Chapter Twelve NICO

Chapter Twelve

NICO

“And . . . go!”

I’m running as fast as I can, 100 percent focused on getting nothing but mass yardage. I hear the heavy footfalls of the defensive line running after my ass, but I ignore them, turning at the very last second and holding my hands open.

The ball lands into my hands like that was supposed to happen. I run the ball into the end zone with fucking ease, a giant grin on my face.

The entire offensive coaching team is standing on the edge of the field by the goalpost, watching me. Head Coach Porter is blowing his whistle repeatedly.

“What the fuck, guys? You couldn’t catch him?” His voice is a mixture of anger and incredulity.

“I’m just that fast,” I tell him, keeping the grin on my face. The grin that I know irritates him most of the time because he thinks I’m too arrogant. He’s told me that multiple times over the course of our relationship.

Then I pull a play like what just happened, and I want to tell him there’s a reason I’m what I prefer to call confident: I’m fucking good. Gav’s accuracy when he throws the ball, combined with the fact that I know when that ball is about to land in my hands, is something I can’t describe. We’re connected on the field. It’s fucking magical.

Even the sports announcers call it that. Magic. They warn NFL teams considering drafting Gavin to consider me as well because we’re a team within a team.

I would love to go anywhere with Gav. Together we would dominate, just like we do now. But there are no guarantees that’s ever going to happen.

It most likely won’t, which not going to lie, makes me a little sad.

Resting my hands on my hips, I scan the field, taking it all in. The stadium sits on a hill that overlooks the ocean, and we have the best damn view out of any university in this entire country. The sun is blazing down upon us, but there’s a breeze coming off the water that cools the sweat on my skin. There is nowhere I’d rather be than right here, finishing out the season with this team. The majority of them I can call my friends, and some of them will be lifelong friends for sure. I’m a lucky man. My college football career has been amazing, and I couldn’t ask for a better experience.

So why do I feel this gnawing in my gut? It started up late last week, when I ran into Portia and told her Everleigh and I were together. Everleigh wasn’t too thrilled I did that, and I suppose I don’t blame her, but we haven’t really talked much since that stupid encounter happened, and that was a week ago.

Doesn’t help that she took off with Sienna that night when we were at Charley’s. She had to go to work early that Friday morning, and we left for an away game and were gone over the weekend. Since then we haven’t run into each other again.

Which is fucking odd. I live with the chick—we share a bathroom—yet I never see her. Our schedules must be the total opposite, especially once she got the job at the café. She’s gone most mornings, and sometimes I don’t come home until late at night, and she’s already locked away in her room.

I don’t have the nerve to go knock on her door and ask her how it’s going either. Like does she really want to have that conversation with me? Doubtful.

Instead, I leave her alone and deal with that hollow feeling on my own.

Why do I care what she thinks, anyway? Or what she’s doing? She’s just a girl I don’t really know that well. She’s pretty enough. She seems cool. She went along with my stupid scheme without calling me out in front of Portia, so that earned her points right there. I guess she’s hanging with Coop more often, and he has nothing but nice things to say about her, though he’s not interested in her like that.

Thank Christ. I don’t want to resent one of my best friends.

I hear Frank has eased up with her, too, according to Coop. I think Dollar finally got the hint. I’m sure he’s moved onto some other poor, unsuspecting woman. If he could just relax for two seconds and stop trying so damn hard, he could probably score a woman fast. He just wants to be loved.

That’s all so many of us want—except for me.

That’s what I tell myself.

“Hey, asshole.” I turn to see Ralph Jones strutting toward me, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What’s up, Jonesie?” I watch him approach, dodging away from him when he acts like he’s going to slap my ass.

“Thinking you’re hot shit out on the field, always catching those balls,” he drawls. “Someday we’re going to get that ball first.”

He’s a defensive cornerback, which is one of the hardest positions to play, and he’s really fucking good at it. His hands are huge, and when he splays his fingers and tries to bat that ball out of the way, watch out.

Jonesie is usually successful.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I tell him. He’s excellent practice for me in that he always makes me play harder. Run faster. I’m just lucky that instincts kick in and I can practically sense when Gav lets that ball go.

“You guys are on fire lately. You got some telepathic powers going on between you or what?” He’s referring to me and Gav.

“We’re in sync. Can’t lie.” Pretty sure it’s four seasons of working together that’ll do it.

“Hear you guys are having a party next weekend since it’s a bye week,” Jonesie says.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Coop. He’s going around telling everyone we’re gonna get crunk.” Jonesie laughs. “Who says crunk anymore, anyway?”

“Cooper does,” I deadpan, making Jonesie laugh harder. “I guess if he says we’re having a party, we’re having a party.”

“Excellent.” He holds his hand up, and I give it a slap. “Please say there will be women there beyond Sienna.”

Everyone knows Cooper’s sister. We’re all used to having her tag along, and most of the time when we get together, we want it to be chill. She’s one of the only girls allowed to “chill” with us.

“I’m sure we can wrangle some up,” I say. “And hey, you’re a player. You can bring a few of your own if you want.”

“I can do that. I know a couple of ladies who’d love to party with us.” He rubs the side of his face with one of his big hands, tapping his long fingers on his cheek. “I hear you have a hottie living with you.”

I stand up a little straighter. “I guess.”

