Game On: The Friend Zone Part 6

Ignoring his happy look and the way the spot on my cheek tingles with awareness, I lean away from him, wrinkling my nose. "Great. So glad my traumatic past could help."

"I think I might be traumatized by 'lady lips,'" Gray retorts with a snicker, but his expression is content and his gaze is on me, as if just looking at me makes him happy. Which is insane to think, but hard to interpret any other way. Not when his eyes travel over my face and his lips curl into a soft smile.

And I realize that I'm in his lap, sitting on his thick thighs that bunch and flex against my b.u.t.t. My palm cups the hard curve of his shoulder, and his skin is smooth and warm and slick. All I want to do is stroke it, run my finger down the valley of his chest, maybe circle the little indent of his belly b.u.t.ton.

I let my hand fall to my lap and clear my throat. "'Lady lips' will soon be a faint memory."

"Nope," he says, wrapping his arm around my hips. "It's burned in my brain."

"My work here is done then. Now go and take a shower, Stinky, before you freeze to death." The truth is that Gray's sweat-slicked body doesn't smell bad to me. No, it's the opposite. I have the mad urge to burrow my face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in. Which is bad.

He laughs again, not letting me go, but pulling me against his tight chest. Jesus, his body is gorgeous up close. So solid and steady that I want to press into all that strength, ease this sudden ache in my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His voice is a luscious rumble in my ear. "I'm in no danger of freezing right now, Special Sauce. Believe me."

I don't know how to interpret that. Or what is going on with me. "Boundaries, Gray." I edge back, because I'm in danger of doing something stupid, like drooling. "Sweaty, gross boundaries."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, loosening his grip. "I'm going. Only one thing first."

His eyes gleam, shining lapis blue in the winter light.

"What?" I ask, slightly weary of that glint.

"Is this overstepping boundaries?" he asks with mock innocence, right before the s.h.i.thead crams my head into his sweaty armpit.

Gray

I'm still smiling as I make my way into the locker room after my shower. Mac's squeals of horror were adorable. She fought the good fight, but still ended up with a face full of my sweat. Which is disgusting but oddly satisfying to me, in a caveman kind of way. I might feel bad about it, if it weren't for the fact that Mac had been laughing her a.s.s off the whole time we wrestled. That, and she'd gotten a few good hits in.

"What's with that smug look, Gray-Gray?" Dex asks me as I pull out my boxers. The big center is far too perceptive and I'm not about to go under the microscope.

"Nothing."

Johnson glances at me too. "Uh-huh. Got anything to do with that hickey on your chest?" He shakes his head, sending his long yellow hair flying around his shoulders. "d.a.m.n, boy, only you could f.u.c.k around with a girl five minutes after practice."

I look down at my chest where a small bruise is forming near my nipple. My grin grows and I rub the spot. "Not what you think, man. Mac pinched me." Hurt like a b.i.t.c.h but totally worth it. "We were just messing around."

The guys all stop to look at me with varying expressions of disbelief.

"Is that what you kids are calling it these days?" Dex asks.

"Yeah, well she was kind of p.i.s.sed that I gave her a noogie." I b.u.t.ton my jeans.

"Mac?" Diaz, the big-usually silent-Puerto Rican lineman is putting on his shoes. "That the tall dark-haired honey watching our practice? The one who looks like Strawberry Fields from Quantum of Solace?"

"Gemma Arterton," Johnson supplies. "Nice."

I suppose Mac does kind of look like her. Especially with that hairstyle. Only Mac is more appealing. "Yep. Oh hey," I look around at all of them. "Palmers is doing Eighties Night. I told Mac we'd go." Already I'm texting Drew. He wanted to meet Mac. Now's his chance.

Silence greets me, and I lift my head to find my guys playing a game of Let's Not Acknowledge Gray.

"We're going out," I tell them emphatically. "So stop pouting about practice and f.u.c.king get with the program." The guys need to relax and, frankly, we need to bond or whatever. We need this.

