” His voice trails off as he frowns. “Dev? You okay?”

I’ve been trying to keep the anger under wraps, but his whole wooing shit sent me over the edge, and I erupt and shove him. He stumbles back into the wall. Shocked blue eyes glare at me. “What the hell, man?” he shouts as several of the guys run over, their gazes darting between us.

“Everything all right?” Hollis asks, panting since he dashed over from a treadmill. He’s the toughest and stands between us, a brawny defensive lineman with dreads, medium-dark skin, and fists the size of bowling balls.

Everything with my dad, Giselle and the fire, her horrid encounters with men—and now him saying he might really like her and want to be serious—even talking to Jack? What the hell . . . I can’t . . . no.