“You guess? Word on the street is she’s gorgeous.” He whistles under his breath. “And you’re actually living with her? How do you avoid that when it’s in your face on a daily basis?”

“I don’t think of her like that,” I say between gritted teeth.

He takes one look at me and starts laughing. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

“I’m serious.” I kick at the field like I’m a toddler having a tantrum. Fucking great. “I don’t shit where I eat.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what I’m talking about. I live with her. I’m not about to hook up with her and then have to deal with her needy ass when we still live in the same house together.” I sound like such a prick, but I don’t want Jonesie thinking I’m into Everleigh or whatever.

I also don’t want him to have a thing for her either. He needs to stay away from Everleigh. She’s off-limits.

I’m frowning at the possessive thoughts currently running through my head. What the hell am I thinking? Like she’s mine and no one else can touch her?

Please.

“Right,” he drawls, that smug tone of his making irritation rise within me. “You keep telling yourself that.”

He struts away, and I watch him, letting the anger simmer in my veins. Not even bothering to try to convince myself I’m overreacting.

There’s no convincing. I know I’m overreacting. And I don’t know why.

Practice is eventually over, but I don’t go straight home. Instead, I take a quick shower in the locker room before I go to the library, where I finish up a paper that’s due at midnight. Only once I’ve got that done and sent off do I head back to the house.

It’s like I’m purposely trying to avoid Everleigh, and maybe I am. I don’t like that she’s invading my thoughts. Maybe I need to find someone to hook up with. Yeah, that sounds like a plan. Some nameless, faceless, willing woman who’s down for some fun and nothing else.

That’s freaking perfect.

I’m so pleased with my plan that I’m whistling as I enter the house, coming to a dead stop when I see what’s happening in front of me.

Everleigh is bent over into what I assume is the downward-dog position or whatever you call it, leading the guys in a .?.?. yoga session?

What the actual fuck?

And it’s not just Coop and Dollar who are doing it. There are a couple of other guys from the team here, too, their big bodies hunkered over, muscles straining, legs shaking. I swear I hear some of them grunting as they try to hold the position.

“Okay, and breathe out,” she murmurs in this calm, downright sultry voice that has my entire body switching on to high alert.

“What the hell is going on here?” I ask, slamming the door.

Every single one of the guys jumps at my voice. Coop even falls over on his side with a grunt.

Only Everleigh remains calm, her blue eyes sweeping over me before she returns her focus to the guys in front of her. “We’re having a yoga class.”

“You’re giving yoga classes in our house now?” I sound incredulous. I am incredulous. “When did this start?”

“A few days ago,” Coop says as he climbs off the floor and repositions himself. “It’s actually pretty relaxing.”

“I sleep better at night,” Dollar chimes in.

“Same,” says another teammate.

Rolling my eyes, I push past all of them and head for the kitchen, opening and closing the cabinets with extra force, searching for something I will never find because I have no idea what I’m looking for.

What I want.

Everleigh’s gentle voice continues to counsel them through the various positions, and I swear just hearing it also somehow calms me. I end up sitting at the counter eating a bag of chips, wondering why I never got an invitation to the yoga classes. I frickin’ live here, for the love of God.

By the time I’m putting away the chips in our tiny pantry, the session is over, and I can hear all of them move about the living room, their steps seeming to shake the foundation. Everleigh laughs at something one of them says, and next thing I know she’s entering the kitchen, her smile fading when she spots me.

I take her in, noting how much skin is on display. She’s wearing hot-pink leggings and a matching sports bra with white sneakers on her feet, and holy shit. I can’t stop staring at her. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail that swings when she moves, and her skin is covered with a light sheen of sweat.

I’m trying not to focus on the fact that her body is fucking incredible but .?.?. it is. Jonesie was right.

She’s hot.

Damn it.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” she eventually says as she makes her way to the fridge, opening it and pulling her Stanley tumbler out. She keeps it in there sometimes to make the water colder.

“Been busy.” My voice is gruff, and I clear my throat, not wanting to sound like an asshole. “Sorry I interrupted.”

“No worries.” She takes a sip, her lips wrapped around the straw making me think all sorts of dirty thoughts. “You should join us sometime.”

“I don’t do yoga.”

“Have you ever tried it?”

I say nothing because she knows my answer.

No, I haven’t.

“Neither had any of those guys in there.” She waves a hand toward the living room. “But they love it. You might too.”

“Didn’t realize you were running a gym in here.” I’m teasing but not.

I see a flash of emotion in her eye and wonder if I pissed her off.

“I’m just trying to help these guys out. Coop has been complaining about how he can’t ever relax and that he feels stressed out all the time.”

I frown. I complain about the same thing.

“He laughed at me when I suggested he should try yoga, but then when we worked on it together—and Frank joined us—he went to practice the next day praising my yoga skills.” She smiles, looking amused. “I’ve taught yoga before, but I didn’t mean to turn this into a class for others to join us. It just sort of happened.”

Again, why didn’t I hear about this? “That’s uh .?.?. that’s great.”

“You really should join us sometime. You seem a little stressed.” She tilts her head to the side, her ponytail swinging. I want to tug on it. Wrap it around my fist, and pull her into me. “You’ve been really busy. It might be getting to you.”

“Yeah,” I croak. I know what’s getting to me, and it has nothing to do with stress.

It’s her.