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He, Thompson, and Diaz are here and they cram into the booth without ceremony. Diaz takes the seat next to Dex, while Johnson and Thompson shove me to make space for their massive bulk. Which means I’m squished into the corner. Though Johnson is pure Iowa farm boy, with straw-colored hair and pale blue eyes, and Thompson is an inner-city kid from Detroit with a retro fade, there’s a similarity in their size and the way they move and talk in unison. Brothers from another mother, we call them.
“What we talking about?” Johnson tries to grab my beer but he’s too slow. Linebacker speed is sad.
“Nothing.”
“Gray’s special needs,” Dex says over me as the waitress comes back and proceeds to dole out the food. I take possession of my burger before it’s gone. As it is, Thompson shouts, “Wings!” and claims a basket.
“You mean how he’s hot for Ivy?” Johnson dives into the cheesy tots. Fucker. Those are my favorite.
“Man,” Diaz drawls, shaking his head. “Don’t do it.”
“Why not?” Johnson asks around a mouthful of tots. “She’s wicked hot. I’d hit that.”
“Hey,” I snap with a death glare. Johnson shrugs in apology but doesn’t look too sorry.
“She’s his potential agent’s daughter, knucklehead,” Thompson says to Johnson. “You do not fuck with the daughters.”
Dex watches us between bites of his burger. “Every girl is some guy’s daughter. What if she wants to be with Gray? It’s her life, not her dad’s.”
“True that,” says Diaz.
“Whatever,” I cut in. “She is my friend. Which means off-limits.”
“But you want her.” This from all of them. In unison. And they laugh at that.
Yeah, fucking hi-larious. The burger is starting to land hard in my gut. I’ve got to start eating better.
“Come on, Gray-Gray, you know you do.”
“Kiss the girl, already,” Johnson begins to sing. Badly. A cheesy tot hits his cheek, and he chucks a wing at Diaz in retaliation. It goes wide.
“Isn’t that the song the little crab sings in The Lion King?” Dex asks.
“It’s The Little Mermaid. And stop playing like you don’t know.”
“Says the dude who knows the lyrics.”
“Please. My little sister watched it five million times when we were kids.”
“Whatever you have to tell yourself, Johnson.”
And then they’re back to me.
“You really should admit to it. Probably make you feel better.”
“You want her baaad.”
“Fine,” I snap. “I do. But it’s not happening, so shut the fuck up and let a man eat.”
Johnson gives me a once-over as he swipes Dex’s beer. “Man, this is bad news. Soon you’ll be so jacked up for it, you’ll get distracted on the field.”
“I’d like to think I’m a better player than that,” I say, truly offended, because what the fuck? Football is my life’s focus.
Johnson shrugs, unconvinced. “When’s the last time you got any?”
“Why do you care?” Nope, I’m not going to squirm in my seat.
Diaz looks me over and rubs the fuzz he likes to think is a goatee as if he’s contemplating. “Not since he’s been driving that car.”
