Page 46 of Scoring the Player
“Isn’t that weird when you bring girls back to your room?”
“I doubt any of them have noticed,” he says in a tone that suggests he’s annoyed by it, but no one is making him hook up with random chicks.
“What else do you want to know?” he asks.
“I made a list.”
“Oh man, I better get cozy then.” He kicks off his shoes and turns on his side. The movement puts him so close, I can’t think.
“It’s in my phone.” I sit up. I can breathe a little easier without his mouth taunting me. “Which is downstairs.”
“Maybe just ask me the ones you remember,” he suggests with a playful smirk. He grimaces a little as he adjusts his back.
“Okay, for starters, how do you go out so much? You never seem worried about classes or homework. And I know from Jordan and Gavin that even the men’s sports don’t get preferential treatment from professors like I assumed.”
He grins. “Maybetheydon’t.”
“So, you’re just more special?”
“Oh, I definitely am.” His smile is so big and magnetic, I find myself leaning forward. “I got injured right before my freshman year. Had a thing with my elbow and couldn’t play. It sucked, majorly, but since I was useless, I took something like eighteen credit hours both semesters that year. And I took summer classes. This year is a breeze. Just the way I need it to be.”
“You’re an art history major, right?” It surprised me when I saw it listed below his roster photo on the Valley U football website.
“That’s right.”
“Why art history?”
He shrugs, then adjusts again. “The plan has always been the NFL, but if by some chance that doesn’t happen, I thought that was the safest bet. My parents own a gallery in Scottsdale.”
“You’d be happy doing that?”
“Fuck no. Anything but the NFL will feel like a disappointment.”
When he squirms this time, I say, “You don’t have to lie down here and pretend it’s comfortable.”
“No, it is.” He lets a little of that discomfort I saw in flashes settle over his features. “My back is tight. I meant to roll it out after practice, but I was in a hurry to get to The Hideout and hang out with my girlfriend before I knew she was going to blow me off.”
I laugh. “Turn over.”
He hesitates, but when I motion for him to flip, he does.
Lying on his stomach, I inch forward until my knees rest against his hip. I press my hands to his back. “Here?”
“Little higher.”
I adjust.
“To the right an inch.”
My fingers glide over and my heart races at the simple contact.
“Yeah, there.”
As I press in, he groans.
My pulse races and skitters as I massage his back. Warmth seeps through his T-shirt as I work on loosening up the tight spot in his back.
When I can find my voice, I say, “That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself for football.”
