The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(40)

Just the thought of sex with Gray... Nope, not going to even entertain the idea. Sex with him would only lead to trouble. I’m a relationship gal. And I know it would become too much for me, sharing that sort of intimacy and not having Gray as more than a friend. I cling to that fact like I would a life raft.

Her shrug is careless. “Well, then maybe he can hook you up with one of his hot friends.”

“I’m not having sex with one of Gray’s friends.” Everything within me revolts at the idea. It would ruin what I had with Gray. Wouldn’t it? And besides, I don’t want one of his friends.

“So you don’t want a hookup, or to ask Gray to help you out or set you up.” Fi glares at me. “What do you want?”

An answer pops into my head before my booze-addled brain can squash it down. But I bite my lips together and refuse to say it. Again, the horrible, squirmy, we-need-some-lovin’ heat flares between my legs. “I just want to feel like myself again.”

“Good luck with that. Horny doesn’t just up and go because you ask it nicely.”

“Great.” I lift my hands in irritation. “So I what…?”

Fi laughs at me, the jerk. “Become real familiar with your hand.”

“Pillow,” I correct without thinking.

“What?” Her eyes are wide, her smile scandalized.

“Nothing. I said nothing.” Fucking booze. I’m never drinking again.

“Sure you didn’t, Miss Hump-and-Pump.”

The throw pillow flies out of my hand and whacks her face. “Eew,” Fi shouts. “This had better not be the pillow!”

“Better smell it and see.”

Fi’s answer is to smother me with the pillow and the night devolves from there.



* * *





Gray


For the first time before a game, I’m nervous. Usually I’m pumped up, anticipation and adrenaline surging through my body. I get off on it, like good sex only with a fine edge of aggression to sharpen the feeling. Out on the field, I can let myself go. Let out all the anger, hurt, frustration of life. And yet it never really feels like rage. It’s a battle, sure, but there’s love too. I f*cking love this game. The intensity. The pain. The mind games. Nowhere else do I feel more alive than when I’m playing, my body and mind working at full tilt to obtain my goals.

So I’m not gonna lie; I have a hard-on for football. I get totally jacked on game day.

Which is why I’m pissed now. Because I’m not jacked. Excitement does not run through my veins. Instead there’s a boulder in my stomach and invisible hands clutching my neck.

Though the crowd is roaring their excitement, and the air almost vibrates with their enthusiasm, everything feels off. My teammates aren’t joking like they usually do. Rolondo is quiet and pacing the sidelines as they prepare to sing the National Anthem. The guys have tense faces. Cal Alder is sitting on a bench, his skin pasty and sweaty—though Coach doesn’t seem too worried that our starting quarterback looks like death warmed over.

I swear the stink of defeat hangs over us, and we haven’t even started the game.

My fingers are ice cold as the Anthem is sung. By the time a few of our defensive linemen trot out to do the coin toss, I’m ready to scream. From the corner of my eye, I see Alder scramble over the bench. He pukes into a half-filled ice bucket, and a few guys jump back.

Cursing, I jog over to him as he throws up again.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he glances up at me.

“You gonna make it?” I ask.

His expression is blank. “Yup.”

“Here.” I grab a Gatorade and hand it to him. “Refuel and wash your mouth. I’m not smelling that when you call plays.”

He doesn’t smile but takes the bottle and drinks deep. On the field, the kickoff is already underway. Our guy Taylor manages to catch the ball and run to the forty. It’s almost time to go to work.

“What’s the deal,” I ask Cal. “You sick?”

Those frosty eyes of his don’t blink. “You my nurse?”

“I’m your f*cking teammate and tight end,” I snap, annoyed as shit. “So answer the f*cking question.”

Cal’s tight expression eases. He sets his bottle down and stands. “Right as rain, Grayson.”

Well, f*cking great. Sure, whatever. I’m about to yell at him to give me the truth, when Dex walks up. He’s got his helmet in hand and his dark hair is already sticking up with sweat. He takes a long look at Cal then nods. “Stage fright.”

Cal’s eyes go a little wide, but he nods too. “Every time.”

“You get over it?” Dex asks as though this is all just fine and dandy.

“Once I begin to play, yeah.”

“Good enough for me.” Dex puts on his helmet as Cal heads toward our offensive coach.

I just stare after him as I put my helmet on too. “It’s a little freaky how well you read people, Big D.”

Dex’s eyes crinkle behind his face mask. “It’s a gift. And a curse.”

I can’t say anything else because the whistle has blown.

“Gentlemen.” Coach steps closer, his voice booming yet steady. “I’ve already said everything there is to say. Let’s get ’er done!”