Page 61 of Married to Number 22
For the confettiandmaking me smoosh my dog.
“I’m going to kill him,” I grumble.
Gray almost smiles and if I weren’t so annoyed with Smitty, I would file that away for the history books since it happens so infrequently. “Don’t worry,” he assures me. “I’ve called in the reinforcements.”
My brows drag together.
But then my expression clears.
Becausethenmy teammate Joel comes around the corner, his arms full of the one thing that can tame the big, bearded beast currently making trouble in the locker room.
“Jesus,” Gray mutters. “You couldn’t find a bigger one?”
“This is Vegas.” Joel shoves the giant stuffed toy at Gray. “You know they don’t do things small.”
“That’s Texas, dumbass.” Gray shoves it back. “Everything’s bigger in Texas.”
Joel rolls his eyes. “Fine. How about Vegas doesn’t do anything in half measures?”
“Less catchy,” Gray mutters. “More accurate.”
Joel shakes his head, drops the huge stuffed animal on the table. “Either way, I did you the favor. Now I need to get ready for the game.”
“You’re the only guy on the team who was making a pit stop at the toy store.”
Joel narrows his eyes, tucks the arm with the other bag I’d previously missed a bit further behind his back. “How’d you know that?” It’s a frosty question.
One that doesn’t bother Gray in the least. “Alex’s birthday is the day we get back, right?”
Alex? Oh,Alex.
Right.
My brows go up, impressed that my captain has his finger on the pulse of my teammate that closely, and think—perhaps for the first time ever—that Smitty might be on to something with all his nosiness. Mostly because Joel has the hots for a single mom named Veronica…who’s friend-zoned him with complete and utter certainty.
And that seems complicated.
And interesting.
And maybe…like we can do something to help him out of the friend zone.
“I’m getting dressed,” Joel growls, not acknowledging Gray’s question as he brushes by us.
“Please don’t accept any confetti from Smitty,” I say—or maybe beg.
Joel pauses, his mouth twitching, just the slightest bit, but he doesn’t comment further. He only claps me on the arm and pushes into the locker room.
Great.
He’s so going to get in on the confetti action too.
And God, I love Smitty—the man’s heart is as big as his body.
But sometimes—or maybemostof the time—I really want to throttle him.
“Finish your hot dog. Down that sugar.” Gray nods to my snacks. “Then take all the time you need to get your head in the game. But”—he jerks his head at the table covered mostly by the stuffed brown-fuzzed marsupial—when you come into the locker room, make sure you do it wielding wombats.”
The wombat worksand I manage to only find a few stray pieces of paper in my jock after the game.
