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.”
“How do you spend that much on dinner?” I wondered out loud.
“Dude, I heard New England left a forty-eight-thousand-dollar bill for their rookies last year,” Thomas said seriously, his eyes wide.
I shook my head while Sanchez let out a low whistle.
“Jax has delicate tastes,” Thomas said with a straight face as our quarterback approached, obviously lost on our conversation.
“Screw you.” Jax gave him a shove. “It’s a preseason tradition. The rookies take us out, and we get to pick, so what do you say?”
“I say . . .” I cringed, trying to think of the first restaurant that came to mind. “Cheesecake Factory?”
The guys groaned.
“What?” I laughed. “It won’t be expensive, we can be as loud as we want, their servings are huge, and they serve alcohol.”
“He had me at alcohol.” Thomas sighed. “Alright, seven tonight, guys.”
Coach chose that moment to walk into the locker room. “I don’t pay you ladies to make dinner plans.”
“Actually, you don’t pay us at all,” Sanchez pointed out.
Coach Mike glared. “You’re right.” His glare turned into an evil grin. “And thank you so much for volunteering to lead us through conditioning this morning, Grant.”
“Fucking hell,” Sanchez groaned. “Tell me we don’t have the tires today.”
“Good news!” Coach shouted. “We have tire flips today!”
I smacked Sanchez on the back as we all filed out of the locker room and onto the field.
The cheerleaders were almost always in the other practice field whenever we had the same practice times. The music to one of their dance routines floated through the air.
I ran out onto the fifty-yard line and put on my helmet.
And the thought hit me.
Emerson was on the other field practicing.
And I was a starting tight end for the Bucks.
The dream we’d had so many years ago had happened—just not the way we’d planned.
Because in every single one of those plans, I’d always seen her by my side.
As if Sanchez was reading my damn thoughts, the shit turned around and howled as he ran toward the first tire.
Our conditioning coach, Rob, hated us.
Or life.
Breathing.
It was rare to walk out of the stadium without praying for a wheelchair or at least a stretcher.
I’d had only a few days of practice and I’d never been so sore in my entire existence. Most football teams stuck with pretty strategic weight lifting programs and fundamentals, not the Bucks. No, the Bucks liked to use large objects, body-weight exercises, sprints, and a hell of a lot of agility training, the kind of training that appears easy but ends up kicking you in the ass.
“Let’s go, Miller!”
I took a deep breath and charged after the next tire.
“Miller!” Rob yelled my name so loud my ears hurt. “You can do more flips than that; when you’re done you hit the ground, chest touches the ground, then you’re on your feet with high knees for fifty meters, then you touch the ground again, got it?”
I wanted to ask when I could stop.
But I knew if I did he’d just give me more.
With a grunt I flipped the tire five more times, then hit the ground, jumped to my feet, did my high knees, then hit the ground again. When he didn’t say anything I repeated the process until my legs ached.
He blew the damn whistle fifteen minutes later.
Fifteen. Minutes.
People could get rhabdo from that shit.
But that’s why the Bucks were the best. The agility training itself, the yoga stretches, the stretching in general is what made them fast as hell on the field, and tough. Gone were the days of three-hundred-pound offensive linemen, now we had guys who were six six, two fifty, and could run just as fast as some of the running backs.
Athletes. I was with true athletes. And it felt good.
“Again!” Rob yelled.
Sanchez gave me a look of pure irritation, then made a gun motion and pointed to his head before he grabbed the tire and went at it. I had to hand it to him, he joked a lot, he teased, but one thing about the guy was always true: he always worked his ass off and he expected everyone else to as well. The man was hard to respect off the field—but on the field? I could get in line with that type of leadership. Loath as I was to admit it.
“Water!” Rob called. “Sanchez, two more flips then you can break.”
He grunted.
“Hey.” Jax tossed a water bottle at me. “How are you liking things so far?”
“Is this the QB leadership talk or are you being serious?”
Jax cracked a smile. “This is the hey kid you’re doing really good don’t fuck things up talk, how am I doing?”
“Great.” I smirked and then watched Sanchez literally do tire flips down the rest of the field. “What the hell is he doing?”
