Chapter 13 FML
FML
GRYFF
Iwas standing at the bar talking to some of my guys from the O-line when I looked back to check on Artie and my heart stopped. Tyson Freeman, all six foot three of him, looking like a Swoosh ad in his perfectly fitted henley, was talking to Artie.
My Artie.
Who was wearing my fucking jersey, her hair down and wavy, cheeks flushed from margaritas and laughter. She looked fucking gorgeous, and Tyson was staring at her like he'd just discovered pumpkin spice lattes.
Fuck a truck.
I could have let them figure it out themselves. Could have turned away, grabbed another beer, pretended I didn't see what was about to happen. But that wasn't who I was. I was the guy who fixed things, who helped, who made sure everyone else got what they needed.
Even when it murdered my heart like a true crime documentary played over and over.
With a sigh that came from somewhere deep in my chest, I walked over to where Artie stood frozen, still staring at Tyson.
“Hey,” I said, touching her elbow gently. “So you met my man Tyson.”
“What? I wasn't… I was just…”
“Tyson's on the offensive line with me.” I pushed through the words like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Tyson, this is my roommate, Artemis Fraser.”
“The rugby player?” Tyson's face lit up. “Gryff talks about you constantly.”
And there it was... the blush. The real one, not the embarrassed flush she got when people assumed we were together, but the attracted, interested, possibility-filled blush of meeting someone new.
“He does?” she asked, glancing at me quickly before looking back at Tyson.
“All the time. He mentioned you're trying for the Olympic team?” Tyson extended his hand, and when she took it, he held on just a beat too long. “That's incredible.”
“It's a long shot, but yeah.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, her nervous tell. “You were amazing out there today. That block in the fourth quarter?”
“You noticed that?” He looked genuinely pleased.
They were still holding hands.
“I'm gonna grab another beer,” I said to no one in particular, because they'd already forgotten I existed.
I made it about three steps before Tyson called out, “Yo, Kingman, hold up.”
He jogged over, leaving Artie at the bar looking slightly dazed. “Just to be clear, man, you two are really just friends? Because I don't want to step on any toes here. Bros before... you know.”
The ethical thing. The right thing. The thing a good friend would do.
“Yeah, just friends.” The words tasted like ash. “She's single.”
“You sure? Because the way you look at her—“
“I'm sure.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Actually, you're kind of perfect for her.”
“Yeah?”
God help me, I kept talking. “You're both athletes, so you get the lifestyle.
Both new to LA, figuring things out. You're from a sports family, so you understand the pressure.” I paused, then added the thing that hurt most because it was true.
“Plus you won't be intimidated by her size or strength.
Most guys can't handle that she could probably bench press them.”
Tyson grinned. “Intimidated? Dude, she's fucking perfect. Those arms? That confidence? And she's beautiful.”
Each word was a nail in my coffin, but I made myself nod. “She is.”
“Think she'd give me her number?”
No. Tell him no. Tell him she's yours even if she isn't, even if she never will be.
“You should ask her. She'd probably like that.”
Tyson clapped me on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. You're the best.”
The worst part was that he meant it. Tyson was genuinely grateful, genuinely excited, genuinely one of the good guys. If I had to watch Artie fall for someone else, at least it was someone who would treat her right.
I watched him walk back to her, watched her face light up when he returned, watched her snort-laugh at something he said. The rest of the bar, our celebration, everything else faded into background noise.
“You look like you need this.”
Sloane appeared at my elbow with two drinks. Whiskey, neat. The good stuff.
“I don't—“
“Just take it.” She pressed the glass into my hand, keeping one for herself. “To being a good friend.”
The way she said it made it clear she knew exactly what had just happened. I looked over and sure enough, her camera guy was positioned perfectly to have captured everything. Artie's approach, her stopping for Tyson, my introduction, all of it.
“Turn the camera off,” I said quietly.
“It's for the show. Human interest. The rookie who helps everyone else find love.” She sipped her whiskey. “Very noble.”
“Sloane—“
“Must be difficult,” she continued, moving closer. “Being such a good friend. Watching her with him.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Sure you don't.” She was standing too close now, her perfume overwhelming, something expensive and trying too hard. “You know, I understand what it's like. Wanting something you can't have.”
Her hand touched my arm, fingernails trailing down to my wrist. Everything about it felt wrong, calculated, performative, like she was playing a role she'd seen in a movie.
