Not that I’m looking—much.
“You okay?” He gives my shoulder a squeeze, the sinewy muscles of his biceps flexing in the process. Water drips from his hair and I watch, entranced, as a droplet slides over his well-defined pecs and down the front of his washboard abs, the V-cut pointing directly to the danger zone. The tiny droplet disappears into the white terry-cloth towel wrapped around his waist, snapping my brain back to reality.
“Huh?” I ask, pulse thundering through my veins.
“Are you okay?” he repeats, speaking more slowly this time.
“I’m fine,” I say, making no move to get up off the floor, although I really should. People are starting to stare. Reid’s grip on my shoulders is gentle, and my flesh burns through my Waverly tee as if his calloused fingers were infused with fire.
Danger! Danger!
What am I thinking? Reid’s a football player. And a QB to boot. Okay, no need to panic. So he’s hot. There’s no rule that says I can’t appreciate a guy who’s got ripped muscles and a great—okay, godly—physique.
He may look like Adonis, but no harm done.
Shit. That’s probably what my mom told herself back in the day. Is this how things started between her and my father? An innocent touch here. A fiery kiss there. Not that I’m thinking of kissing Reid. Just speaking hypothetically, of course.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Reid narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You didn’t hit your head, did you?” He reaches for my chin like he’s going to inspect me for a concussion. I bat his hand away, finally finding my voice.
“I’m fine. Other than my pride.” I glance at his towel, which has slipped dangerously low on his hips, damn near giving me a full frontal in his crouched position. “Why don’t you take care of that,” I say, waving a hand toward his crotch, “before you flash the whole locker room.”
Reid smirks, the corners of his lips lifting just enough to reveal his dimple. “Trust me, it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.”
“Yes, well, I have no interest in seeing it.” I climb to my feet and smooth the front of my T-shirt. Reid stands and gives me a once-over, so I return the favor.
Big mistake. Huge, actually, because I can’t help but notice the bulge behind his towel. No baby peen for Reid. The guy’s packing, which probably explains the way he swaggers around campus like he’s God’s gift.
I jerk my gaze back to his face, ignoring the way my belly flips at the thought of his…package. If he notices my stare, he says nothing. I offer a silent prayer, thanking sweet baby Jesus himself Reid can’t hear my thoughts.
“No need to be embarrassed,” he says, casually draping a hand over the spot where his towel is tied. He steps closer, getting all up in my personal space before continuing in a husky voice, “You know, you can join us in the team locker room any time you want.”
I snort, something I would never do in front of a guy I was actually attracted to—hormones notwithstanding. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Your loss.” He shrugs a shoulder, and my gaze darts to his smooth pecs, which are devoid of hair. Does he shave his chest? Probably. “It would really help you get better integrated with the rest of the team.”
My temper flares. Typical. Just when I was starting to think he wasn’t a complete ass—he did break my fall, after all—he goes and proves me wrong. “Yeah, I don’t think having them ogle my breasts is the golden ticket to team bonding.”
The moment the words are out of my mouth, I know it’s hypocritical, because hello, I just checked him out. But honestly? I doubt these guys care. According to the gossip mill, they’re dropping their pants for women all over campus. Me? Not so much. I can count my hookups on one hand.
“Jesus, Carter. Give me some credit. I meant for pregame meetings and halftime and shit.” His eyes darken with…disappointment? What the hell? How was I supposed to know it was a serious offer? He sidesteps me and struts halfway down the aisle before turning and calling over his shoulder. “See you at study hall. I’ll save you a seat.”
Chapter Five
Austin
I roll into study hall with my backpack slung over my shoulder and a smoothie in my hand. I’m running late because I had to swing by the nutrition bar and grab snacks for my roommates. I’ve learned the hard way if they aren’t eating, they’re talking, and I can’t get shit done. I feel like a goddamn babysitter, bribing them to sit still and behave for two hours, but whatever.
I’ve got a shit ton of reading to do for my career management class, which I wouldn’t be taking if it weren’t required. I don’t want to fall behind, even if the class is a joke. Like some prof is going to be able to help me figure out how to manage my career in the NFL.
Un-fucking-likely.
That’s what sports management firms are for. Hell, I’ve already got a dozen trying to woo me into signing once my NCAA eligibility expires, despite the fact it’s a foregone conclusion I’ll sign with my dad’s agent.
The library’s second-floor reading room is mostly empty, a first day perk that won’t last, but it makes spotting the guys easy enough. Not that they’d be hard to spot even if the room were packed. They’re big, loud, and completely at odds with the old-school space that probably hasn’t been updated in decades. Mahogany bookshelves line the walls, broken up only by the half-dozen floor-to-ceiling windows that allow the last light of day to filter through. Row after row of heavy oak tables fill the room, each surrounded by neatly arranged chairs with wide backs and seats that are as uncomfortable as hell.
Still, it’s nice to get out of the academic center—where the underclassmen are required to sign in for study hall—once in a while.
Parker notices me at the door and waves.
