Chapter 11
ELEVEN
DAYLEN
“Sex isn’t math, D,” Beau calmly says to me as he squats an ungodly amount of weight in our team gym without barely breaking a sweat.
I’ve never seen a physically stronger human being in my life, and I could probably lift a car.
In fact, one blocked me in a few years ago, and I did, in fact, lift it out of my way.
I drop my feet down to the floor from the pull-up bar and cross my sweaty, workout-fatigued arms while glaring at him intensely, fighting the slowly rising corners of my mouth. “Sex is math, Beau. Add a bed, subtract the clothes, divide her legs, and then pray you don’t multiply.”
The guys all break out into laughter, even Beau.
Champ, who’s next to me, mumbles, “At least I don’t have to worry about multiplication when I have sex.”
I smile widely. Champ used to be very tight-lipped about his sexuality, but he’s been more open within our small group over the past few weeks.
It makes me so happy that he’s comfortable with us.
He’s only been with the team for a year, but I feel like I’ve known him so much longer. He’s quickly become a good friend.
I throw my arm around him. “Holy crap, you’re right. Maybe I should switch things up. You available tonight?” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively. “I’m looking not to multiply.”
He chuckles. “You’re not my type.”
I gasp. “What? Why not? I’m a hottie.” I turn my body so I can check out my own ass and show it to him at the same time. “Does my milkshake not bring all the boys to the yard?”
He shrugs. “I’m sorry, D, but I don’t like blonds.”
I touch my overgrown hair, which is in desperate need of a haircut. “What if I dye my hair? I love it, but I’d do it for you as a grand romantic gesture.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know you prefer a bubbly partner, clearly not my style. So I’m not your type either…and I have a dick. Also not your type. You’re a vagina man, through and through.”
“Hmm. I suppose that’s true.” I rub his bleached-blond mohawk. “If it makes you feel better, know I prefer blondes, so if I liked men, you’d be my type.”
“You sure about that?” he asks with a thick tone of suggestiveness.
“What does that mean?” I probe.
“It means I think you like a certain brunette.”
“Who?” I genuinely have no clue who he’s referring to. I went home with another sexy blonde just the other night.
He smiles as he condescendingly pats my chest. “There’s a fine line between love and hate, D. And hate sex…” he bites his lips and shivers, “hmm, there’s nothing better.”
Is he referring to Kennedy? It’s been about ten weeks since New Year’s Eve.
For the first two, she was uncomfortably civil to me.
It was bizarrely off-putting, so I decided to poke the bear back to life.
I kept saying things I knew would bother her until one comment finally tipped her over the edge.
I told her one set of women’s lips is for arguing while the other set is for apologizing.
As soon as I said it, she fell right back into her natural state of raging bitch where we’ve happily remained for the past two months.
I even lost another bet to her, but the stakes were clean and fun, as we pinkie swore they would be. She now gets to pick my walk-in outfit for our first game of the season later this year.
Gameday walk-in outfits have become sort of a thing over the past few years.
We get photographed walking into the stadium and then judged by social media for what we wear.
I love to wear wacky clothes, so I don’t care what she chooses.
Maybe a fun pimp outfit, complete with a fur coat, floppy hat, and a pimp stick.
Or, knowing Kennedy, she’ll probably just want me in something fashionable since I never wear nice, designer clothing, and it drives her nuts.
Whatever she chooses, it will be funny, I have no doubt.
I scoff at Champ’s comment. “I will never have sex with—”
“Who won’t you have sex with?” Coach asks as he walks into the gym.
It’s probably not a good idea to mention sex with his daughter, even though I’m discussing not having sex with her.
“Vance,” I answer. “I’ll never have sex with him.”
Vance gives me the finger from the free weight area. “What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re too broody for me. I like them bubbly.”
“You like them stupid,” Vance mumbles.
“Oh, well then, maybe I am interested in you.”
Once again, I’m gifted with his middle finger, and I can’t help but chuckle.
Coach shakes his head. “I feel like other teams discuss football in their weight rooms, but every damn time I walk in here, you’re talking about anything but football.”
I shake my head. “We were discussing math, but before that, we were chatting about Vegas. You should come this year, Coach.”
“Pass. Vegas is for the young. You all have fun without me. Not too much though. Stay out of trouble,” he commands in a warning tone.
“Okay, Dad. Any other advice?”
