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I run a hand over his hair. “I’m half Irish, half Italian, and all southern, Drew. It’s physically impossible for me not to offer food and drink to company.” Honestly, I think I’d die of shame if I didn’t.
His brows snap together as he glances over at them. “Then I’ll tell them to leave. Problem solved.”
Laughing, I kiss his forehead, and his arm instantly wraps about my waist. I lean into him, because he seems to need it.
“But I like that they’re here. They’re your friends. Which means they’re mine too.”
He grumbles something under his breath, but I ignore it, hoping that his mood will elevate now that he knows I’m not put out by company.
It doesn’t. It gets worse. He sinks into a silence that somehow shouts loud and clear that he’s displeased.
“Yo, Drew,” his friend Rolondo calls over to him. “Man, you need to settle down over there. I swear, you talk any more and you gonna bust a gut.” He grins as he says this and chucks a cheese puff at Drew’s head.
Drew swats it away. “Pretty sure you do enough talking for all of us, ’Londo.”
There’s no humor in his tone. I haven’t had much interaction with the star wide receiver, but I know Drew and Rolondo are close. Rolondo’s glaze flicks to mine, and I see the worry there, and it feeds my own.
It gets worse when halftime comes on, and one of the guys changes over to ESPN. As luck would have it, they’re talking about Drew and his chances of still being a top draft pick. Apparently, most experts had slated him to be the number one pick. Now, with his injury, it’s all up in the air. Everyone stiffens, Drew most of all, but no one seems capable of changing the channel.
The light of the screen flickers off Drew’s stony expression as he watches some oversized guy in a slick suit speculate about his leg. And my heart aches for him. Until they mention their visit to campus. Instantly, my gut plummets. Shit. I’ve been the one who’s gone out for food—or sustenance as Drew’s taken to calling it—and I hadn’t exactly been left alone.
I edge closer to the remote. “Maybe we should watch—”
“Here’s what Anna Jones, Drew Baylor’s girlfriend, had to say,” announces the reporter.
My face shows up on the screen, microphones being shoved under my nose as I try to escape from the parking lot at the Piggly Wiggly. I feel my cheeks heat. God, does my face really look that round?
Instantly, everyone perks up, shooting glances as me, then back at the TV. I can’t even meet Drew’s eyes. I want to cry. I stare at the TV instead. The footage splices to my face, the very moment I’d broken, tired of hearing the doubt in the reporters’ voices, of seeing them turn against their hero. I’d wanted to punch each and every one of them.
“You named him Battle for a reason,” my voice snaps through the speakers. I look angry. I remember that anger. It had fueled me, made my words come out hard. “Because he never quits. You’re going to have to trust that he won’t give up on this either.”
I pushed past them then and escaped in Drew’s car.
My face is positively on fire now. Every eye is on me, but I only care about one set, and he isn’t looking my way. And then I notice that the rest of the guys are grinning.
“You tell ’em, Scarlett,” says Marshall, which for some reason earns him a bap on the head by Dex.
“Ain’t nobody messing with our boy,” Rolondo insists. “Not with our girl kicking ass.”
Gray catches my eyes, and a small, bemused smile plays about his mouth. I blush harder.
And then they’re all laughing and talking as if nothing happened.
I stare at Drew until he finally lifts his head. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and that scares me. I move close to him, afraid to touch him. I shouldn’t have talked. Never talk to the press. Even I know that.
Still not quite meeting my gaze, Drew collects my hand. His is cold and dry as he links his fingers with mine and brings them up for a kiss. “You defended me.” It’s a quiet murmur.
“Of course I did. I’ll always defend you, Drew.”
He presses his lips against my fingers. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
“I’m not. I’m only sorry that they had to ask. Of course you’re coming back.”
He looks away. Not long after, he hobbles into our room, claiming that he’s tired. He doesn’t come back out. And from then on, he doesn’t ask the guys over. Avoids them all with a skill that would be impressive if it didn’t worry me so much.
“I only want you,” he whispers against my neck in the dark cocoon of our bed. “Only you.”
It should please me. But it doesn’t.
