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“Stop. Gray isn’t some cheap manslut.”
Never again will I let myself or anyone else belittle him.
“He’s not?” She doesn’t even try to hide her sarcasm.
“No. He’s my friend, and I’ll thank you not to talk about him that way.”
I hug my pillow tight. “Never mind that friends-with-bennies has got to be one of the stupidest ideas in history. It never works. Not,” I add, “that I’d even consider it. I don’t...” A breath puffs out of me. “I’m not going there with Gray.”
Just the thought of sex with Gray... Nope, not going to even entertain the idea. Sex with him would only lead to trouble. I’m a relationship gal. And I know it would become too much for me, sharing that sort of intimacy and not having Gray as more than a friend. I cling to that fact like I would a life raft.
Her shrug is careless. “Well, then maybe he can hook you up with one of his hot friends.”
“I’m not having sex with one of Gray’s friends.” Everything within me revolts at the idea. It would ruin what I have with Gray. Wouldn’t it? And besides, I don’t want one of his friends.
“So you don’t want a hookup, or to ask Gray to help you out or set you up.” Fi glares at me. “What do you want?”
An answer pops into my head before my booze-addled brain can squash it down. I bite my lips together and refuse to say it. Again, the horrible, squirmy, we-need-some-lovin’ heat flares between my legs.
“I just want to feel like myself again.”
“Good luck with that. Horny doesn’t just up and go because you ask it nicely.”
“Great.” I lift my hands in irritation. “So I what...?”
Fi laughs at me, the jerk. “Become real familiar with your hand.”
“Pillow,” I correct without thinking.
“What?” Her eyes are wide, her smile scandalized.
“Nothing. I said nothing.” Fucking booze. I’m never drinking again.
“Sure you didn’t, Miss Hump-and-Pump.”
The throw pillow flies out of my hand and whacks her face.
“Eew,” Fi shouts. “This had better not be the pillow!”
“Better smell it and see.”
Fi’s answer is to smother me with the pillow and the night devolves from there.
Gray
For the first time before a game, I’m nervous. Usually I’m pumped up, anticipation and adrenaline surging through my body. I get off on it, like good sex, only with a fine edge of aggression to sharpen the feeling.
Out on the field, I can let myself go. Let out all the anger, hurt, frustration of life. And yet it never really feels like rage. It’s a battle, sure, but there’s love too. I fucking love this game. The intensity. The pain. The mind games. Nowhere else do I feel more alive than when I’m playing, my body and mind working at full tilt to obtain my goals.
I’m not gonna lie; I have a hard-on for football. I get totally jacked on game day.
Which is why I’m pissed now. Because I’m not jacked. Excitement does not run through my veins. Instead, there’s a boulder in my stomach and invisible hands clutching my neck.
Though the crowd is roaring their excitement, and the air almost vibrates with their enthusiasm, everything feels off. My teammates aren’t joking like they usually do.
Rolondo is quiet and pacing the sidelines as they prepare to sing the national anthem. The guys have tense faces. Cal Alder is sitting on a bench, his skin pasty and sweaty, though Coach doesn’t seem too worried that our starting quarterback looks like death warmed over.
I swear the stink of defeat hangs over us, and we haven’t even started the game.