"Fine," Dex mutters. "But only because I have to meet this girl who is your 'bud'. I'm pretty sure this might be one of the seven signs of the apocalypse."

"True dat," Diaz agrees with a short.

"She's awesome." I tug on my shirt, then look at Rolondo, who's rubbing lotion on his elbow like he's auditioning for Silence of the Lambs. "You're coming, 'Lo."

It wasn't a question, but he treats it as one. "Naw. I'm not up for it tonight."

"Bulls.h.i.t. You're going."

He doesn't answer.

"Rolondo Jamal Smith, don't make me drag you out by your a.s.s."

His eyes narrow but he's obviously trying not to laugh. "You imitating my mama, G?"

"h.e.l.l no." I totally am. "I've no desire to p.i.s.s her off. That woman is a sweet-potato pie-making G.o.ddess."

'Londo smirks. "d.a.m.n straight she is."

"Speaking of, when is she sending another shipment? Tell her I love her, okay?"

"Little suck up." He tosses his lotion into his bag with a sigh. "All right. I'll go."

Grinning, I give his head a nudge, and get a slap on my arm for my efforts. Rolondo saunters off, still grumbling about punk-a.s.s, s.h.i.t-talking white boys, but his step is lighter.

It's only when all the guys head out, leaving me to finish dressing, that I notice Cal Alder, our new starting QB, coming in from the showers. He'd been in there for a while and now moves with a reluctant slowness that I know far too well. I've had s.h.i.t games after when I've sat under the spray of the shower like a zombie, hoping the water would wash away the shame of defeat. Never works, though.

And the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d has some big shoes to fill. He's a soph.o.m.ore, forced to play the big game with a team that loved their former quarterback. Oftentimes, Drew barely had to communicate with us during a play, he just knew where to throw or pa.s.s, and we just knew where to catch it. f.u.c.king strange, but true. We were in sync. We're not in sync with Cal.

"Hey, Cal."

He flinches as if he hadn't noticed my presence. Despite the stiffness in his shoulders, he turns to face me. Cal is nothing like Drew. He's not a pretty boy. He doesn't laugh much or talk like an English professor. Truth be told, he looks more like a bruiser. Blunt features, a nose that might have been broken at one point. And his eyes are eerie as f.u.c.k. Frosty green, surrounded by dark lashes, when he points them at you it's like you're expecting lasers to shoot out or something.

His expression drawn and tight, he looks like he's expecting me to give him s.h.i.t. "Hey."

"We're going out to Palmers tonight. Come along." Again, not a question.

Cal blinks in surprise before weariness pulls at his mouth. "Thanks but I don't-"

"Look, man, I don't envy you your position right now. It's gotta be stressful as s.h.i.t. But I do know that a QB who bonds with his men has an advantage."

His gaze narrows. "And you think having some drinks with a few teammates is gonna make everything all right? Yeah. Sure."

"I think we need you," I answer truthfully. "And you need us. So, yeah, you do what you can to help get the win. Suck it up and get your a.s.s over to Palmers tonight."

The tension goes out of his shoulders on a sigh. "All right, I'll go."

"Your enthusiasm overwhelms me," I mutter, grabbing my bag. But then I pause and give him a good glare. "You bail, and I will hunt you down, newbie."

He rolls his eyes but almost smiles. "I'm terrified."

"I know. My tackle is a thing of fearsome beauty."

Cal snorts as I leave. I'm almost out the door when he calls out. "Grayson." When I stop and glance back, he gives me a nod of his chin. "Thanks."

It's not like I've done anything but be decent. But I nod back. "Buy me a beer and we'll call it even."

As soon as I'm out the door, my thoughts turn back to Mac, and I rub the small sore spot on my chest where she pinched. Tonight can't come too soon.

Five.

Ivy

"Where are you going tonight, sugar pie?"

Fi's voice, garbled by her cold, cuts through the music that fills my room. I lower the bronze eyeliner I'd been smudging along my lids and glance at her. "Palmers."

Her red-tipped nose wrinkles. "That meat market? No fair."

