The jersey is black with thin red stripes down the shoulders and red and gray lettering. His ColdGear Under Armour shirt is also black and has a delicate gray weave to it, giving it the illusion of chain mail armor.
Then there’s the greatest fashion invention ever: football pants. This particular pair is black with a single skinny red stripe down the sides.
Do you think it’s inappropriate to request that he turn around so we can ogle his butt? Asking for a friend.
I let my inner cheerleader’s question marinate—it has hella merit—as I continue my downward inspection to the black socks and cleats. The only thing he’s missing is the revamped black helmet that has a badass outline of a hawk in gray.
“Eyes up here, babe.”
My head snaps up, a blush heating my cheeks as I meet sparking seafoam green eyes. The matching set of dimples on display tells me Mase is enjoying my lustful attention.
“Careful…” Hands curl around my hips and he continues to step forward until my back comes in contact with the wall. “I do have a game to play.” The husky timbre of his voice tells me how disappointed he is with this fact.
I run my hands over his shoulder pads, traveling across his chest then down his stomach, fanning my fingers along the muscles flexing under my touch. “After?” My question is full of promise as I peer at him from beneath my lashes.
“Without a doubt, I’ll be tasting your rainbow later, Skittles.”
The flush of heat spreading throughout my body has nothing to do with the multiple layers I have on and everything to do with his corny, dirty words.
“Promises, promises.” I walk my fingers back up his body, hooking one in the V of his jersey’s collar and pushing onto my toes. Before I can close the gap between us, Mase pulls back, stepping away until a foot of space separates us.
“Show me.” He wiggles a finger in front of my chest.
I could play dumb, could feign having no idea what he wants, but I’m not that mean. Well…maybe a little bit. I did refuse to text him a picture of my shirt earlier like I typically do, but is it really so wrong to want to witness his reaction in person?
Doesn’t mean I’m not going to draw this out as much as I can.
I turn to give him my back, gathering my hair in one hand and pulling it over a shoulder so the NOVA #87 on the back of my Black Out hoodie is displayed in all its claimed-by-the-caveman glory.
“Kay,” Mase warns.
Ooo, someone is all extra growly today. I like it.
I bite down on my lip to hold in my smirk as I spin back around.
His intense stare is like a physical caress. He starts at the top of my black waffle pom beanie, stopping briefly at the flesh pinched between my teeth, the widening at the corners of his eyes giving away how much he wants to be the one doing the biting. He continues his downward inspection, tongue peeking out to stroke across his lower lip as he takes in the way my black fleece-lined leggings hug my legs and down to the tips of my insulated tall black Hunter boots.
It’s an effort to swallow as his burning gaze locks onto where my fingers worry the hem of my—his—hoodie.
Layer by layer, I lift the sweatshirt then the thick wool sweater beneath it until…finally…I reveal the My heart is out on that field shirt I had made. There’s also a football with a heart and an 87 in the middle.
I don’t blink, my eyes stinging as they dry out, unable to look away. How can I when he brings a thumb up to stroke across his lower lip? I mean come on! He already looks like a wet football god dream; does he really have to pull out a move straight from the hot guy handbook?
“And mine’s in the fucking stands.” His voice comes out all gravelly as he lunges toward me. Hands cup my ass as he scoops me into his arms, the impact of my back slamming into the wall as he presses me against it dissolving away as his mouth claims mine.
He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, his tongue licking across the spot my teeth abused. I sigh, running my fingers over the short hairs on the back of his head.
My legs squeeze for leverage while his hands tunnel under my layers, a sound of frustration rumbling deep in his throat when he meets the resistance of my skintight Under Amour shirt. “Why do you have on so many damn layers?”
I smirk against his mouth before dropping my head back to rest against the painted cinderblock behind me. “Well, you see…” I trace along the base of his skull. “I have this boyfriend.”
“Tell me more.”
I poke at the dimple daring to come out and play.
“Well…he plays football, and he likes to see me sitting in the stands behind his team’s bench. So, when it’s butt-ass cold outside, layers are a requirement if I’m going to fend off frostbite to cheer him on.”
“Smartass.” I yelp when he pinches one of my butt cheeks. “It’s not that cold out.”
“It’s cold enough.” I wave a gloved hand in his face.
“I’m sure he appreciates the sacrifice.”
“So he tells me.” I smirk, playing along, sobering when his forehead comes down to rest against mine.
“Sounds like a lucky guy to have you cheering him on from the stands through such treacherous conditions.”
“He is.” My eyes cross in an effort to maintain eye contact as our foreheads press together.
“You two are giving me a toothache.” Carter’s voice echoes down the tunnel.
“Shut it, King,” I volley back. “You’re supposed to be a silent chaperone.”
Calloused hands come up to cradle my face, bringing me back to the moment. “I love you, baby,” Mase says, dropping all pretense of the game we’ve been playing
