Fraternize

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “Chug it.” Sanchez slapped a hand on my shoulder. “And then get another. You’re way too tense, man, it’s probably why I’m winning.”

  I scowled. “I never agreed to a pissing match.”

  “And yet, who’s keeping score?”

  I flicked off the cap and drank.

  “I’m loaning her a car.”

  The beer shot out of my mouth, nailing Jax in the back of the head and dripping down the nice, white leather couch.

  “Thanks, man!” Jax called over, while Thomas grabbed a towel from the kitchen and tossed it at Jax’s head.

  “The hell you are!”

  Sanchez’s grin was pure evil. My fingers itched to punch him, maim him, throw him out his own window, and run him over with my car!

  “Why?” He frowned. “When I called the mechanic—thanks for that info, by the way.” He took a long draw of his beer. “They said it would cost more to fix the car than it was worth. So, she sells the car for parts, saves up a nice little nest egg, buys a new car, and in between, I let her use one of mine.”

  My eyes narrowed. “How many do you have?”

  Sanchez didn’t say anything before looking away. “Well, yesterday I had one.”

  I ran a hand over my buzzed head. “And today?”

  “Two,” he said slowly. “Sorry. It’s hard counting that high.”

  “So basically . . . you bought her a car that you’re going to loan her, all because you want to have sex with her? Does that sound about right?”

  “Who?” Jax called out.

  “No one,” Sanchez and I said in unison.

  I nodded toward the kitchen.

  He followed.

  “She won’t take it, trust me. This is Em we’re talking about. Plus, she’s going to see right through you. It’s like a sex gift. You can’t give her a sex gift if—” I stopped talking. What the hell was I doing? Helping him date her? I stared inside the beer bottle and then peered at Sanchez. “Did you drug me?”

  He burst out laughing. “Actually, I was wondering the same thing. It’s not like you to spill secrets, especially about a girl you want as bad as Em.”

  “I don’t,” I lied.

  “Alright.” He licked his lips. “So you really don’t mind then? If I just fill those giant shoes you left behind and step in as boyfriend, best friend, bed buddy, and all-around best sexual partner she’s ever had?”

  “Do whatever you want, man.” I tried to keep my voice even. “Just don’t hurt her.”

  “Something tells me she’s been taking care of herself for a while, no thanks to you.” He tossed his empty beer bottle in the trash. “It’s not like I bought a brand-new Maserati.”

  I frowned harder. “What did you get then?”

  He grinned like he’d just won the presidency. “Brand-new Honda.”

  Yeah. I was going to kill him.

  Any other car would have embarrassed her.

  And Sanchez had to get noble and buy her a newer version of the car she already has? So she doesn’t feel weird?

  “Bastard,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “Hey, at least I warned you.”

  The fact that he was taking care of her, that the team whore was willing to do anything to sleep with her was making me dizzy. But he hadn’t proven that he wasn’t the better man. And I knew just like everyone else, the guy was a freaking serial dater, he went from woman to woman, and the fact that he’d been engaged before made absolutely no sense.

  Because when I was driving around feeling sorry for myself and pissed at her for abandoning me, it hadn’t even occurred to me that she’d need transportation if she wanted to stay on the squad or what it would cost to take an Uber every day, four times a day.

  I’d been selfish and pissed.

  And once again allowed Sanchez to swoop in and play the part of the hero, which just proved I really didn’t know her at all.

  And in three days . . .

  He’d already figured out things that had taken me years to pull out of her.

  The insecurity . . . the need for a low profile with a car that didn’t cost more than most people’s houses . . .

  He’d done the impossible, earned her friendship.

  Which meant all he had to do was earn her trust and her loyalty.

  And then, her heart.

  The beer went sour in my stomach.

  “Two choices.” Was Sanchez seriously still standing there? Watching my mental breakdown? Great. “You can let her be happy, let her try with someone like me . . . someone who doesn’t come with baggage from the past . . . or you can fight me, hurting her in the process.”

  “Why does it matter? When it’s just about sex?” I countered.

  “Girls like Em don’t sleep with guys like me,” he admitted. “So, what’s it going to be? You going to be my friend and hers? You going to be a good teammate and help us win the championship? Or will we war?”

  “Who talks like that?” My head was starting to pound from all the stress.

  Sanchez shrugged and then let out a grin as his phone buzzed on the counter; he swiped it and eyed me before saying, “Hey, Curves, I was just talking about you.”

  His demeanor changed around her.

  And even though she would die before admitting it, hers changed around him. She was less guarded—and she smiled.

  She fucking smiled.

  I swallowed my hurt.

  My pride.

  And the breaking in my heart as I nodded toward him and mouthed, “Friends.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  EMERSON

  I’d said yes.

  But it was only out of desperation, and when Sanchez said he had a spare car, the way some people talk about having spare toothbrushes or toilet paper, I’d caved. Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept all night, between my dad having nightmares and roaming around the house asking for my mom, to the fact that when I logged in to my bank account I nearly burst into tears, who knew? I finally had my dream, but now that it was in my hands, I could see it so easily slipping away. Everything I promised my dad, everything I’d worked for, and for what? So I could put on a uniform and yell?

