The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(20)

“Ivy,” Gray chides. But it’s too late—all his friends are on him now.

“Cupcake?” says Rolondo, the hot, lean guy with the dreads sitting in the middle of the round booth. His smile is blinding. “Oh, hell no, I’m not letting that one go.”

With another groan, Gray presses his face into his massive hands.

“Glamour Cupcake. Sounds about right.”

“Cuz he’s sweet, pink, and oh, so pretty.”

Between his fingers, Gray’s blue-eyed glare promises retribution. And I grimace, giving him what I hope is my best sorry-I-ruined-your-life look.

“I distinctly recall Gray claiming to have a gooey center,” Drew remarks with an evil grin.

“Now, now, pudding cup,” Anna drawls at Drew, “you shouldn’t throw stones. You’re all sorts of gooey inside.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink as Drew sits up in his seat with an irate scowl, and the guys laugh.

“Low blow, Jones.”

“Ah, but you love me anyway, Baylor,” she answers with cheek.

Drew’s expression says she’s right.

Gray, however, is far from free. Rolondo sits back in the booth. “So, Ivy, aside from hanging with Cupcake, here, you go to school in the area?”

“No, I graduated last spring from Sarah Lawrence. I spent the summer and fall with my mother in London. I’m returning in March to manage one of her bakeries.”

Rolondo’s brows lift a little and it seems he’s struggling not to look at Gray. “That’s cool. I don’t know how you bakers do it, getting up so early. That would kill me.”

“Actually, it kills me too.” I hate that part of the life. Going to sleep before nine p.m. and missing a regular social life in the name of baked goods kind of sucks. I’ve been reveling in staying up late and sleeping in late.

“Better get used to that hell schedule, Mac,” Gray says lightly, though the lines around his mouth are tight. “It’s gonna be your life.”

I shrug the comment off, not liking the way my insides do a little uncomfortable dip. “Could be worse, I guess.”

“And now you’re here with your dad?” Drew asks me.

“The super agent,” Johnson supplies.

“Well, I think so.” I grin. “But I’m biased.”

They all chuckle. Then Marshall leans in, his big body making the table creak. “Hey, if he brings in the dollars come signing, I’m all over that.”

But I shake my head. “Good agenting isn’t about negotiating professional contracts. Salary caps take care of most of that. It’s about life planning.”

“You sound like the money manager my parents had come to our house when my dad had a heart attack,” Dex says with a laugh.

“But that’s what it is, really. None of you will play forever. That’s a fact. Prepare for the future, pad your bank account as much as possible, find a way to live after your first career is over.” None of them look particularly pleased at that. Athletes like to think of the now, when they feel invincible. It keeps them sharp. But that’s not how an agent thinks. “It’s an agent’s job to protect you so that, one day, you don’t end your career penniless. Because you all know that happens.”

“She’s right,” Drew says.

“So how would you protect your client, Mac?” Gray looks genuinely curious.

“What? Me? I’m not an agent.”

“If you were,” he prompts.

“Well, let’s take Drew here as an example. I’d get him voice coaching, for one thing, because the camera loves him. If he wanted it, one day he could be on ESPN, wearing a chunky purple tie and bringing home a nice salary.”

They all laugh, but Drew nods. “Yeah, that’d be pretty cool.”

“As for you.” I look Gray over and begin to chuckle. “You’re not gonna give me shit, are you?”

Gray’s smile is lopsided as he braces his forearms on the table. “Hit me with it, Mac.”

“Jockey, Under Armour, anything to show off that body in action.”

He turns bright red as the guys roar.

“That goes for all of you, really,” I say to them.

“Hell yes, it does. The world needs to see these abs.” Rolondo pulls up his T-shirt, to reveal insanely tight abdominals.

“Nice,” I tell him honestly.

Rolondo winks. “You know it.”

“Why does Drew get an anchor position and I get underwear?” Gray protests over his friends’ laughter.

“Honestly? I don’t think you would like sitting still for that long.” I give him a soft smile. “Would you really like to be an anchor, having to follow a script? Because they totally do.”

Gray tilts his head and regards me. A pleased expression softens his features. “No, I don’t think I would.” His voice lowers, yet I hear it loud and clear over the music. “You should be an agent, Ivy.

“What? No.” An uncomfortable knot forms in my chest. “That’s… They’re…” I shake my head. “That’s my dad’s thing, not mine.” I can’t tell these guys that I’ve always resented Dad’s job and how it took him away, broke my family. In truth, how deeply that anger runs in me is a shock. I hadn’t realized until just now, and it chokes me.