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Her eyes narrow as a light chuckle leaves her nose. She stares at me for a moment, almost trying to see through me. “Right.”
Like a light switch, her happy, nervous energy shifts.
“I'll walk you down,” I say, hobbling towards the elevator.
She's totally silent for the entire ride. My eyes peer over to her position on the far end of the elevator, but hers remain locked on the steel door in front of her.
I contemplate starting a conversation so I don’t come across like the cold dick I just appeared to be, but I have no idea how to do this. I don't know how to talk to her because I know nothing about her. I could talk about the weather? That's acceptable small talk, right?
“D-do you like...dry air?”
Fucking idiot.
Her head turns towards me, a scowl in place, brow cocked.
“Arizona air isn't like Chicago...air,” I swallow.
Loser. Moron. Dumbass.
I run my hand over my head then down my neck, watching the numbers drop on the elevator at a snail's pace.
She turns her body to face me as her arms cross over her chest. The move pushes her breasts together, and from my height, I can see down her shirt, visualizing the edges of the Calvin Klein bra she's wearing. I know exactly what's under that sweatsuit, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't dying to see how it fits.
“It's a bitstalefor my liking,” she retorts, tipping her chin up and staring directly at me.
My eyes widen.Yeah. I'm dying here.
I clear my throat. “You know, I didn't—”
“Ah, would ya look at that,” she interrupts with a certain tone that I can't quite place, watching as the elevator doors open. “Finally made it.”
Her comment, dry as ever, makes it seem as if the ride was just as uncomfortable as I unintentionally made it. This is not the thankful praise I was expecting.
We walk to the dining hall, packed with players and coaches of all positions mingling around the circular tables set up for our dinner and presentation.
As much as I don't need her to be up my ass all night, I feel obligated to at least show her where to sit. Turning to face her to give her the run-down, I twist around to see no one behind me. I spin in the other direction, thinking she's on my other side, but no, she's gone.
The fuck?
“Decker!” Coach approaches me, slapping the side of my arm. “How are ya, son? Didn't get a chance to catch up after the meeting.”
We talk for a few minutes and I fill him in on my progress, all while my eager eyes continue to peer around him, searching the space for Dylan. He gets pulled away into another conversation right as I finally spot her sandy hair through a few players on the other side of the large room.
She's talking animatedly with some tall guy wearing dress pants and a button-up shirt. Everyone is in casual sportswear.Who the fuck does this guy think he is?He's not even on the team. I squint my eyes, trying to see who it is, but I don't recognize him.
I get pulled into conversation with some of my teammates, and before I know it, Coach is at the mic asking everyone to take their seats.
I sit by the offensive players, my man Candy to my right. Brandt, another wide receiver, approaches our table, making eyes with the chair to my left, but before he can take a seat, I prop my bum leg up on it.
“Sorry man, need to keep it elevated.” I give him a fake smile.
As everyone gets seated, I see Dylan taking a chair next to the man she was talking to. Not the chair next to me I’ve clearly saved for her. My eyes narrow as the guy, who I assume is on the training staff or possibly an agent, starts introducing her to some of the guys from our defensive line. I watch from afar as she stands, bending over the circular table, popping her tight ass out as she goes around, shaking their hands.
“Not looking so stale tonight, eh, Wheels?” Candy's annoying voice assaults my ear.
I scoff, then turn my gaze back to Dylan.
“Oh, so you're Gregor Dixon? The big black bull who sacks men like dominos?” Candy narrates the conversation Dylan's having with Dixon from afar.
