Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2)(41)

I place my hand over my galloping heart and breathe a huge sigh of relief that I haven’t woken him up and that I haven’t done what I warned him against—middle-of-the-night creeping.

Matt’s still sleeping and hasn’t moved an inch since last night.

I give myself a few moments to gawk at him. He has a hard, hot body that apparently does not need any covers because the sheet and blanket are kicked down around his thighs, revealing an expanse of golden skin stretched over muscled shoulders, chest, and abs. He’s an athlete, I remind myself. They’re all hardbodies. But as much as I tell myself he’s not my type, I can’t keep the lie in my head long enough to be convincing.

In my dreams, he was exactly my type. Probably my only type. I shudder and try to shake free of the vision of him touching me, kissing me.

His right arm is thrown across his forehead and his left rests across his abdomen. His fingertips are touching the waistband of his underwear and I’m helpless to stop my eyes from drifting downward where an impressive morning erection is barely held inside the stretchy fabric. My fingers itch to reach over and palm that bulge.

Holy hell, I feel lightheaded this morning.

I allow myself ten more seconds of ogling before I push myself upright—only to immediately fall down again. I guess my weakness is due more to low blood sugar than to my inability to control my body’s response to Matt. Or maybe it’s just my body thoroughly betraying me on all levels.

The thump serves to rouse Matt from his sleep. He blinks, slowly, gradually gaining consciousness. I avert my eyes when his hand drifts lower to cup himself. He halts halfway there, as if suddenly remembering my presence in his bed.

He turns his head lazily toward me. “Hey.”

“Good morning.” I try to smile but even that seems like too much of an effort. Is it any wonder I’m cautious? Because here I am in a gorgeous guy’s bed, and I have to tell him I’m not healthy enough to leave. I battle back my embarrassment.

“Sorry about that.” He gestures with his head toward his crotch. “Habit.”

“No worries,” I reply as if seeing a guy fondle himself is a regular occurrence in my life. “So I have to ask you a favor.”

“Sure. What do you need?” He rolls over and props himself on one elbow.

“Can you grab my backpack? There’s a black acrylic case, about the length of a pencil. I need that.”

He leans forward, concern etched in his strong, sexy face. “You okay?”

“I’m a...” I take a breath because even after all these years, I hate telling people I’m a diabetic, but he’s going to open the case and look at the needles and wonder if I’m a drug addict. Besides, what does it matter what Matt Iverson thinks of me? It matters because you like him more than you should. I shove that voice aside and say levelly, “My BG feels low but I need to test it.”

He doesn’t hesitate. One moment he’s on the bed and the next moment he has my case in hand. I fumble with the latch. Without a word, he snaps the case open and holds up the glucose meter. “Tell me what to do.”

“You sure?”

“Goldie, I deal with this shit all day long. We’re always getting injected with something. Cortisone, platelet injections. Can’t be a football player and be scared of a needle.”

I search his face to see if he’s hiding any disgust or dismay, but all I can find is readiness. This is ordinary to him, and the risk list I’ve been adding to—the one with all the pictures of his past liaisons, the one scribbled with the warnings of Ace—starts to look badly imbalanced.

“Prick my finger and press the strip against the blood.” I bite my lip. “I don’t have any communicable diseases, but you might want to get some gloves.”

“Nah, I trust you.” He handles the equipment with ease, pulling out a lancet, taking the sample, and then shoving the strip easily into the meter reader. “So what’s BG stand for? I’m guessing not ‘big guy.’”

“Blood glucose. You’re good at this,” I observe. “If the football thing doesn’t pan out for you, you can go into medicine. Be a nurse.”

“What do you mean if this doesn’t pan out? I’m a football god.” He winks at me. “Small ‘g.’”

I believe it. Despite the tiny number of college players moving on to the pros, Western has sent more players to the NFL than any other college in the country. It’s why Ace came here even though he knew he wasn’t guaranteed a starting position.

“What about after football?”

“Well after my fifteen years of dominating at the inside linebacker position, I’ll retire from the pros and focus my time on terrorizing my kid’s friends.”

The glucose meter beeps and he turns the screen so I can see the readout. I make a face. It’s lower than it should be.

“Two boys to follow in your football god—small ‘g’—footsteps?”

“Nah. I want to have tea parties and a reason to dress up silly and post pictures on Instagram that will go viral and have everyone saying how awesome a dad I am.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.” I check the meter again, but the readout hasn’t changed. I grimace. “Can I ask you another favor?”

“Yep, and you don’t need to ask for permission, either.”