I swallow hard. “I was afraid of that. I didn’t mean to say to, uh, utter such . . . promises.”
“I gathered that from your recovery, or lack thereof.” He chuckles. “And here I was worried that you weren’t awkward enough; you just proved me wrong.”
“Why would you worry about me not being awkward enough?” I ask, kicking off my covers from my totally sweaty body.
“Because, Milly, I told you I liked different, didn’t I?”
Far too many times.
“Are you headed back to your dorm?”
I toss the last ball in the bucket and look up at Carson, who has his hat on backward and the hem of his shirt dabbing at his brow, revealing his stacked and corded abs.
Good Lord. I would wreck the shocks in my car if I drove over those things.
Not to mention the V of his waist that dips below his black athletic shorts. There’s no questioning my attraction to him, it’s there in spades and it’s frustrating, because in moments like these, where he’s just acting normal, himself, I get hot and bothered from a little thing like lifting his shirt up. It’s embarrassing, especially when I know my face turns bright red.
Averting my eyes, I make my way to my backpack, trying to cool myself off so he doesn’t notice.
“Uh, I was going to grab something from Lakeview first.”
“Dinner?” He comes up behind me and lifts the netting of the cages, his masculine deodorant surrounding me.
He smells so nice, like a yummy man. Not the best description, but I can’t think of any other way to describe it. I could bury my nose in his armpit and be happy about it—odd as that sounds.
“Yeah, dinner and then some studying.”
“Do you have a lot to read tonight?”
I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulders, feeling a little cooler as I take a quick drink from my water bottle. “Just my usual stuff. I like to keep up as much as possible. With finals looming, I want to make sure I’m as prepared as possible.”
“Makes sense.” He slings his backpack over his shoulders as well, and we both head out of the cages and down the open hallway toward the exit. “Think you have some time to share a bite with me? I’m starving, and I was going to head up to Lakeview as well.”
Dinner with Carson?
Uhh . . .
I mean, yeah, I want to spend more time with him, but now that my nerves are shot whenever I’m around him, I have a feeling I’ll turn into a fumbling idiot if I don’t have a bucket of balls in front of me to keep me distracted.
But it’s not like I can say no, as we’re both going to the same place.
So I awkwardly say, “Uh, yeah, sure, of course, that would be delightful.”
Delightful?
He chuckles and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close and then runs his hand over the top of my head, jiggling my hat until he releases me and continues to walk to the exit.
Did he just . . . give me an open-palm noogie?
Just punch me in the boob right now and end my misery.
I don’t know what’s worse, saying “that would be delightful” or having Carson treat me like his little brother.
Actually, I do know what’s worse, the latter. Easily.
A noogie.
Ughhhh. I cannot even recall how many noogies my brothers have given me over the years. Me, their little sister.
“Did you walk?” he asks, walking backward to look at me.
“Yeah,” I answer, my composure slipping, and because he’s one of the most observant people I know, he notices.
“You okay?”
No, you just rubbed my head like I’m your favorite dog.
“Yeah.” I tack on a smile. “Just hungry. My blood sugar is probably getting low.”
“Then get your ass in gear, Mills.” He smiles at me and takes off down the hall.
It’s safe to say that I need to shake these feelings blooming inside me and distract myself with something else. Maybe I’ll pick up a paint-by-number at the craft store. That should do it, really keep me occupied . . .
At least, that’s my pathetic attempt to keep myself busy.
“This is Milly.”
Jason Orson and Brock “Romeo” Romero both give me a curt wave before they take a seat at our table in the dining hall.
“So you’re the miracle worker,” Jason says, taking a napkin from the center of the table and folding it across his lap. I hold back the snicker that threatens to fall past my lips. It’s a paper napkin that he folded across his lap; impeccable manners, but super ridiculous.
“I wouldn’t say miracle worker,” I answer, feeling shy sitting with these three large men, who seem to consume the entire space of the four-person table. This shouldn’t feel any different to being crowded around the table with my brothers. You can do this, Potter. You can do this.
Once we sat at the table, Carson asked me if it was okay if Romeo and Jason joined us. They were just leaving study hall and looking to get some food. Clearly, I didn’t object, but a little piece of me—and I mean small—thought it would have been nice if it was just Carson and me. Then again, this is probably for the best given my current predicament when it comes to Carson Stone.
You know, the whole I think you’re really dreamy and I can’t stop thinking about you predicament.
“The man is swinging the bat better than last year; you’ve done something,” Romeo says right before shoving a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.
“It’s like you spread his ass cheeks with both hands and blew talent right up his ass,” Jason says, as if that wasn’t the most appalling visual ever.
“She definitely didn’t spread my ass cheeks. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Carson asks, voicing probably everyone’s thoughts at the table besides Jason’s.
“What?” he asks, ham sandwich halfway to his mouth. “That’s not accurate?”
I shake my head, mortified as Carson steps in. “No, jackass. And if anyone needs something blown up their ass, it’s you. It takes you about twenty seconds to get down to first.”
“Bullshit,” Jason shouts, as Romeo and I both laugh.
It’s not a secret that Jason Orson, Brentwood’s number-one catcher, is the slowest guy on the team. With his meaty thighs and bubble butt, he’s not the quickest when sprinting to first, but he sure does have some of the best reflexes I’ve ever seen, and his throw down to second is absolutely breathtaking.
Talking with his mouth full, Romeo says, “Our freshman year, Jason cost us extra sprints because he couldn’t get his fat ass in shape for timed suicides.”
“Listen.” Jason grows serious, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin that once was on his lap. “You don’t have to sprint in goddamn catcher’s gear, okay? It’s fucking clunky as shit.”
“He makes you sprint in your gear?”
“Yup,” Carson cuts in. “Whatever you use on the field, you’re sprinting in.”
“Yeah, so while these pansies are prancing around with just their gloves in their hands”—Jason motions to Carson and Romeo, making me giggle—“I’m over here, practically running through mud with fifty pounds of gear strapped to me.”