“Print out your boarding pass the night before so you don’t forget it in the morning.”
I let out a laugh. “We’re flying private, but even if we weren’t, no one prints boarding passes anymore. Save the environment and all that jazz. You can download your boarding pass to your phone without killing planet Earth.”
“Hmm,” he growls. “I don’t trust that virtual wallet thingy on my phone. My generation still prints boarding passes because we all suffered error messages at two in the morning when we lost term papers and had to start them over from scratch five hours before they were due.”
I let out a laugh. I love Coach’s Gen-Xisms.
He glares at me. “I’m being dead serious.”
A few hours later, I’m out back throwing BJ her favorite ball. I hate the thought of leaving her for four days so I’m giving her as much attention tonight as I can.
My doorbell rings. It must be Chef Benny. He obviously has the code, but he had texted a few hours ago that he was going shopping for items needed for my house. His hands must be full, and he’s in need of help.
I walk toward the door and open it without looking to confirm who it is. It’s an delivery woman. A cute one.
Before I have the chance to react, BJ leaps past me and knocks her to the ground, growling on top of her. Ohmigod, she’s about to bite the woman.
I quickly shout, “Release,” at BJ, at which point she lifts her mouth from the near bite of this woman’s neck. BJ doesn’t, however, otherwise move. The poor woman is whimpering.
I then command, “Bed,” and BJ retreats into the house. She should be heading to her downstairs bed in my living room right now.
I crouch down. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I thought you were someone else. Are you okay?”
She blinks her pretty blue eyes a few times. Her cherry red lips are spread, but no words come out of them. I think she’s in shock.
In the sweetest voice, she eventually answers, “I…I…I think so.”
I offer her my hand, and she takes it with her small, soft one, offering me a sweet smile when her eyes meet mine and then move up and down my body. “Would you like to come inside, beautiful?” I ask.
She nods as if on autopilot with her eyes transfixed on me. “I would.”
KENNEDY
“Yesterday I learned the average woman sleeps with eight men in her lifetime,” I announce. “Yesterday I also learned that I’m a huge whore.”
Sulley, Palmer, Shay, and Alyssa all laugh hysterically in the back of the car while Booster moans in annoyance from behind the wheel. “Queen Jeffries,” the name I force him to call me, “just a reminder that your brother is my best friend, and I don’t love hearing that stuff about you.”
“Booster,” I snap from the front passenger seat, “the help is supposed to be invisible. Stop listening if you don’t like what I’m saying. Just drive the car and look pretty.”
He nods nervously as he grips the steering wheel tightly. “Sorry, Queen.”
“Booster, why are we going this way?” I ask with annoyance. “We’re going to hit traffic.”
“With all due respect, Queen, it’s five in the morning. I don’t think there will be traffic on the way to the airport at this hour. I woke up at this time yesterday to study the traffic patterns and confirmed this is the best route at this precise time of day.”
We’re on our way to the airport to fly out to Las Vegas for the long weekend. We’re getting the full red-carpet treatment from the private plane to the fancy suites and the VIP experience at all the big-name clubs. I can’t wait.
“Valid point,” I admit. “Men who take time to consider traffic patterns ahead of time are a huge green flag for me, Booster. Congratulations.”
He smiles. “That’s a relief, Queen,” he says without a single amount of edge to his tone.
Sulley claps her hands in excitement. “Ooh, give us another red flag, Queen.”
I roll my eyes. She’s obsessed with the red flags. It’s become a whole team thing now. It’s probably our number one locker room conversation at this point and a mainstay on our team text chain. The good news is that I’ve learned a few new red flags I didn’t know I had.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my catalog. “Hmm. Men who use the phrase teehee.” I twist my lips in disgust. “So lame.”
Sulley giggles. “I get that. It’s girlie.”
“Oh,” I offer, “men who wear socks with the equally appalling sandals. It’s two red flags in one.”
Palmer, whose red flags almost always revolve around food, says, “I recently discovered I don’t like men who are picky eaters.
Be a man and eat the damn food as the chef prepares it.
Don’t be a Karen or a Chad about every little thing, ordering things on the side and demanding variations.
” She says it with a sparkle in her eyes.
She knows how much her red flags about her food amuse us.
Sulley shakes her head. “Always with the food, Palmer. There’s a hidden kink in there, I know it.”