by Cassie James
“You never know where Prince Charming might show up,” she reminds me when I turn yet another guy down cold.
“That guy was more Tom Selleck than rom-com era Tom Hanks.”
She gazes wistfully in the direction the guy disappeared. “Hey, never knock a guy with a thick mustache. Imagine how much testosterone he must have pumping through those veins!”
“That’s not how facial hair works,” I manage somehow without slurring my words together to an incomprehensible level. “Besides, I get plenty of testosterone when I’m at work. Hot, manly testosterone.”
Cara dissolves into a fit of giggles as if I’ve just delivered the world’s funniest comedy routine. I try to think back to what I just said, but my alcohol-riddled brain won’t cooperate.
I should not have had those last couple shots.
“Hey, look!” Cara suddenly shouts over the music, pointing towards my left.
I turn and do a double-take when I see a familiar face. My brain tells me to turn away and act like I haven’t seen him. So I do.
About thirty seconds later, I hear someone calling my name.
Ah, shit.
It’s not like the team has never seen me drink before—I’m a regular at beer and wings night with them—but I don’t ever get wasted with them. Which I definitely am right now. Very wasted.
“Gemma.”
I feel Andre’s big, warm hand land on my shoulder as he calls out my name again.
I turn with what I’m sure is the most awkward smile ever as I choke out a greeting that’s either “Hi” or “Aloha.” I’m genuinely not sure which actually escapes my mouth.
Speaking of facial hair…
My eyes scan Andre’s jawline and the neat beard he keeps. It takes me a full minute to realize he’s talking to me. By the time I do, he’s fallen silent with a strange look in his eyes. I’m way too drunk to be interacting with someone who’s basically a co-worker. I glance to the side looking for Cara, but suddenly she’s nowhere to be found.
“Are you okay?” Andre asks, and this time I’m actually paying enough attention to know what he said.
I nod way more enthusiastically than necessary as I clasp my hands behind me, suddenly wishing I had another drink just so I’d have something to do with my hands. I don’t realize soon enough that clasping my hands that way has the added side-effect of curving my body so that my chest strains out towards him.
Andre’s eyes skim down the length of me.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were checking me out,” I blurt out with a nervous laugh.
His eyes leap up to mine as he very solemnly says, “I would never do that.”
Even though his voice is serious, his dark eyes dance with amusement. He looks around like he’s waiting for someone, and my stomach does a weird thing as I realize he’s probably looking for his date or something.
“I should go find—”
“Your boyfriend,” he finishes for me.
I wrinkle my nose. “I was going to say I should go find Cara.”
“I thought you had a date tonight?” He looks about as confused as I feel knowing he even knew I was supposed to have a date tonight. I’m not sure why it surprises me. The team has proven time and again that they’re weirdly good at remembering details I barely remember mentioning.
Like the fact that I prefer yellow roses to red.
I shrug my shoulders in response, not wanting to admit out loud that I got stood up, again. It doesn’t matter, his eyes flash like he knows even without me saying the words.
“Let’s dance.” He holds his hand out to me and I stare at it like a snake poised to strike. “C’mon,” he urges with a wink, “I won’t bite unless you ask me to.”
I feel my whole body flush at his innuendo even as my hand seems to reach out all on its own to take his. This is a bad idea. The drunk part of me thinks it’s a very, very good idea though, so I let Andre pull me into the thick of the crowded dance floor.
It’s just dancing. No harm in that.
But alarm bells start going off in the back of my mind as we reach the center of the floor, and Andre turns me so that my back ends up plastered to his front. I love dancing, too, so as he starts to move to the upbeat rhythm filling the club, I catch myself starting to move with him, ignoring those alarm bells that seemed so important just moments before.
It’s the first time I’ve spent any time really alone with Andre—or any of the guys, really. Usually, everything’s a group activity.
Not this time.
I grind against him as one song turns into another, the beats all blending together as our bodies fall into sync. I keep waiting for him to beg off to dance with some other girl. God knows, there are enough pretty girls around us that he could occupy himself for hours, but he just keeps dancing with me as if there’s no one else around.
We dance for a long time before my throat is so dry I can barely manage to choke out the words to tell him I need a drink. Water, if I want to have any hope of surviving the workday tomorrow.
As Andre leads me to the bar, I feel the room start to spin. I reach for him for balance, and he turns concerned eyes on me. We’ve been having fun dancing, but even he has to realize that this night is over for me. He guides me onto a stool at the far end of the bar top.
“I think I saw your friend back there. Stay right here, and I’ll get her for you.” The words are right but his expression is all wrong.
It looks like the last thing he wants to do is end the night.
Not that I blame him. This has been the most fun I’ve had in a long time, and we’ve only been here—I glance down at my watch, but then remember I’m not wearing my watch. I have no idea what time it is.
A couple minutes pass before I can’t take the spinning anymore. I close my eyes and press a hand to my forehead to try to make it stop.
