The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(58)

“Nothing to flex. That’s just my natural form.” I give him a look. “Jealous?”

Rolondo laughs. “Yeah, he is.” He gestures to the screen. “I’m gonna have mine blown up and hung over my bed.”

“Typical,” Johnson says. “How’d you pose for yours? Doing one of your showboating dances?”

“Holding a football in front of his dick while he strikes one of his showboating poses,” I deadpan.

“Fucking hot as hell,” Rolondo assures.

“I’m not letting Anna see these.” Drew shakes his head. “She’ll be all over me to do one too. But, yeah, man. There’s an article here.” He hits the screen, and it goes back to another page. “They’re calling you the hot, tatted, sensitive centennial of football. Apparently your pic got the most hits.”

“What? Sexy Dexy got more hits than me? Oh, hell no.” Rolondo scowls and pulls out his phone, apparently checking all the articles himself.

I roll my eyes.

Drew’s mouth turns down at the corners as he reads. “It was that f*cker Randolph Norris who said you were a virgin.”

Norris was a nose tackle who played for the rival college team we beat in our last two conference championships. He and I faced off several times, and he always came away looking like a chump. To say we dislike each other is putting it mildly.

And since he’d played for a college only ten miles from ours, he was privy to the local gossip.

“Fucking ass stain,” Johnson mutters. “I hated that guy.”

“He was drafted by New Orleans this year,” I add. “But Coach cut him during the last round of training camp. Rumor was he didn’t like Norris’s attitude.”

“Because it sucked,” Rolondo mutters. “Nearly snapped Finn’s head off during a light practice.”

Putting the health of the starting QB in danger because you’re showing off in practice isn’t a smart move. Thank Christ I don’t have him on my team anymore.

“So he’s bitter and clearly hates Dex,” Drew says. “He had loads to say—about how Dex never went out with any women, or dudes. How our college called him the patron saint of football. How people took bets on when he’d lose his V card.”

“Did they?” I ask.

They all give me hesitant glances. I guess so. I’m not really pissed at them, but it f*cking irks to realize people have been talking about me this whole time.

And now the world is too.

I sit back with a sigh. “Put it away. I’m going to get indigestion before I even have a chance to eat.”

“And we all know you do not come between Dex and his meals.” Johnson wags a finger.

“No, that’s you,” I say.

“True that.” Rolondo grins wide.

“Man, you should, like, star in The Bachelor,” Johnson says. “I can see it now.” His voice drops. “This season, on a very special NFL Bachelor…”

“That’s your favorite show, isn’t it?” Drew asks with a grin. “I bet you watch it at night and just cry when he sends some poor girl home.”

We all laugh as Johnson turns red, his fair skin unable to hide his flush. “Do not.”

“Excellent come back,” I tell him.

“Anyway,” Drew says, “Dex can’t go on that show. He’s already got a girl.”

“No shit?” Johnson looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.

“Yep,” Drew answers for me. “Fiona Mackenzie. Ivy’s little sister.”

“The cute blonde who took her dress of at the wedding?” Johnson’s expression borders on a leer.

“Hey,” I warn. “Just wipe that right the f*ck out of your memory.”

Drew shakes his head. “See? Gone on her already.”

I drink my water and endure a round of kissing noises. “You kids done?”

Johnson wags his tongue in a lewd manner. “Now I’m done.”

“Bunch of juveniles,” I mutter. But I’m not mad. I’ve missed this. I missed my guys.

Rolondo frowns. “If you’re with Fiona now, this whole virgin-hunt thing goes out the door.”

“No,” I say with force. “I don’t want Fi anywhere near this. The press does not get a piece of her.”

“I respect that,” Rolondo says. “But you gotta know that what you want and what the public takes are two different things, my friend.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. I hate the fear creeping over my shoulders. There are things I can’t protect Fiona from, and it frustrates the hell out of me.

We eat dinner and gossip. I’m not afraid to admit it’s pure gossip: who’s done what knuckle-headed thing, which coaches suck, which don’t.

And of course, war stories. How we’ve manned up in the face of pain and adversity and made spectacular plays, which are always ten times more impressive in the retelling, as if we don’t all watch Sports Center highlights and know when one of us is lying out of his ass.

By the time the waiter slides a dessert that consists of chocolate in five different forms in front of me, I’m almost normal again.

Johnson scowls at his plate. “It’s so tiny. Everything here is tiny.”