Callie’s eyes run appreciatively down my chest. “Sweet, but no. I don’t want to meet your new roommates after that show we just put on, and you’re out of toilet paper.”
“Sorry,” I offer, unsure if said offer was obligatory or selfish. If she stays and I get a second wind, it’s convenient. I’m not much for conversation, sharing my bed is about as intimate as I get, and Callie understands that about me. It’s an unspoken agreement between us.
I’ve been seeing Callie for a few months. She’s nice and we get along well enough. That’s really all I need. She graduated last spring and decided to stay home for the summer before joining the workforce. She comes with perks, meaning she’ll be gone soon, so no commitment pressure, with the added bonus of no baggage—win/win. I’ve been down the monogamy road in high school, and it was nice—while it lasted—but a relationship hasn’t been a priority with the amount of shit I have going on. The minute I stepped on Texas Grand University campus, I decided women had to take a back seat. I had enough expectations to deal with. I’ve kept that promise to myself for three years. With my focus solely on ball and saving the ranch, I refuse to jerk any woman around.
“Night,” she leans over, her hair tickling my face as she takes my lips in a parting kiss. “Damn,” she whispers with a grin, shaking her head when she pulls away. “It’s a good thing I know better about you.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” I can’t help the edge to my voice. I’ve dealt with enough judgment for one day.
“I just know if I catch feelings, I’ll be messing up.”
“So, don’t.”
“Obviously, it’s never happened to you,” she sighs while sliding on her flip flops. She really is a beautiful girl. If I was in a better position to date, she’d be the type to consider long term.
“Not really.”
She laughs. “Oh, you’ll know.”
I sit up. “Have I treated you badly? Disrespected you? If so, I apologize. I’m shit at this, Callie. I told you from the get-go.”
She seems to read the sincerity in my eyes. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“Then don’t imply anything.”
“And don’t show me you’re different. You know, maybe it helps me to think of you this way. Have you thought of that?”
She grimaces. If she thinks she’s said too much, she has.
I grip her hand while she stares down at me with murky eyes. “Look, I’m just staying in my lane because we’re both about to make an exit,” I say simply. “There’s no point.”
“Right.”
“Callie,” I softly scold, knowing we’re done. She reads my posture, the tone of my voice.
“Shit,” she says. “Okay, let’s do this now.”
I nod, eyeing her. “If that’s what you want.”
She leans in and I kiss her, holding back. At the door, she glances back at me over her shoulder, a sad smile tilting her lips.
“Did you just manipulate me into breaking up with you?” She shakes her head and snorts. “Unbelievable,” her laughter tinged with incredulity. “You son of a bitch, you totally did. Lord help the woman you fall for.”
When she shuts the door, sleep comes easy and I know I’m a bastard for it.
Harper
He’s everywhere. In my new gym, my favorite coffee shop, and last week I spotted him leaving Jake’s apartment, no doubt in an attempt to get my gym privileges revoked. He failed.
Take that, asshole.
Jake and I went to high school together, but he was in the dorms with Lance freshman year. Jake said he’s rough around the edges, misunderstood due to his hermit ways, but deep down a good guy.
Jake’s advice? Stay out of his way.
I’m taking it.
I’ve dodged him twice to keep him from seeing me. He’s always alone when I spot him, which is odd because typically the giants rule together.
Athletes have always been a part of my life. I’d grown used to being around them from an early age. I was never wary of them until my body started reacting to the testosterone. But after years of watching athletes, I assume I was bound to develop a little hero worship. Not to mention these men are in the prime of their lives, it’s hard to ignore how in tune they are with their bodies—and how in tune mine has become with theirs. I’m a fan of the art of the human body and the beauty of movement; whether for sport or dance, anyone who can manipulate their physique in such a way has both my attention and admiration.
And Lance Prescott, even when throwing simple punches at a gym bag, is mesmerizing.
I wasn’t lying to Lance when I told him football is ingrained in me. My father and I have a mutual love for the game, he takes his far more seriously and with good reason. His legendary status at the school and the break in tuition is what keeps me here. The deal is simple, four years for a degree, and then I can actively pursue my dancing dream. I’m starting this year a sophomore, year two of a four-year sentence. But four years in a dancer’s life is an eternity. The next three years I’ve decided to look upon a bit like Olympic training. If I fail, at least I’ll have tried and have my accounting degree to fall back on.
There’s just one issue, I don’t want to be in a classroom when I could be dancing. At all. Every day is agony and the more that come to pass, the more I feel I’m missing out. It’s all about location when it comes to excelling in a career in dance, and College Station, Texas, is not prime real estate. Until graduation, I’m stuck here. I’ll bide my time, do my homework, hone my skills, ace the dance program, and avoid the jocks that seem to take up all the space in the street. Affirmation made with my daily pep talk, I turn the corner of the gym bathroom and run into a wall.
“Oof,” I tumble backwards before strong hands reach out to steady me.
“You okay?”
I feel like I just got run over by a truck, but I nod.
“Fine,” I reply, jerking out of his grasp before I adjust my clothes. I have on a ripped tank, and I don’t miss his eyes on the extra flash of skin.
He lingers and I patiently wait, staring at his Nikes. “Talked to Jake.”
“And?”
“Said you went to high school together. Anyway, the gym is booked up for the rest of the summer, so we’ll have to share it.”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m not the one who has a problem with it.”
“What do you say to an hour and a half each?” As he starts negotiations, I shake my head.
“I need more time.”
“I’m trying here,” he blows out a frustrated breath. His hands taped at his sides, his fingers tense as if he’s ready to spring and attack. It’s the only thing I notice as I keep my eyes down to avoid ogling him.
“It would probably help the conversation if you looked at me.” I hear the hint of a smile in his voice and snap my gaze to his. “Better.”
“I need more time.” There, simple. I don’t take note of the way his shorts hang from his hips at his narrow waist. Or the way his T-shirt clings to his biceps screaming, ‘look!’ Or the way his thick, dark-brown hair curves naturally away from his face. No, not at all. Satisfied with my attention, he smirks down at me. “Look, we’ll just get used to it, all right? I need all the time I can get.”