All Lined Up

“Carson!” I push at his shoulders, trying to stifle a laugh and failing. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

He stops rubbing his hair against me, but doesn’t unwrap his arms from around me.

“Just celebrating my luck.”

He holds me for a few seconds longer, and I can feel his tantalizing breath against my neck. I dig my fingernails into his arms, but that only makes me more conscious of how close he is. He pulls away one torturous moment later, his arm still over my shoulder, but otherwise not acknowledging that anything more than friendly had just happened.

“So what do you want to do tonight, Daredevil?”

It takes me a second longer than I’d like to find my voice. “Doesn’t matter. I was just bored of the party Stella dragged me to.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

We approach his building in silence, but as we take the stairs he asks, “So, what was this party?”

I shrug. “It was at another art major’s house.”

“And you weren’t having fun? Not even with your friend? I guess that means you don’t want me to shower and take you back to the party we just passed. I know the dude who lives there.”

“Uh, no thanks. I just never feel comfortable at parties. If you’re not drinking, it just seems like work—all the get-to-know-you chats that are painful on a normal basis, but straight-up miserable as the other person gets progressively less coherent.”

“No personal conversations, huh? You’re not the easiest person to get to know, Cole.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s different at a party. Most of those people, I’ll never see again, so it just seems like a waste of time. I don’t mind talking with you. You’re different.”

“I’m free to ask invasive, get-to-know-you questions? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Within reason,” I hedge.

He opens the door to his apartment, and I step inside without any hesitation this time.

“Make yourself at home,” he says. “I’m going to rinse off in the shower, but I promise I’ll be fast. There are food and drinks in the fridge if you want anything.”

I take a seat on the couch and tell him that I’m fine. He disappears down the hallway, and as soon as I hear his bedroom door click shut, I throw myself down face-first on his couch with a silent scream, and do my best not to think about him getting naked in the other room.

I fail.

And my imagination is surprisingly vivid.

Chapter 16

Carson

I take the coldest, fastest shower that I can manage, and I run plays in my head to keep from thinking about the girl just on the other side of the wall. I’m pissed at myself for not taking my phone on my run. I damn near missed her completely because I’m too insecure to take a night off.

I’m getting better. That much is for sure. I’ve had three sessions now with Torres and Brookes, and I’m finally starting to see the payoff of the hours I’m putting in. The receivers are jokers too, which makes the time fly by. Unlike a lot of the crap I hear on the field and in the locker room, their jokes are genuinely funny. Most of the time.

But while I’m getting better, so is Abrams. Maybe it’s being back under the demanding eyes of Coach Cole or maybe he’s just got his head on a little straighter after having played for a year. Either way, I’m losing ground as fast as I gain it, which means there’s no time to take it easy.

The cold shower means there’s no steam to fog up the mirror, and I have to look myself in the eye during that last thought, knowing that spending time with Dallas sure as hell falls into the category of taking it easy.

But she’s too damn hard to resist.

I pull on a pair of clean jeans and a gray T-shirt instead of the sweats I would normally don for the night. She’s dressed for a party in dark, slim jeans, a tiny leather jacket, and a long green shirt that matches her eyes.

I take a second to collect my thoughts before I leave my room, but all my thoughts about her are stubbornly polarized. I want to be the friend she’s asked me to be. I want to convince her we can be more. I want to run in the other direction. So I push all those things aside and just decide to do whatever feels right.

As I walk into the living room, she’s sitting sideways on my couch, my playbook resting on her knees, chewing on her thumbnail as she surveys the page.

“I thought this was a football-free zone,” I said.

She jumps and practically throws the thing off her lap. Then, with a little more composure, she says, “I was bored.”

“And that was the best snooping you could do?”

“I wasn’t snooping. I was just mildly curious to see how Dad has changed things up.”

I pick up the playbook and sit beside her, resting one of my elbows on top of her knees.

“You know you could ask him if you really wanted to know.”

She dons a look of horror. “I said mildly. If I mentioned it to Dad, he would talk my ears off for hours.”

I pick up the book, full of combinations and variations that I’m busting my ass to memorize should I ever actually get a shot to play. “So you can actually make sense of this?”

She scowls. “I’ll have you know, I knew that thing backward and forward when I used to help . . .”

She trails off, wiping the scowl and every other hint of expression off her face.

If I were a nicer guy, I’d let her get away with it.

“When you used to help Abrams? You guys used to be together, right?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, and in that leather jacket she looks as intimidating and sexy as I’ve ever seen her.