  I felt so selfish.

  And on top of that, I was playing with fire, the very fire that would burn me from the inside out if I even thought about stepping outside the lines. Sanchez made it clear he only wanted sex, and Miller wanted nothing to do with me. But the fact was I wanted both of them, and all it would take was a misstep on my part—or Sanchez finally getting what he wanted and then kicking me to the curb—to lose everything.

  And now a car.

  It went against every fiber of my being.

  Taking charity.

  Since I’d basically been up all night anyway, I crunched the numbers trying to figure out how to make it work financially, and the only thing I could come up with was that I either needed transportation to practices and home games, or I had to quit.

  The cost of a shared Uber every day was still more than I could afford, and on top of that, my hours with cheerleading weren’t exactly normal hours; plus, I didn’t have time to spare, and the more I stressed over it the more I wished I had kept that bottle of wine I’d left at Sanchez’s apartment, so I could drink my troubles away.

  He’d said the car would be waiting for me at the stadium.

  It took a good fifteen minutes in traffic. Yeah, I couldn’t do this every day, especially if every Uber driver liked their music that loud.

  I hopped out of the Uber and looked around. I didn’t see anything.

  His car wasn’t there either.

  A loud honk sounded as a brand-new red Honda sped into the parking lot and did a little donut before stopping a few feet away.

  It was gorgeous.

  It wasn’t cheap.

  Then again, this was Grant Sanchez. Did he ever do anything without flair or style?

  He shoved open the door. He was wearing tight black football pants and a practice jersey, the keys dangled from his giant hand,
and he was wearing the biggest grin I’d ever seen. I swallowed the dryness in my throat. His smile did funny things to my stomach and made me want things I had no business wanting—especially since he’d made it painfully clear in the beginning that he wanted sex. And me? Well maybe that was the cruelest joke of all, because my entire life, all I’d ever wanted . . . was love.

  He stalked toward me in that predatory, larger-than-life way.

  I swallowed again.

  “I know that look.” He stood, towering over me, and then his hands were on my hips, pulling me against his body. “It’s one that says, ‘Please kiss me, Sanchez. I want you. I need you. You’re . . .’” He blinked his eyes. “‘Amazing.’”

  “I don’t say amazing in a high-pitched voice like that,” I said, a little breathless, as he started wrapping pieces of my blonde hair around his finger.

  “All white girls say amazing like that.”

  “I’m not all girls.”

  “No . . .” His green eyes heated as he dipped his head. “You’re not.”

  We kissed.

  In the parking lot.

  In front of whoever pulled into practice a half hour early. And I wanted to kiss him more. He tasted amazing, like warm cinnamon gum . . . and spice.

  I laughed against his mouth.

  “Never laugh at a man mid-kiss, Curves.”

  “This kiss is amazing.” I said it in the high-pitched voice, causing a rumbling laugh to burst out of him before he pressed his mouth to mine again, forcing me to forget my own name.

  Six years ago, I’d kissed a football player and lost my heart.

  Five seconds ago, it felt like, maybe, I had been given a part of that heart back, and it felt good, really good.

  Keys were pressed against my hand before he pulled back and kissed my nose. “It’s important that all Bucks cheerleaders get to practice on time, and I’ve always had a hell of a lot of team spirit.” He glanced down at the front of his pants. “As evidenced . . . here.”

  I covered my face with my hands. “Oh—kay.”

  “Are you blushing?” He pulled my hands away, his grin huge, and those dimples . . .

  He needed to stop being so sexy, before I did something stupid like kiss him again where my coach and anyone else on the team could see us.

  “You are blushing! I like it,” he whispered, still gripping my hands as he kissed my nose again. “I like that I’m responsible for it.”

  “You would.”

  “Well, I am amaazzzzing.” He drew out the word and winked. “Try not to get any scratches on her, Curves.” His grin grew as he eyed me up and down, licking his lips like he was seconds away from devouring me. “She’s delicate.”

  “She?”

  “All red cars are girls. What? They don’t teach you that shit in school?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible.”

  “And amazing . . . say it.”

  “You don’t need me to say it. You know it.” I crossed my arms and tried to think about anything but the fact that his ass looked rock hard in those tight football pants. What the heck was I doing? This wasn’t me.

  Flirting with a football player that could get me fired from my dream job?

  In the parking lot?

  Taking a car from him?

  Was I that desperate?

  Or was that part of his charm? He made girls feel so good about themselves, so desirable and wanted, that once he got what he wanted, he dropped them and everything to do with them.

  I wasn’t sure I could trust him.

  But I hated that I wanted to.

  I hated that he reminded me that I had this big gaping hole in my heart that Miller used to fill—and a part of me mourned that it was Grant Sanchez doing the filling.

  And not my best friend.

  “Hey . . .” Sanchez winked. “Don’t make me kiss that frown off your lips, Curves.”

  I smiled just as Miller’s SUV pulled into the parking lot right next to my new cherry-red Honda. Not mine. Sanchez’s. Loan, it was a loan.

