Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

After parking behind the locked gates of the stadium, I jog to the gym, where we spend the first few hours of camp. After working out, we’ll do a team meeting and watch tape, then separate for offensive and defensive strategy sessions that last an hour or so depending on the day before. Next is our first practice of the day, more mental preparation than physical, where we’ll jog through plays and discuss pros and cons. By late afternoon, playtime is over, and we’ll put pads on for the grueling, challenging second practice.

“Where the fuck have you been?” says Aiden as he runs on one of the treadmills. “I’ve gotten a massage and a leg workout in.”

I get on the treadmill next to him and turn it on. “I may be late, but I can still kick your ass.”

He snorts—as much as he can going at full speed.

I match his pace, increasing my incline so it’s steeper than his.

He cocks an eyebrow, and it’s on.

“How was the fight?” I rasp out a few minutes later.

“Slick. McGregor took him down in the second round.”

I nod.

“What was your big errand?”

Flashes of me taking care of Dad and cleaning up his house come to mind.

“The model? You go see her?” He ups his incline.

I shake my head.

“Huh. Okay, so you flaked on one of your friends because you’re a dick.”

I grin at him in the mirror, and he flips me off. I like Aiden, and we’ve become friends over the past year—when he isn’t aggravating Jack—but nobody gets the lowdown on my dad.

“You gonna see her again?” He pants, upping his speed on the machine. Damn twenty-three-year-old rookie.

“Don’t kiss and tell,” I drawl as I finish my run. Besides, nothing happened between me and the girl from the wedding.

I wipe my face with a towel, then suck down water before I head to the weights.

“I can spot you,” Aiden calls, getting off the treadmill.

“You just wanna see if I can press more than you.” I get settled on the bench and wait for him to prep. He’s a competitive bastard, but it’s good for both of us.

“Two hundred?”

I roll my neck, cracking my fingers. “Two twenty-five.”

He chuckles, moving the weights for me. “Now we’re cooking with oil!”

I roll my eyes at his southern slang. Straining, I get the first ten reps up; then my arms tremble.

“Come on, pussy; you gonna quit now?”

Sweat drips down my forehead, and my fingers curl tighter in the gloves. “Been playing longer than you. I got this.”

Five more pushes, and my arms burn.

Aiden leans in. “Who are you? Who the hell are you?”

“Devon Walsh,” I mutter, shoving the bar up.

“That’s right, motherfucker. You’re a constant threat. Running or getting the ball. Your body is a well-oiled machine, the best wideout in the NFL. You make defensive guys cry. You catch a jump ball as easy as a post. Shallow, deep, or on a slant. Nobody can catch your ass.”

I grunt. “Tell me how pretty I am.”

“So damn pretty. Not as much as me, but nobody is.”

“Not working,” I heave as I struggle to get the bar up for another rep.

“Twenty, man, that’s all you got? Hollis beat your ass yesterday with five more. Push it up, or I swear I’m gonna escort Giselle Riley all over Nashville. She’ll be in love with me, ’cause come on—who isn’t?” He pops my leg with his towel. “I might just love her back. I’m sick of the women, dude, annoyed with the attention, and she’s not like the rest. Did you see her in that skirt? I went to bed thinking about her—”

“Shut up,” I call, the bar wobbling.

“Why? You got a hard-on for her?”

“No!” I shout.

He gets in my face, his voice low. “Why are you so angry? Huh? You think I’m blind? I might be a farm kid from Alabama, but I ain’t stupid.”

“I’m going to kill you,” I say, letting loose a long string of curses.

“You can try. Just don’t hurt the throwing arm.”

I glare up at him, seething.

“Come on, old man. Three more, and you’re done.”

The bar rests on my chest, and I swallow. Digging deep, I press my lips tight, clench the bar, and push it up for three more reps. Once it’s secure, I jump up off the bench, adrenaline pumping. I point my finger in his face. “Don’t use her as motivation, man—not cool.”

He holds his hands up between us. “Whoa, man. So you aren’t into her? ’Cause last night in the VIP room, you had this look on your face. And you took her to dinner. Was that your errand? Did you hook up—”

“She is my friend!”

He scratches his hair, studying me. “For real? You swear?”

“Yes!”

“Huh.” He paces around me. Something about the look on his face, almost hopeful, causes my shoulders to coil and tighten.