Laughing, I pick up where I left off with the eyeliner, giving myself a soft cat-eye line. "Go there much?"

"Not recently. I hate being sick." With that whine, she plops down on my bed, lying with dramatic flair among the many pillows. Her puffy eyes narrow onto my docking station where I'm playing songs on my phone. "s.e.xyBack? Really?" A huge grin cracks her face. "It's like that, is it?"

s.h.i.t. It is a deep, dark secret of mine that, when wanting to get my s.e.xy mojo going, I'll play s.e.xyBack. I suppose my preteen l.u.s.t for Justin Timberlake never died.

Flushed, I make a production out of selecting a red lip tint to blot on before my gloss. "Whatever. It's set on random."

But Fi knows me too well. She eyes my outfit, and her smirk returns. "Uh-huh. Nice top."

I'm wearing a red silk halter top. It has a high, gathered neckline, but it's cut so that my shoulders and back are exposed. A strapless, low-backed bra a.s.sures that my b.r.e.a.s.t.s aren't swaying out of control, but the top is definitely s.e.xy. Paired with black skinny jeans and high-heeled booties, the outfit is also fairly comfortable. And because Gray is tall as a tree, I can wear heels and not dwarf him. Always a bonus in my world.

"I'm not going to a bar looking like a schlub," I mutter, dabbing on the red lip tint.

"Speaking of s.e.xy," Fiona drawls. "Is that mountain of man hotness coming to get you?"

I snort at her nickname for Gray. "No. I'm meeting him there. This isn't a date, Fi."

I don't mention that I'm taking a cab. Gray got his truck back from Drew and promised to not only be the designated driver for tonight but to bring me back home as well. He would have picked me up, but he's driving a few of his friends, and I refused to cramp their ride. I hadn't wanted Gray to drive me home for that same reason, but he insisted.

"Trust me, Mac," he'd said, "they'll find their own rides home."

Hooking up. It's stupid that the idea bothers me. Or that I'd looked at Gray when he'd said that and thought of him finding a girl to hook up with tonight. Taking her home and...

Even now a shudder of distaste runs through me. Stupid shudder. I have no right to be upset. h.e.l.l, the fact that I am upset is upsetting. But I'd pulled up my big-girl panties and suggested to Gray that I might be a third wheel.

He'd reacted as though I was talking crazy, insisting that tonight was our night to hang out. So I let the matter drop. But eventually I'll have to deal with seeing Gray pick up women.

Frowning, I detach my phone from the dock and slip it into my little clutch purse.

"You going to be all right?" I ask Fiona before I go.

She waves a lazy hand. "I'm almost better. Now go and have fun with the entire freaking football team of hotness, you hussy."

"It's not the entire team," I say with a smile. "Maybe like half. Three-quarters at the most."

Fi tosses a pillow at me, but if falls with a sad little thump far short of me. "So jealous. Go then, get your s.e.xy on. And you'd better send me snaps of their arms!" Fi is an admitted lover of big biceps.

"Will do." I wave and head out.

The bar where I meet Gray is filled with people, and apparently doing a retro night. Eighties hip-hop pounds from the speakers as I weave through the crush. My height has an advantage here, as does Gray's; I easily spot him above the crowd, his dark gold hair shining like a beacon as he strides forward to meet me. I love that I can wear heels and he still has inches on me.

"Hey," he says when we get to each other. "We've got a booth in the..." He trails off as he truly looks at me, and his lips part as if he's taking a quick breath.

"What?" My voice is too loud, the music making it hard to hear anything, and I lean closer. Enough that I feel the heat of his body and catch his clean scent. Soap and man has never smelled better.

For a moment, we kind of just sway around each other. Like magnets in too-close proximity deciding whether to slam together or split apart. A strange little dance that has us both fl.u.s.tered.

Gray clears his throat and edges back as if my nearness is too much for him. Well, okay then, I don't smell, do I? I scowl, but his mouth quirks on a smile. "You look...nice, Mac."

"High praise there, Cupcake." My scowl grows, and he laughs.