“I was surprised, because I’d forgotten I’d put this together and hadn’t shown you.” I watch him shovel another impressive mouthful of his salad. The man enjoys his food. Mind you, this steak salad is one of my favorites too. “They’re plans from a previous teammate—”
Slamming the folder shut, I shake my head and hand it back to him. “I don’t copy work.”
“Neither do I,” he says, sounding insulted. “It’s an outline, a starting place, and we fill it all out to what we want to do. Jesus, Mayhem.”
Instant guilt swarms me. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
He shrugs. “It’s cool. But contrary to what the basic student population believes about the baseball team, we’re stand-up guys who work our asses off in the classroom and on the field.”
“I know.” I reach across the table and take his hand in mine to give it a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes soften and he squeezes my hand back. “It’s okay, Indie.”
For a few brief moments, we stay like this, holding hands, staring at each other, an unspoken promise of respect passing between us. It’s an odd sensation, as if I’ve just discovered this undying loyalty deep inside my bones. I’m giving it to this man that I’ve only known for a few weeks, but a man I feel strongly about, someone who’d offer the same unspoken loyalty to me.
“Hey, you guys. What’s going on?” Startled, I quickly look up to see Hartley and Deacon standing at the edge of our table. Deacon’s slightly behind Hartley, but I feel the blaze of his eyes on me.
Lincoln leans back and pushes his hand through his hair. “Uh . . . hey there.”
“What are you two doing?” Hartley’s face is all smiles while Deacon looks concerned. This overwhelming need to explain consumes me, and it bubbles up and out past my lips before I can stop it.
“I insulted Lincoln. I was saying sorry.”
Hartley laughs, pulls out a chair, and flips it around so he’s sitting in it backward but still facing us. “We all insult Lincoln. Don’t let him fool you. The boy has thicker skin than he lets on. He just likes to play the victim card for sympathy.”
“Fuck you.” Lincoln chuckles as Deacon takes the seat next to me.
“Best way to make it up to him? Rub his nipple.”
“What?” My eyes widen, mouth dropping open as I look at Lincoln. He just shrugs and continues eating his salad. “He made me touch his nipple the first night I met him.”
“Not surprised.” Hartley plucks a piece of steak from Lincoln’s salad and plops it in his mouth. “He loves getting his coins caressed. Especially when he’s drunk; the dude runs around with his shirt off, thrusting his chest at you.”
“I’ve seen pictures,” Deacon chimes in. “And I hate to admit it, but Rusty showed me a video—”
“Okay, okay,” Lincoln says, trying to tamp down Deacon with his hand. “No need to get into details.”
I prop my chin on my hand and look between all three men. “No, please, let’s get into detail.”
Deacon looks for permission but not Hartley, he jumps right in, stealing another piece of steak, this time getting a swat on the hand from Lincoln. “Lincoln once ran naked down the street with a red cup covering his junk.”
“Dude, come on,” Lincoln says, giving me an apologetic look.
“What? It’s true. It was one of your finer moments while wasted.”
“And how many moments do you have in the drunk archive?” I ask. Lincoln moves his fork around his salad and barely lifts his eyes to smirk at me.
My breath catches, and my heart stills from that one shameless look.
“Enough,” he answers.
“By far the best drunk on the team.”
Deacon groans. “You’re the fun drunk, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Lincoln says, smirking, eyes still on me.
“Figures.” Deacon rests his arm on the back of my chair, and I watch Lincoln’s eyes quickly flick to where his hand falls and then return to his salad. Connection broken. “I’m the annoying drunk who borders on one shot too many and spending the rest of the night in the bathroom.”
Hartley takes Lincoln’s drink off his tray and manages a large gulp before Lincoln yanks it away. “That’s vital information to know if you’re living with us. You’re not a hamper puker, are you?”
Deacon shakes his head. “Nah, even though I might be a lightweight, I know porcelain when I see it. I make it to a toilet every time.”
“Wow, isn’t this a great conversation,” I say sarcastically while trying to eat my salad.
“Hey, you wanted the details,” Lincoln points out.
“I tend to forget men are disgusting.”
“Oh bullshit,” Lincoln says. “I’ve heard some of the shit you girls talk about at parties. You’re nasty.”
Chuckling, I ignore him and go back to my salad.
“Are we still on for this weekend?” Hartley asks. “Everyone’s asking.”
“On for what?” Deacon asks, looking between the guys.
Lincoln finishes up his salad and then pushes it to the middle of the table. “Our house usually holds a party before the fall season starts. It’s a big bash. I honestly forgot about it until just now.”
“I think we should talk about it with the rest of the guys tonight, but I’m game. We have to throw something and I’d rather it be now than later in the season since games are just around the corner,” Hartley says.
“Yeah, I get that.” Lincoln pulls on the back of his neck. “I’m game if you guys are.”
“I’m good with it,” Deacon says and then turns toward me. “You coming, Indie?”
“Ah, Indie doesn’t go to parties, isn’t that right?” Lincoln asks me.
“Not usually,” I answer, feeling a challenge in Lincoln’s gaze. “But I’ve been doing things a little differently this year, so maybe I will go.”
“Bring your girls with you,” Hartley says. “We never get the women’s soccer team to do anything.”
I smile and take a sip of my drink. “That’s because, like I told Lincoln when I first met him, we don’t typically hang out with douchebags.”
Lincoln holds his arms out. “And yet, here you are, eating lunch surrounded by them.”
“Speak for yourself,” Deacon says, pulling me into his side. “Stick with me. I don’t carry a douchebag bone in my body.”
“He might be right,” Hartley says. “I haven’t detected any douchiness since he’s moved in.” Gripping Lincoln on the shoulder, he says, “Now this guy, on the other hand . . . shall we revisit his obsession with people touching his nipples?”
“I think we covered it,” Lincoln says, looking slightly irritated. He looks at his phone and then shifts out of his chair. “I have to get to the training room. I’ll see you guys at the house.” He nods toward me. “I’ll email you the outline, Indie. See you around.”
He’s out of his seat before I can even say bye, leaving me with Deacon and a retreating Hartley, who says over his shoulder, “I have class and want to get a good seat. This professor is so softly spoken, I can barely hear her, so I need to sit in front of the class to avoid failing. Catch you guys later.”