“Leading.” Jax shrugged. “My guess is Rob had a number of flips he wanted everyone to do and we were short a few, and rather than have someone else jump on the field midbreak—Sanchez did it himself. He’s like that.”
“Sanchez.” I repeated his name. “Really?”
“I know.” Jax’s tone turned serious. “It’s hard to believe but, as much as I put up with his shit—it’s not because he’s so good that I have to—it’s that the guys respect him, other teams fear him, and well, he finally dumped the ex-fiancé that nearly destroyed his life by way of cheating on him with good ol’ Thomas.”
“Whoa, back up.” I held up my hand. “Thomas?”
“It’s a rumor. Neither of them will confirm it. Hell, I don’t even know how the guys are still friends let alone teammates, there was a huge fight in the locker room. Accusations thrown around, it was in the middle of playoffs last year. Thought Sanchez was going to take Thomas’s head off—I told him to leave it on the field and he did, though it didn’t keep him from giving Thomas a black eye. The guy apologized, said she came on to him or whatever, which was probably true, the girl was poison.”
“You girls done gossiping?” Sanchez’s voice interrupted our conversation. “Besides, my past isn’t all that interesting.” He chugged some water then tossed the cup into the trash.
“How many more flips?” I asked.
He locked eyes with me. “Ten. Why?”
“Next time I’ll do them.”
He pressed his lips together in a firm line and then gave me a nod. “Yeah, thanks, you know you don’t have to though.”
“Right.” I slapped him on the back and grabbed my helmet. “But neither do you.”
Jax watched the exchange with interest and then followed us onto the field.
Rob took one look at us and shouted, “Run!”
It was going to be a long ass day.
“I can’t feel my legs.” I groaned from my spot in the ice tub, next to Sanchez’s ice tub. He was setting a record for the amount of times to say “Fuck” in under a minute.
“Miller!” Jax’s voice interrupted my pain session as a million little needles attacked my body all at once. “You did good today.” He stopped in front of the tub and gave me the look.
It was the look that all quarterbacks give when they don’t want to use words to say that your shit didn’t stink. I’d always respected Jax as a quarterback. He’d been drafted ten years ago, and at thirty-two, he was still just as good as he’d been when he started for the Bucks, and he was a franchise quarterback, the type who started with one team and would retire with them too.
He rarely spoke, but when he did, my ears always strained to listen because, for whatever reason, I liked him. I barely knew the guy, and I wanted to go to war with him.
Football.
“Thanks, man,” I finally said. “I’m still getting used to some of the plays. I know a few of my progressions were shit today, but I’ve got you.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “Just make sure that none of your old teammates take off my head when we play the Pilots in twelve days, and we’ll be good.”
I nodded. “That’s what I’m here for, to keep you alive.”
“And to keep your dick working, even though we all know how rarely it gets used,” Sanchez chimed in, earning an eye roll from Jax before he walked off.
“You keep giving him shit, and he’s not going to throw to you.” I’d seen it before, quarterbacks that got pissed at their wide receivers and were willing to throw to anyone, even their own center, to keep from adding good stats.
“Jax?” Sanchez cursed again and checked the timer. “Could have sworn it’s been longer than five minutes.” He leaned his head back against the silver tin tub; it was uncomfortable as hell. “He and I go way back. I give him shit. He ignores it, passes me the ball anyway, and I make big plays. The only thing that could ever come between us would be his sister, and believe me, I want none of that.”
“His sister? I’m not following.”
“Hah!” Sanchez grinned up at the ceiling. “Kinsey. Your ex-best-friend’s new best friend, my soon-to-be girlfriend’s best friend—the cheerleader—that’s his baby sister.”
“Kinsey?” I repeated. The little brunette spitfire who looked ready to shank Sanchez for even breathing in her direction. “She’s—”
“Jax’s total opposite, believe me. Where he calms the room with a freaking stare, she brings down the house with her voice. A shame really, since she’s so hot—but that voice. It’s like nails on a chalkboard. My dick trembles, man, and not in a good way.”
My body was numb.
