Page 29 of Gridlocked on the Gridiron

It was an antiquated tradition and made the coaches seem like toxic partners who needed to know where their players were at all times, especially at night when they were meant to be resting and relaxing. Yet something about Coach Turner trapping the fully grown, six-three, 200-and-something-pound, twenty-eight-year-old man made her giggle. She knocked lightly, holding up the measly snacks she’d acquired for his peep-hole approval.

“Pull the tape up,” he instructed through the door. She pulled the tape from the door, leaving it stuck only to the frame.

The door opened slowly. He rested a shoulder against the frame, his long, muscled arm opening the door wide enough for her to walk underneath. She ignored his narrowed eyes as they found her shirt.

His room was, obviously, a suite, even though he only used it at night. She walked into the living area with a full dining table, couch, coffee table, TV stand, and TV. Past that was a sink, microwave, fridge, and coffee stand.

“This is so much nicer than my room. That’s not fair.”

The sounds of college football filtered in from the bedroom, cheering clear behind the sound of an announcer. Lucia set the snacks next to the sink. The bedroom, which connected via a hallway to the living room, had a separate door, desk, and king-sized bed. She wasn’t sure what exactly the plan had been after she brought him the food, so she turned around.

He was eyeing her incredulously, and she wasn’t sure if his eyes were fixated on the goosebumps that cropped up on her arms, or the shirt.

“Cold?” he asked. She supposed that answered the question.

She crossed her arms. “Oh, no, I’ll be fine.”

He was already fishing a dark green sweatshirt out of his duffle bag, tossing it to her. “Put that on. And keep it, I don’t wanna see that shit again.” Under his breath, he mumbled, “Imagine wearing a Vipers shirt in front of me. The gall.”

“Oh, you don’t like my shirt?” She batted her eyelashes at him innocently but pulled the sweatshirt over her torso. It smelled so much of him, rich and earthy and surprisingly…nice.

“I’d like it a lot more if it were in the trash. Or better yet, burned.” He grabbed the snacks and threw them onto his bed. He hooked his thumb behind him toward the other side of the bed as he sat, grabbing the remote.

“Oh, are we…Am I staying? I thought I was just bringing snacks.”

“Moretti, sit your ass on the bed. I’m not treating you like an intern. Or a food delivery service.”

He clicked to the TV guide, perusing. She took a moment to take in the tight, white t-shirt and dark green sweatpants that were no doubt a part of a Sabers sweatsuit. She was starting to get annoyed with the way her body responded to him, hating the familiar, tight coil of desire behind her belly button that she noticed any time he walked around in sweatpants. And that damn t-shirt. She chalked it up to being celibate for months, but damn did his body look good.

“Not that I don’t enjoy you ogling me, because trust me, I do, but I need your help choosing a movie. Otherwise, I’m going to pick something you’ll probably hate.”

She could feel herself flushing, warmth creeping over her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Sometimes I forget how highly you think of yourself.”

“I think the only person who was thinking about me just now was you.”

She didn’t have a response to that, because he was right. She sat beside him, leaving enough room between them that she didn’t feel like her breath was stuck in her chest. Another interesting body quirk she’d experienced in his presence recently.

“If Coach Turner asks, you forced me to come see you on the threat of a breakup.”

He slid down on the bed a bit. “I sound like a terrible boyfriend.”

She shrugged. “Well, if the shoe fits and all of that.”

She was startled when he turned and looked at her meaningfully. “If you don’t want to be here, I understand. I appreciate the snacks, but you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” He sounded surprisingly serious.

“Well, it all comes down to what movie you choose. You already scrolled past How To Lose A Guy in Ten Days, so I’m not sure I can trust your decision-making.”

He stopped scrolling, moving back up toward the movie she’d indicated. “Sounds dumb. What’s it about?”

Lucia mock gasped, a hand on her heart. “How dare you! That is prime romcom.”

He clicked on it and, just as it was starting, said, “Okay, but what’s it about?”

“I could write an essay on this movie, but it’s about a journalist who wants to write about politics but is assigned the How To section at a gossip magazine. That’s all you get, you just have to watch.”

“You shouldn’t work in movie marketing.”

Despite what he would probably say at the end of the movie, Colton seemed engaged in the story. Lucia spent more time watching his reactions from the corner of her eye than watching the movie itself.

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