I’m not sure how long I sit there before I feel Andre’s hands again, this time helping me out of my seat as I squint up at him. I forgot how tall he was in the time between him sitting me down and reappearing.
He wraps his arm around my waist as I try to steady myself on my feet. After a second, I give up and lean into his side.
Cara appears in front of me suddenly. “Aren’t you glad I made you come out?” she asks with a huge grin spreading over her face.
I make some kind of growling noise in response, the spinning too much for me to manage anything else. I’m really going to regret all those shots we did when it comes time to wake up for work, I realize.
Andre starts walking, holding tight to me to keep me moving with him. Cara takes up on my other side, just close enough that I can feel her presence, but not so close that we’re touching. It’s a little weird, though, since I’m so used to Cara being as drunk as I am when we go out. Why doesn’t she need any help out to the waiting car?
I’m so distracted by my thoughts and the never-ending spins that I don’t realize at first that Andre’s talking in a low, smooth voice.
“It was just dancing,” I hear him say, and I wish I was lucid enough to say I know. I’m not sure why he thought he needed to clarify that. Did I miss something?
He’s not talking to me, though, I realize when Cara replies back to him, “Sure, pal. Whatever you gotta tell yourself.”
The last thing I hear before my head hits the back of a car seat is his laughter. And then my last thought of the night hits—when the hell was the last time I heard my boyfriend laugh?
Three
Gemma
I let out a long groan as I drag myself out of my car in the Strudford Storms parking lot. My whole face flinches in protest the second the early morning sun beats down on me, reminding me of all of last night’s sins.
I dive back into the car for sunglasses just as another car pulls in next to me.
Oliver steps out, his face instantly scrunching with concern as he takes in my hunched frame. He hurries to my side, even though I try to wave him away.
“Are you okay?
”
“Hungover,” I mutter.
My cheeks heat as Oliver clucks at me like a mother hen. The look on his face—he might as well be gearing up to chastise me about being out late on a school night.
Another car pulls up on the other side of Oliver’s, and I let a long breath out in relief. Sorry, dude. I’m about to throw you under the bus. Andre’s tall form climbs out from the SUV, eyeing me warily as the corners of my lips creep up into a smile.
“Hey, Oliver?” I tilt my head with fake concern. “You should probably talk to Andre about being out late last night before an early practice.”
Oliver does a double-take between Andre and I. “The two of you went out together?”
The way his voice rises with insinuation makes my cheeks flush. I was so busy planning my getaway I didn’t stop to consider how it would sound that I knew Andre was out late last night, too.
“We weren’t together; we just ran into each other,” I explain.
Andre smirks, clearly enjoying his teammates reaction. “Yeah, we ran into each other, and we had a good night, too. Don’t let her fool you, this girl’s one hell of a dancer.”
Oliver’s mouth settles into a flat line as he flashes an accusatory look in Andre’s direction. Poorly chosen words aside, I’ve accomplished exactly what I wanted. Distraction.
“Uh… see you guys inside!”
I give a completely unnecessary wave as I start backing away. The two of them are still locked in a weird staring contest, so I turn on my heel and use that chance to flee. My poor, hungover brain can’t take a confrontation about my habits during non-working hours.
The guys might be on lockdown during the pre-season, but I’m not.
I chuckle to myself as I enter the building. Maybe Oliver’s the team mommy instead of me.
I manage to slink the rest of the way to my office unscathed. It turns out to be a quiet morning, too, since the guys are working out this morning instead of on the field—which means there’s no good reason for anyone to summon me unless there’s an injury.
Which thankfully doesn’t happen.
By late morning, my hangover is still kicking my ass, though. I close my eyes and lay my head down on the desk for a few minutes, willing away the throbbing headache and queasy feeling that seems to have settled in to stay.
I stay like that longer than I should, but it’s the first time I’ve gotten even the slightest bit of relief since I left my bed this morning. I start to lose track of time as the cool wood desk lulls me almost back to sleep.
Goosebumps break out over my arms as I get the sudden sensation of being watched. My back goes ramrod straight as I sit up, paranoid that one of the coaches is about to find me half-asleep at my desk.
It’s not a coach, though. It’s Cyrus. A shirtless and very, very sweaty Cyrus.
He looks like he’s come straight here from the weight room. I cross my legs under the desk as I watch a line of sweat drip down his body, rolling over the lines of his very defined abs. I barely catch myself before I end up whimpering aloud and embarrassing the hell out of myself.
It’s been way too long since I’ve had alone time with my boyfriend, that much is clear. If I don’t get some relief soon even the athletic posters in my office are going to end up being too much to handle.
And those guys are all fully dressed.
“Did you need something?” I ask, hoping like hell Cyrus doesn’t hear the way my voice cracks.
“Heard you went out with Andre last night.” He pushes my door closed with his hip, and I bite my lip to keep from asking him to leave it open.
Men gossip worse than teenage girls.
I shake my head. “No, we just happened to be at the same club.”
He runs a hand over the scruff on his jaw as he strolls further into my office as if he owns the place. That’s what he’s like everywhere. He moves like the whole world belongs to him—and his confidence means most people treat him accordingly.