My brain was going a million miles a minute. He’d said girlfriend. He was going to make Emerson his girlfriend, and the sick part, that was his right. He didn’t pretend not to know her; he didn’t ignore her. He didn’t force her to eat McDonald’s then demand she spill about the last six years.
She left me.
I clenched the edge of the tub and tried to get my breathing under control as memories snaked around my chest, making it hard to breathe.
(Then)
“You were out late,” Dad slurred. “You sleeping around?”
“No.” I hated him. I hated him so much that it was all I felt when I looked at his glassy eyes and messy hair. He’d been drinking. Again. I prepared for the worst.
Instead, he started mumbling about taking care of “that disaster, Emerson.” My heart clenched in my chest.
Our calls had gotten less frequent, and last week when we had our Friday night chat, she’d said she needed to talk to me about something important, and then she’d cried. I’d pressed her for info but she said it had to wait . . .
“I’m going to bed.” I shoved past my dad.
“Pathetic. You gonna call that white trash again?” An evil laugh accompanied his swaying. “I got news for you. She won’t be bothering you again.”
I ignored him.
And went into my room in search of my phone.
Only to come up empty.
I stomped up to my dad. “Where the hell is my phone?”
“It broke.” He shrugged. “Get you a new one in the morning.”
I had her number memorized; it would be totally fine.
But it wasn’t.
Because that very next day, with my new phone in hand, I called her.
The number had been disconnected.
“Get your ass out.” Sanchez splashed cold water onto my face. “I’m hungry and I need a ride back to our place.”
I groaned. “Please don’t call it our place. We don’t live together.”
“You’d be a shit roommate anyway,” he grumbled. “Do you even know how to smile? Have a good time?”
I grabbed my towel and stepped out of the tub. “Yes. I just prefer to keep my good times to myself.” I winced.
Sanchez’s eyebrows shot up. “Please tell me that came out wrong.”
“Completely.” I burst out laughing.
He joined in.
And suddenly I realized the impossible had happened. The guy who was going after the love of my life—who dreamt about seeing her naked—was becoming my friend.
Here I’d been so worried about them . . .
That I hadn’t even thought about myself.
Or how lonely I’d been.
Maybe that was his superpower; Grant Sanchez was able to weasel his way into any situation and come out on top.
I just hoped, for Em’s sake, that he really liked her.
And not just because she had a nice ass.
“Did you just groan?” Sanchez asked.
“No.” Shit.
“Yeah, you did.”
“You’re imagining things because your dick nearly froze off.” I started walking toward my locker.
“Uh-huh, and how is it that yours doesn’t seem to be suffering from any sort of . . . shrinkage.” He pointed.
I quickly covered up with my towel. “Are you seriously staring at my cock right now?”
“Who were you thinking about?” He grinned. “Come on, tell me. We’re friends, right?”
“We will never be good enough friends where cock-staring is acceptable, man.” I tossed a towel at his head and finished dressing to Sanchez’s laughter.
A few minutes later, and I was driving us to our home.
Shit.
I said our home.
As if he and I had one together.
“Did you just sigh really loud?” Sanchez asked.
“Do you EVER just keep things to yourself?” I asked.
He hesitated and then said, “No, I don’t like silence.”
“Shocker.”
“See ya in a few hours.” He unlocked his door.
“Huh?”
“Team dinner. Rookies paying. I’m getting steak. Salads are for bitches.”
“Jax eats salad,” I pointed out, since I’d seen him chow down on more than one occasion.
“He says if he puts steak on it, it doesn’t count. Trust me, I’ve had this argument numerous times. I always let him win. See? I can play nice.”
“When it benefits you.” I unlocked my own door and pushed it open.
He threw his head back and laughed. “That’s true. Just don’t cross me, and all is well, yeah?”
His laughter was gone.
Leaving a challenging glint in his eyes.
And I suddenly felt like shit.
He’d done nothing but help me.
And I’d been thinking about a certain girl’s ass.
“Heard ya loud and clear, man,” I said. “I’m going to take a quick nap before tonight.”
He saluted me and went into his own apartment.