“I should find my brother,” I said, stepping back.
“He's busy.” She nodded toward where Flynn and Tempest were deep in conversation with Mac and Sara Jayne. “Everyone's busy. Except us.”
Before I could respond, a familiar voice cut through the bar noise.
“Gryff, there you are.” Sean materialized like a guardian angel, Ren right behind him. “We've been looking everywhere for you. We're planning a brunch to celebrate your first pro game at our place.”
“Cool. When?” I grabbed onto the subject change like a lifeline.
“Tomorrow?” Ren asked, his eyes flicking between me and Sloane with an expression that said he knew exactly what he was interrupting.
“We have practice. Mondays are brutal now that preseason's started. No more weekends off. But we could do Tuesday.”
“Perfect, Tuesday it is.” Sean had somehow positioned himself between me and Sloane without being obvious about it. “Bring everyone, Flynn, Tempest, Artie.” He paused, glancing toward the bar. “And her new friend, if she wants.”
“Tyson,” I supplied, trying not to let it sound as bitter as it felt.
“Right. Tyson.” Sean's expression was sympathetic. “Bring swimsuits. Ren's got something ridiculous planned.”
“Not ridiculous,” Ren protested. “Memorable.”
“Memorably ridiculous,” Sean corrected.
Artie's laugh rang out across the bar. She and Tyson were doing shots with some of the other rookies, and she looked happy. Really happy. He was teaching her some complicated handshake, and she was laughing so hard she could barely follow along.
They looked good together. Natural. Easy.
Everything we weren't.
Everything in me screamed to leave, go home, leave her to flirt her ass off.
Great. Now I was thinking about her ass. Which immediately led to thinking about her in my bathtub.
Three fucking days later, and I was still replaying every second of walking into my bathroom to find Artie naked and singing in my tub.
The way the water had made her skin glow.
The way she'd looked at me when I'd stood there like an idiot in nothing but a towel.
The way my body had reacted so immediately, so obviously, that there was no pretending it was anything other than what it was.
I was hot for my best friend. Hot like lava. Like the temperature of the sun.
And fuck if I wasn't on the verge of getting hard in the middle of the bar thinking about seeing the bruise on her ass.
Not because I wanted to see her hurt. But imagining her standing up out of the water like Venus, water dripping down her body, turning so I could see every inch of her thick thighs that I wanted to crush my skull while she rode my beard.
Fuck. Fuckity, fuck, fucking fuck.
I wasn't going anywhere tonight. Not if that meant leaving her at the bar with some strange guy she'd just met. Not that Tyson was strange.
“I should go check on Artie,” I said, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.
“That's very masochistic of you,” Sean observed.
We made our way back through the crowd to where Artie and Tyson were with Flynn, Tempest, and some other players. The moment Artie saw me, her whole posture relaxed.
“Gryff. Where'd you go?” She grabbed my arm, pulling me into their circle. “Did you know Tyson's dad played for Chicago and now his older brother does? It's so Kingman of them.”
And just like that, I was part of the conversation. More importantly, Artie was completely at ease, chatting and laughing, her hand occasionally touching my arm when she made a point, using me as her anchor while she flirted with Tyson.
She had no idea she was doing it.
“You two have known each other a long time,” Tyson observed, watching our dynamic.
“Six years,” Artie said proudly. “Since junior year of high school. Gryff taught me how to watch football, and I taught him how to appreciate rugby.”
“She means she yelled at the TV until I learned the rules,” I clarified.
“You love rugby now,” she protested.
“I love watching you play rugby. There's a difference.”
The words came out more honest than I'd intended. Artie just laughed and squeezed my arm, but Tyson's eyes narrowed slightly, like he was recalculating something.
The rest of the night, she stayed close to me while talking to Tyson.
Using me as her security blanket while she tested out this new attraction.
She'd lean into me when she laughed at Tyson's jokes, grab my hand when she got excited about something, check my reaction when Tyson said anything significant.
Tyson noticed. I could see him trying to figure out our dynamic, why she needed me there to be comfortable with him.
But Artie? Artie was oblivious. She thought she was doing great, being natural and flirty and confident.
She had no idea it was only because I was right there, making her feel safe.
Which meant if they went on an actual date, just the two of them, without me as her emotional support blanket...
Well. That was going to be interesting.