The Rivalry

He was my only teammate who knew about Kayla. Half of the guys wouldn’t give a fuck, and of the ones who would, most would be smart enough to know to keep their opinions to themselves. But I had enough pressure right now. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. If Darius, one of the team captains, was cool with me and a girl from Ohio State, the rest would see and go with it.

“Kayla, this is Darius,” I said. “Linebacker. He’s my suite mate, and he thinks you’re hot.”

“Hi, Darius.” She gave him a tight smile. No doubt she was fighting her aversion to all things Michigan.

He leaned over me, getting close to the screen. “Damn, that’s one ugly birthmark on your face, girl.”

“Goodbye, Darius.” She rolled her eyes, pulled a wipe out of a dispenser, and scrubbed away the OSU temporary tattoo on her cheek.

He straightened abruptly and glared down at me. “Almost forgot, time for me to beat your ass.”

“For what?” Kayla asked. “Fraternizing with the enemy?”

“No.” He went to his equipment bag. “For this.”

He pulled out his sports bottle and held it up to the screen. The translucent blue plastic obscured it just enough not to be obvious. A fancy goldfish darted around inside, its mouth pumping furiously as it sloshed in the water.

“I drank from this, dude!” Darius snapped.

Kayla gave a choked-off laugh. “Awesome.”

“It was,” I agreed. Coordinating with friends and getting the fish into his water bottle hadn’t been easy, but it was worth it. “Did you think because you’re captain now, I can’t give you shit anymore?”

He scrubbed a hand over his serious face. “Payback’s gonna be a bitch.”

“Okay, Darius.” My tone was patronizing, because my pranks were epic and his were lame.

“You owe me a beer.”

“Yeah,” Kayla chimed in. “He needs to wash the taste of fish away.”

I pointed to my mini-fridge. “Help yourself.”

“No, asshole. Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“Phrasing,” I commented, but it was too late.

Kayla’s expression was smug. “Aw, you two kids have fun on your date night. Go paint the town red.” She faked seriousness. “I mean it, scarlet red. It’ll look much nicer when we get there in November.”

Darius ignored her and snatched his bag up off the ground. “I’m going to put this guy in fresh water, change, and we’re out. You got five minutes, Harris.”

I grinned. “I love that you’re keeping the fish.”

Because the whole team knew Darius had a big heart inside that enormous frame. He was probably already attached. Would he tear up if he had to flush it in a few days?

“I named it after you, man. This is Jay-Hole.” He held the bottle up again, and the fish stared at me with its vacant bubble eyes. “Five minutes.”

And then Darius was gone.

I swung my gaze back to the laptop. I liked hanging out with the guys, but I’d been looking forward to talking to her tonight.

“Sounds like you gotta go,” she said. Was there disappointment in her voice, or had I just wanted there to be?

“I’ve got time. It’ll only take me a minute to change. In case you didn’t know, I’m kind of fast.”

“Yeah, ESPN was telling me all about it.”

“What?” The team meeting had taken forever, and I’d barely looked at my phone after my shower in the locker room. Just long enough to send her a GIF message before heading into the postgame press conference.

“You made the leaderboard of players to watch.” She cocked her head to the side. “You didn’t know?”

“No, but it’s crazy postgame.”

“Okay, well, congrats. That’s really cool, Jay.”

This time she nailed the genuine tone, and warmth rolled through my chest. I wanted to touch her. If we’d been in the same room, I’d have her in my lap in a heartbeat, and my tongue filling her mouth. Shit, I couldn’t think about her mouth. My cock started to wake up. Down, boy.

“When can I see you?” I was so eager, it came out sounding like a demand.

“You’re seeing me right now.”

I shook my head. “No, for real.”

“If you’re up for the drive, you could come visit me.” She said it like a throwaway comment, but I’d take it as a real invitation.

“Cool. Next Saturday,” I said. “We’ve got an early game.”

She jolted. “You’re coming here?”

“You offered.” I grinned. “I accepted. When’s your game?”

“Uh . . .” She glanced at the dry-erase board, maybe hoping kickoff would give her an excuse to rescind my invite. “It’s an early game. But, I go out to dinner with my family afterward at the Buckeye Bar. It’s a tradition, so I might not be done until late.”

I brushed off her poor attempt at an excuse. “I probably won’t get there before ten. Is that okay?”

It was like she could barely form the word. “Sure.”

“Perfect. It’s a date.”