Personally, I try not to let him push me around too much, but that’s easier said than done when he’s half-dressed and staring at me like he’s planning on having me for lunch.
“Wouldn’t consider your friend the clubbing type,” he muses. I start to correct him, Cara loves nightlife, but then I realize that’s not the friend he’s talking about. Cyrus might be the one person in this world who seems to like my boyfriend even less than Cara does.
They’ve met a couple times over the years—at team benefit events mostly—and the two of them have clashed every time.
Colin swears it’s because Cyrus is threatened by him, but truth be told I can’t imagine Cyrus feeling threatened by anyone. Colin might have money, but Cyrus is built like he could bench-press my boyfriend without breaking a sweat. And to someone like Cyrus, a true athlete through-and-through, that’s worth a whole hell of a lot more.
“I went out with my friend Cara.”
Cyrus nods slowly. “Your tall friend.”
Of course he remembers who she is. Cara’s gorgeous and confident—the kind of woman guys like Cyrus just don’t forget. Because she’s basically the female version of him. So yes, of course he remembers my pretty friend despite having met her only a couple times when she’s dropped by unannounced—always hoping to catch the guys in exactly the state of undress that Cyrus is in now.
She’d die if she knew he was standing shirtless in my office right now.
My fingers inch towards my phone, wondering how mad the team’s captain would be if I picked my phone up mid-conversation to text her. Maybe I could even sneak in a picture…
“What happened to your date?”
The question is like a bucket of cold water thrown over my head. My eyes automatically glance toward the picture frame on the edge of my desk. Mine and Colin’s six-month anniversary—and the one and only trip we’ve taken together.
I realize Cyrus is still waiting for me to answer so I tell him simply, “Something came up.”
“That’s bullshit.” I clamp my mouth shut to avoid saying something that will only end up getting me in trouble. Not that it matters, since apparently he’s not done. “What kind of man lets his girlfriend go out dancing with another man?”
“I already told you I wasn’t there with Andre.”
“But you danced with him.”
I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “It was just dancing.”
“Not the way he tells it.” His lip curls up on one side into a smirk. Sometimes Cyrus really infuriates me. Sticking his nose into my business, giving me a hard time because he knows the last thing I want to do is have a tumultuous relationship with the captain of our team.
“Did you actually need something? Because if you’re done harassing me…” I trail off, no real excuse at the ready.
Cyrus crosses the distance between the center of the room and my desk with two steps. Towering over me in my desk chair, his eyes roam every bit of me that he can see. I’m really freaking glad I’m scooted far enough under the desk that he can’t see how tightly my legs are crossed at the moment.
His smirk transforms into a lazy smile. “Some women like when I harass them.”
“But I have a boyfriend,” I blurt back.
Duh, Gemma. He knows that. He’s not hitting on you.
“I haven’t forgotten in the last thirty seconds since we talked about him.” I can’t decide if I’m imagining or actually hearing annoyance in his voice—it’s gone a moment later. “The guys are finishing up, and then we’re watching tape.”
“Okay, I’ll probably head out early then?” I hate the way it comes out like a question—as if I’m asking his permission.
He nods slowly.
Cyrus starts to leave but pauses with the door half open. He doesn’t look back at me as he says, “Don’t forget it’s wing night at Midtown.”
“I’ll be there.”
I’m always there.
Beers and chicken wings. I never miss going with the team. It’s a whole thing with all tw
enty-five of them and then little ol’ me in the dead center. At first, Cyrus called it team bonding, but really I just think he liked the attention that came from all of them being out at once. Especially at Midtown, their regular haunt, where even now there’s a chance of girls lining up hoping to catch the eye of one of the Storms.
They might not make the big bucks like professional football or basketball stars—but the Strudford Storms get contracts that are nothing to sneeze at and every one of them is so ungodly hot that most women just melt in their presence.
Not me, though.
This team? We’re friends. No matter how many times I nearly drool over seeing one of them shirtless. Wing night at Midtown might actually be the physical representation of the friend zone. And you can catch me there with the team every Thursday night like freaking clockwork.
Four
Gemma
“Coach Kringle, do you think the Storms have a shot at the cup after last season’s disappointing loss to the Spartans?”
Oh, hell.
I blanch at the reporter’s question and turn my attention to the field. There are only a handful of things you can’t talk to Marty Kringle about. The moon landing, Coke versus Pepsi, and last season’s playoff loss to the Spartans are at the top of that list. Not in that order, either.
Coach grunts out a diplomatic answer that has the reporter tittering in response. The “piss off” is clear in Coach’s tone, but the Channel 6 reporter doesn’t seem to have caught on quite yet.
“Are you sticking with your current roster? There was some post-season talk about whether the Storms could benefit from a captaincy change.”
I cross my arms over my chest, shaking my head as I turn my attention back to the field. The Storms are in the middle of a series of offensive drills, and Cyrus is shouting just as loudly as the assistant Coach standing next to him.
