Page 4 of Offsides

But the sharp contrast of the guys from my hometown and Eli hits me hard tonight, especially after the way he caught me at the end of my song …

Why was I ever with such an asshole?

I need to find someone like Eli. Not him, obviously. He doesn’t see me that way. We’re just friends. I’m just one of the guys. Which is fine, really. As cute as Eli is—and I’d have to be blind not to see that with his warm hazel eyes, his compact and muscular physique, and the cute dimples that flash when he smiles—there’s never been any chemistry between us.

When we first met in the gym, I’d kind of hoped …

He was my gym crush for that first semester. And then we had a biology class together the next semester—which honestly only seemed more perfect. I’m a biology major with plans to become a physical therapist, and he’s a biochem major with plans to either play football or work for a pharmaceutical company like his uncle. Both of us are into science and using it to help people in some capacity. On paper, it seems perfect.

But when we studied together, he never made a move, always friendly, but never flirty.

So I set my crush aside and accepted that we’re destined to be great friends. Because he is a great friend.

“How did you know where I was?” I ask after I’ve managed to get myself under control a little better, the tears deeper beneath the surface, not so close that they might escape if I let my guard down for even a second.

Eli glances at me out of the corner of his eye as he pulls into the parking lot for his apartment complex. “Jackson called me and told me I needed to come down and see you sing.” He pauses for a moment, but there’s expectation in it, so I wait to see what else he says. “You were pretty amazing up there. I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

I let out a deprecating chuckle, uncomfortable with the praise. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” he insists. “You were great up there.”

“Right. Until I got choked up and could barely keep singing. Iknowyou were there for that part.” It’s easier if I criticize myself first, after all. Acknowledging my own mistakes robs other people of the power to make me feel small. Or at least mitigates it somewhat. It’s a trick I’ve learned over the years.

Eli’s lush lips press into a firm line. He really does have a nice mouth. Expressive and always ready with a smile. I’m not used to seeing the kind of censure on his face, though—hard mouth, nostrils flaring. At least not directed at me. Sometimes when game play is intense, he gets a similar look. Or when he’s frustrated with one of his friends.

I guess I’m just not usually one of the friends he gets frustrated with.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. Not with me.”

“Do what?”

He pulls into his parking spot and cuts the engine before giving me a look that speaks volumes. But he doesn’t answer my question. Not directly, anyway. “Why are you unable to accept a compliment?”

I splutter, holding out my hands. “I can accept a compliment.”

Shaking his head slowly, he unbuckles his seatbelt. “No, Dani. You can’t. Not once in the years I’ve known you have you accepted a compliment without pointing out some perceived deficiency on your part, however small. You’re perfectly able to compliment me when you think I deserve it without offering criticism—well, not that you never give criticism, because you definitely do when you think it’s merited. But you’re also capable of giving only compliments. Why aren’t you able to accept them?”

I splutter again and look away, focusing on unbuckling my seatbelt and climbing out of the car as a way to give myself some time and space to come up with a response. I know the answer, of course. Because I’ve never been given unqualified compliments. There’s always abut… And I learned years ago that it stings less when I supply thebut …myself.

I’m not sure how to say that out loud, though. Or if I even want to.

Eli climbs out of the car and follows me to his door, reaching past me to unlock the deadbolt, his body so close to mine that he blocks the cold, making the air around me several degrees warmer.

Once we’re inside, he shucks his leather jacket, and I take my time looking him over in his untucked button down, sleeves cuffed at the elbow. He has lovely forearms. I’ve noticed plenty of times before, of course. Capable hands with long fingers, perfect for wrapping around a football. Or a barbell.

Or me.

I blink hard, dispelling that last thought. It’s just the lingering effects of heartbreak and alcohol making me go there. And the way he held me when I clung to him at the end of my song. Eli doesn’t like me. Not likethat, anyway. He’s my friend. He brought me here because he’s concerned about me. And how could he not be after my near breakdown on stage?

The door of his apartment opens into the dining area. He drops his coat on the back of a chair and moves into the kitchen, pulling down two glasses and filling them with water from the sink. “How much did you have to drink tonight?”

I roll my eyes at his protector role. But he knows I’m a lightweight. I don’t drink often, and when I do, one’s usually my limit.

He hands me one of the glasses of water, keeping his eyes focused on mine, and for some stupid reason, heat rises to my cheeks. “You know me,” I say, trying to make things lighter. Because they feel really heavy right now. There’s a weird tension between us that’s never been present before.

He dips his chin in a nod, his throat working as he takes a drink from his own glass. “I do know you. But I also know Autumn.”

That has my hackles rising. Autumn’s a good friend. Sure, she can be a little out there sometimes, but she’s never not been there for any of us when we’ve needed her. “What’s your problem with Autumn?”

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