That’s the part that frustrates me, as much as it shouldn’t.
It’s unlike playing with any other quarterback. And still, as much as it might infuriate me on a personal level, it’s fucking exhilarating.
“Is it my turn yet?” Drew mumbles loud enough for me to hear. I do, and it snaps me from my thoughts long enough to look over at him
I shake my head and motion for him to get ready to start the timer again.
I need to get my crap together and make this practice worthwhile. Which means I need to take my mind off River fucking Lennox.
“Let’s go,” I say, not waiting for his response before setting a grueling pace in the ladder once again.
And just like the last time, I know I’m not up to par. My entire body feels like it’s moving slower than a turtle stuck in tar, and my brain continues to wander on thoughts of Roman and River, only increasing my frustration from a simmer to a damn boil.
The muscles in my back tense when I hear his laugh from across the gym, deep and husky, the sound like rich scotch sliding over my body.
God fucking damn it.
Stepping from the ladder again, Drew lets out a low whistle when he looks at the stopwatch, and gives me a wide-eyed look.
“Yeah, I know I’m off my grind today,” I tell him, grabbing my water bottle from the bench a few feet away to take a swig.
“Um, man, I hate to break it to you, but you’re—” Drew cuts himself off when the sound of River’s laughter floats over to us, snatching both of our attention.
He and Garrett are acting like idiots, clearly done with their reps because they’re not actually working out anymore. A glance at the clock tells me we’re close to the end of practice and my heart sinks.
I didn’t get jack shit out of today’s lifting session. Unless reaching an obscene level of irritation is considered an accomplishment.
And all because of one annoying as fuck quarterback who happens to be causing a damn ruckus with Garrett. Like right now, they’re shoving each other until River grabs him from behind, his arm wrapped around Garrett’s neck in a headlock.
When I catch myself watching him yet again, the tattoos on his arm rippling with the movement, I inwardly wince.
Why do I fucking care what he’s doing anyway?
Whipping my shirt over my head, I use it to wipe the sweat from my forehead before tossing it to the ground beside Drew.
“Again,” I growl, motioning to the stopwatch in his hand.
Drew sighs, clearly thinking I need to break. Or wanting to get another run in before our time is up. But he’s a good teammate and friend, just nodding and hitting the button on the stopwatch in his hand, giving me the go to start my drill again.
He might think I need to tone it down, get my head on straight, and he’d be right. What I need is a fucking distraction from my already distracting as fuck distraction. And since I’m not allowed to box or do anything that might damage my hands and I can’t exactly go paint or sketch when I’m supposed to be training, this will have to do.
Tonight though? You can bet your ass my hands will be busy with a brush in hand.
My heart pounds as I move my legs as fast as humanly possible, lifting my knees, pumping my arms, breathing in steady breaths like my life depends on it.
And while it doesn’t, in this moment, I swear my sanity does.
Because even now, as my body is damn near being pushed to the breaking point, I still sense it. His eyes on me, watching my every move.
I can practically feel him caress each inch of my exposed skin with his gaze, it’s that penetrating. Powerful.
Gritting my teeth, I grind through the rest of the drill with what little energy I have left, my stamina completely drained at this point.
I’m left a panting mess of sweat and burnt energy when my foot makes its last step through the ladder. Drew stops the watch instantly and I glance down at him with my hands behind my head, attempting to slow my breathing and heart rate.
“Well?” I ask impatiently.
“Dude,” he shakes his head. “That was your best time of the day.”
Letting out a cough, I take another gulp or water. “Meaning what? I’ve been shit all day.”
Drew laughs humorlessly and tosses the stopwatch to me, which I catch with ease. “If you call beating any time you’ve ever had while here, then yeah man, you were absolute trash today.”
I glance down at the time on the display screen. It takes a minute for my brain to register the digital numbers shown and realize he’s right. This is the best time I’ve put up since I’ve been at CU. Hell, maybe even ever.
How is that even fucking possible?
Suddenly I hear a slow clap from across the gym and without turning to look, I know who it is.
But when I do turn to face him and give him a sour look, I’m not prepared for what I find.
Which is him blatantly checking me out.
Just like I asked him not to.
His eyes travel down my bare chest and torso to the waistband of my shorts as he claps, scorching every inch of my exposed skin. His gaze settles on the tattoo I have on my hip, narrowing in on the words that I know are too small to read from this distance, before making their way leisurely back up to my face.
And then the fucker stops clapping and smiles.
I bite into my cheek, needing to ground myself before I go over there and fucking kill him for looking at me like that.
That’s one thing Roman never did. Act this forward with me in a sexual manner. The good friend he is, if there was any attraction he felt, he kept it to himself, thinking it would make me uncomfortable.
Until that night.
River on the other hand? He’s got no qualms about letting me know, see, and feel exactly what he wants from me and that is wrong on so many fucking levels.
We’re teammates. We have to rely on each other to come in clutch when needed. To hone in on the fucking chemistry flowing between us, whether I want it or not.
But how the fuck can I trust him if he’s constantly making me feel weird and itchy around him?
How can I know he has my back on the field when he’s now decided to go out of his way to be completely obvious about his attraction towards me?
The answer is simple…I can’t.
River walks over, his teeth gnawing at his lower lip in a way…fuck, it ensnares my damn attention. My eyes are glued to his mouth, his lips, a cocky smirk forming on them as he approaches me.
And when I finally detach myself from the trance to meet his eyes, the gleam in them lets me know I’ve been caught red handed.
Shit.
Bile rises from my stomach, coating the back of my throat when he stops in front of me, only a foot away. His cocksure attitude is radiating off him in waves, causing my stomach to churn even more.
Nodding his head before cocking it slightly, he gives me a crooked grin. “You’re looking good. Really damn good.”
I try not to take it as some form of double entendre. I swear, I do. But I’m standing here half naked before him and for the life of me, I can’t unsee the way his eyes ate me alive only moments before he spoke. It was literal eye-fucking to the third degree.
More like eye-raping because I most definitely did not want it.
“Whatever,” I mumble, turning away from him to grab the towel I’d set on the rack of dumbbells, wiping myself off and quickly slipping my shirt back over my head.