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“Nah, Tan, haven’t you heard?” Hunter says. “Shawn’s taking a break.”
It’s my turn to snort. “I think you’ve got me mixed up with Clay. He’s the one on a female hiatus.”
“He’s the one who told me you were taking a break. Told me some pretty little girl with big green eyes has got you all messed up.”
“Hazel,” I say without thinking. Then, “Fuck!”
“Whoooo! So it’s true!” Tanner crows.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” I set the bar down with a clatter. “Clay’s an old woman, and you know it.”
“So why couldn’t you close the deal?” Hunter asks. “She holding out for the quarterback or some shit?”
“I think you mean the left tackle,” Tanner tells him. “The quarterback’s getting married in two weeks.”
“That he is.” Hunter nods with obvious satisfaction.
“She’s not a football fan.”
“Not a football fan?” Tanner looks like he’s actually shocked that such a thing exists in the world. “She rejected you because you play football?”
“What is she, a baseball fan?” Even Hunter sounds outraged on my behalf. “Trust me, you don’t need that shit.”
“She’s not a baseball fan, either. At least I don’t think she is. And she didn’t reject me because I play ball. I don’t think she even knows who I am.”
“She doesn’t know who you are? And she still turned you down?” Tanner laughs so hard he nearly falls over. “When’s the last time that happened to you, pretty boy?”
Never. The last time a woman turned me down when I asked for her phone number is…never. Not that I’m about to admit that to these two. “Fuck off.”
“Man, he really is pining! When’s the last time Shawn was this touchy over a woman?” Hunter asks.
“Keep pushing, man, and I’m going to forget you’re my QB and take a shot at you right here.”
“Nah, don’t do that,” Tanner tells me as he settles back to do his own bench press on the set next to mine. Which is about seventy-five pounds heavier than mine, not that I’m counting. “You know our boy’s a wimp. You punch too hard and you might break him.”
“Just because I can’t bench-press an actual cow doesn’t mean I’m a wimp.” Hunter shoots me a look. “Besides, I’m not the one who’s broken here.”
“I’m fine. Jesus.”
“So you aren’t pining after some woman you met in a bar the other night?”
“I don’t pine.” I swing up and off the bench, then curse again as my back does a whole hell of a lot more than twinge. Damn it.
“Just like you don’t get hurt.” Hunter sets down the loaded bar he’s been using to do squats, and walks over to me. “What do the doctors say? How bad is it?”
I don’t answer him.
It’s his turn to curse. “You have been to an orthopedist, haven’t you? It’s been weeks since you went cliff diving in Mexico.”
“Jesus. Does everyone know about that?”
“Not everyone, no. But enough people to make it really uncomfortable for all of us if Coach comes asking around about what you’ve been up to. You know you’re not supposed to be doing that adrenaline junkie shit—it’s against your contract.”
“I know it’s against my fucking contract,” I snap. “Which is bullshit. And you don’t have to worry about any uncomfortable questions. I’m good to go right now. By the time we head into practice in two weeks, I’ll be perfect. Doctor says so.”
“You better be,” Hunter says, tossing me a half-frozen bottle of water. “Because every team in the league is going to be coming for us this year since we won the Super Bowl, and you need to be on your game.”
“I’m always on my game.” I take a long sip of water then slam the bottle down on the nearest counter. “Speaking of which, you two buttercups up for a run?” I start shifting my weight back and forth from one foot to the other.
