Chapter 6
Gray
“I like her,” Dex says as the girls leave.
“She’s great, isn’t she?” I watch Mac’s long legs stride toward the dance floor. The top she’s wearing dips down nearly to her waist, revealing the satiny expanse of her narrow back.
I’ve never been one for noticing backs, but I have the urge to follow her, run my palm down that smooth curve, down to her...
I take a breath and get a grip on my wayward thoughts.
Johnson turns to me. “You gonna sign with her dad, for serious?”
“He’s cool. And clearly knows what he’s doing if Ivy thinks that way about agenting.”
She’d lit up when she talked about the business. But I don’t like the way Mac fled the table. My suggestion that she should be an agent clearly made her upset, and I have no idea why.
I can’t ask her now, so I turn my attention elsewhere, raising my voice so it can be heard over the pounding music.
“Hey, newbie,” I say to Cal, who has been quiet all night. “Drew and I are going to practice some drills tomorrow morning. Join us.”
Drew nods. I’ve talked to him about it, and he’s agreed to help Cal. The trick is getting Cal to accept the help.
My new quarterback glances between us and a frown pulls at his face. But before he can protest, Drew attacks.
“I’d like to keep myself in condition. I’d rather have another QB to work with.”
Cal isn’t stupid—thank God—but he shrugs, obviously unwilling to argue right now. “Sure.”
He’s about to say something else, but a strangled sound leaves Rolondo. It’s as if he’s stuck between laughter and horror.
“Uh, G-Man.” He makes the sound again, his eyes on the dance floor. “Your girl...”
The guys all turn, and their expressions mirror `Londo’s.
Drew winces and mutters, “Damn,” as if he’s witnessing an atrocity.
I wrench around, my fists clenched and ready to pound the shit out of anyone who might be bothering Ivy. And freeze. Good God Almighty. My mouth falls open.
“What is she...?” Dex shakes his head as if poleaxed.
I can only stare, numb with shock. Because Ivy is dancing. At least I think she is. Her long limbs are flailing around without any apparent rhythm, her hips all over the place. It’s like a full-body convulsion. And people are backing up. Probably fearful of being clobbered on the head, which is a very real possibility.
My lips twitch.
Behind me, Rolondo leans close. “Man... That’s some impressively bad dancing.”
I glare at him over my shoulder, then grab Ivy’s beer and take a long drink.
Slamming the glass down, I stand. “Gentlemen, a man has to do what a man has to do.”
With a deep breath, I brace myself and head out to the dance floor to save my girl.
Gray is a horrible dancer. I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes. When he’d joined me on the dance floor, I’d given a happy shout. But then he started to move. And it isn’t good.
He’s flopping around as if he’s having some sort of toddler tantrum. It’s so bad that the small circle of people around Anna and me gives us an even wider berth.
With good reason—Gray has a long reach. Anna, who had been sort of smiling when I was dancing with her, looks at Gray with shocked eyes. Her gaze slides from me to the spectacle he’s making, and then her face breaks into a full-blown grin, as though his antics makes her happy.
Then again, he’s really going at it, and I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.
Given his excellent coordination on the field, I’d expected him to be better at this, but we can’t be perfect at everything.
We dance for another song. The beat pulses around us, and soon his guys are all there too. Even Drew, who draws Anna close, and they kind of just cling and sway together. The rest of the guys join Gray and me, forming a wall around us. They’re better at dancing, but they don’t seem to find anything wrong with Gray’s performance. As good friends do, they simply nod at him with varying degrees of amusement, respect even, and then dance.
It’s fun. Rolondo attempts to teach me some of his moves, setting his hands on my hips and guiding me, but it’s hard to keep up with him. Gray slides closer, getting in front of me, and his uncoordinated motions calm to something more like Rolondo’s.
Together, they sandwich me, taking control of the dance. Not so close that I’m pressed in or overwhelmed, but enough that I’m laughing and breathless.
All of the guys dance with me, each of them taking turns to show me different moves. But I always end up back with Gray, who gets better at dancing but never quite manages to perfect his technique. I think he might be trying too hard, because I see glimpses of greatness.
When the song ends, Gray leans close, the clean scent of sweat coming off his skin. “You want to sit down now?”
“No way,” I shout back, because another song has started. “I love dancing!”
He grimaces—the poor guy probably hates dancing since he does it so badly—but then pulls me close. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
So we dance, stopping every so often for me to drink more beers and then go back out again. The night becomes a blur, with Gray in its center, laughing with me, dancing with me. And it’s brilliant.