  I had nothing to feel guilty about.

  He already had a car.

  Right?

  It’s not like he could drive two cars at the same time.

  So why did I feel ashamed?

  Why did my face no doubt match the exact color of the car when Miller turned off the ignition and approached us, wearing the same mouthwatering practice uniform?

  Could a person die if they experience too much sexy in one minute?

  He pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into his duffel bag, his grin huge. “Red, of course. It suits her.”

  Wait, what just happened?

  He was smiling at me.

  Miller.

  My ex-best-friend who hated me.

  Who force-fed me McDonald’s and dropped me off at my apartment last night and fled like I had the plague.

  “I’m flashy like that,” I countered back with a smile of my own.

  Miller’s eyes held mine for a few seconds, apparently searching, darting back and forth as he licked his full lips and then held out a hand to Sanchez. They bumped fists.

  “Sanchez!” Another voice sounded.

  I turned around. Jax and Thomas were approaching. Sanchez gave me one last smile and walked to meet them.

  Leaving me alone with Miller.

  “So . . .” He nodded to the car. “You okay with this?”

  I snorted. “What do you think?”

  “I think the old Emerson would have felt like a prostitute, but the good kind like in Pretty Woman.” He grinned. “And the Em now?” He eyed me up and down, scrunching up his nose. “I’m assuming you’re just desperate enough to take him up on the offer but probably won’t sleep until you can figure out something on your own.”

  “Damn it.” I looked away. “And you say you don’t know me anymore.”

  He laughed.

  I held on to that laugh.

  I breathed it in.

  I memorized the way it made my body shiver in response.

  I missed it so much that tears quickly replaced my excitement at hearing it.

  Miller took one look at me, and then I was in his arms.

  In.

  His.

  Arms.

  “I’m still pissed,” he whispered gruffly. “Livid, actually.”

  I stiffened.

  He held on to me tighter.

  “But . . .” He cleared his throat. “Sanchez helped me remember something last night.”

  “He did?” The jersey on his chest muffled my voice. I was having a hard time breathing. Did he really have no idea how strong he was? His biceps were attempting to break through the jersey!

  “Yeah.” He sighed, his heart was racing, so naturally mine decided to match its cadence. Stupid heart. “Remember when I stuck gum in your hair in sixth grade, so you told all my friends that I wet the bed?”

  I burst out laughing. “How could I forget? I also told them you had Donald Duck sheets because you were afraid of Batman.”

  His laughter joined in. “We’ve had our share of fights, Em. I guess what I’m saying is . . . if I can get over that, I mean it was middle school, basically the most traumatic years of our lives, then I’ll try to get over this. I just need time.”

  “That’s the problem,” I whispered, all humor suddenly gone. “The last time I gave you what you wanted, I never heard from you again.”

  He pulled back and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  I shook my head. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s just . . . try to start over.”

  “Bury the hatchet,” he agreed.

  “Make peace.” I nodded.

  He frowned. “Start fresh.”

  We began walking side by side toward the stadium. “Come to terms?”

  “Mend the fence!” he yelled in triumph.

  I opened my mouth, my mind reeling. “I have nothing.”

  “Winner.” He held up his hand for a high five.

&nb
sp; I rolled my eyes. “It’s like your eighteen-year-old self is stuck in your twenty-four-year-old body!”

  And just like that . . .

  I had a part of him back.

  So why did I still feel guilty?

  Why was I confused when Sanchez greeted me at the entrance of the stadium with a satisfied grin? And why did I feel empty when Miller took the high road and, with a quick wave, stepped off to join the other guys?

  “Have fun at practice, Curves!” Sanchez grinned.

  Miller turned around and added, “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate?!”

  “Jax!” Thomas shouted while the quarterback rolled his eyes and continued walking past everyone.

  I laughed.

  Maybe I was overthinking things.

  I brushed by everyone in an effort to make it into the girls’ locker room and felt someone staring at me.

  I quickly glanced over my shoulder.

  While the guys were wrestling, laughing, and being immature asshats, Miller stood there, his heated eyes focusing on nothing but me.

  I shivered.

  His lips pressed into a knowing grin.

  Well, crap.

  I felt that grin all the way to my toes, and scolded myself for allowing one simple grin to affect me more than Sanchez’s heated kiss.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MILLER

  Friends stared at each other’s asses all the time. That’s at least what I told myself when I watched her hips sway back and forth, her heart-shaped ass making my mouth water, and, since nobody was looking at me . . .

  No harm, right?

  Until she turned and locked eyes with me.

  Because it was Em we were talking about.

  She knew.

  She could feel my stare.

  And maybe a part of me wanted her to turn around, wanted her to see the look on my face, the hunger I still had despite my anger toward her.

  “Yo.” Sanchez slapped me on the back. “You in?”

  “In,” I repeated, wracking my brain for what they could possibly be talking about.

  “Rookie dinner.” Jax grabbed his helmet. “We’re not as bad as some teams. It’s not like we always leave the bill for them to take care of, sometimes we help them out.”

  Sanchez and Thomas high fived, and then Thomas snickered. “Last year it was over seven grand.”