Page 4 of Rewarding His Jock

“Hit the shower, and I’ll make something.” I do a quick mental inventory of what we have on hand. There’s not much, but we won’t starve. “Spaghetti and turkey meatballs or frozen pizza?”

“Not frozen pizza. Ew.” He makes a face as he sits up and places his hands on my chest as if to playfully push me away.

Unfortunately, it just makes a whole new flood of milk pour out of me. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice before I hop up and turn toward my bed and straighten the pillows that got messed up during my pathetic attempt at hand expressing. “Spaghetti it is.”

“Thanks, Hunt.”

I nod as I walk out of our room. “Clean up. You have twenty minutes.”

Once I hear the shower turn on, I toss the noodles in the boiling water and run back to the room to change.

Again.

Damn, I’m running out of clean shirts. And towels. Speaking of, I grab the mess of clothes Lucas left throughout the apartment and pick up the sticky towels we used earlier before I toss them all into the washing machine. As soon as he gets out of the shower, I’ll start a load so I have something to wear tomorrow.

It’s bad enough I’ll need to layer towels on my sheets so I can sleep tonight.

But for now, the three compression shirts I have on will keep me dry. Well, mostly dry. As long as I don’t get aroused.

“It smells good, Hunt. I’ll be out in two minutes. Just need to put on pants.”

Fucking hell, I’m screwed.

4

LUCAS

Who the hell does this guy think he is? Making me write lines. Is that hot? Definitely not. Then why does it intrigue my man downstairs? Thank god he didn’t see that because that would’ve been extremely embarrassing. Maybe it was just the way he said it. Yeah, that’s probably it.

Anyone with eyes would agree that Hunter is hot as fuck, so it was probably just the fact that those words came out of his mouth that got me hard.

My shower is a cold one, so I don’t stay in it for very long. With my most immediate issue now resolved, I still have plenty of time to spare. After letting Hunter know that I’m almost ready to eat, I grab a pair of pajama pants and slide them on.

Once again, my eyes fall to his side of the bed where he dropped his cup and spilled his milk all over the floor.

Now that I think about it, he totally avoided my question. He distracted me with his… bossiness and completely changed the subject. What an ass. Well, he won’t be able to change the subject on me at dinner.

I step out of our room and make a beeline for the fridge to grab myself a beer. One I have rightfully earned. As I close the fridge, my eyes meet Hunter’s, and he gives me a look. A look that tells me I need to drink water first. Or else. All of his demands always have that unspoken “or else” at the end of them.

Except for his last one, I guess.

If I drink the beer anyway, would he make me write lines for that too? How would he even do that? I’m almost half a foot taller than him. He can’t make me do shit… can he?

Not in the mood to find out, I roll my eyes and switch out the can of beer for a bottle of water. I need to rehydrate myself anyway after all the running I did at practice. So really, it’s my decision to drink water, not because he’s making me. Mostly.

I sit down at our little table for two and set my water bottle down. One benefit of having my smartass best friend as my roommate is that he knows how to cook. Athletes were not meant to survive off eggs and ramen noodles, and the dining halls are too much of a hike to be worth the effort. Especially during the week.

The plate Hunter places in front of me looks fucking amazing, but I will not be distracted by food. I’m getting some answers. Real answers. “So, about the random cup of warm milk in our room, you said—” My words are cut off by Hunter sliding a piece of paper with a pencil over to me. For a moment I just frown at it, confused. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

“I wasn’t kidding, Lucas. You’re gonna write out everything you need to get done and everything that’s gonna be on that test, and if you don’t know, figure it out.” Hunter’s tone leaves zero room for any sort of argument, though it never does, so that’s not all that surprising.

Looking up at him, I swallow, and our eyes meet for what seems like the hundredth time today. Something about him when he’s like this makes it hard to hold his gaze. I never last more than a few seconds before I crumble.

Every. Fucking. Time.

This time, I break my personal record by lasting about thirteen seconds before my eyes dart away, and I take the pencil into my hand. This, like everything else that’s happened today, is stupid.

I don’t have to do this. He’s not the boss of me.

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