Five thousands degrees hotter
I have Leon and Mason standing shirtless in front of me like two extremely expensive pieces of meat who have somehow been granted speaking privileges.
“No. You don’t get paid because you have abdominal muscles. Half the athletic department has abdominal muscles.” I swipe back to the reference photo on my phone. “You get paid because you make people believe buying the same protein powder might somehow give them your face.”
Leon leans over my shoulder. “I look constipated in that one.”
I glare at him. “You look mysterious.”
“I look like I’m trying not to shit.” He tries, but that is not better.
“That is a kind of mystery.”
Mason laughs under his breath while I swipe to the next photograph. “This one is better. Chin down, shoulder forward, compression shirt visible. You need to look like you spent the morning lifting something heavy and the afternoon rejecting women politely.”
“Why politely?” Mason asks.
I raise my eyes so high, I think they have gone into my skull. “Brand safety. It’s the fucking twenty-first century, Mason.”
This is already going significantly better than the first campaign.
Not because either of these men has suddenly developed commercial instincts. Leon asked me ten minutes ago whether showing more nipple would increase engagement, so clearly there is still considerable work to be done.
But they're listening. Actually listen. So this is new to all of us.
The first few times I tried to explain anything, every conversation somehow deteriorated into flirting, jokes about my parties or someone asking whether I was secretly trying to collect the entire Princeton athletic department like Pokémon.
Rory reacted differently.
He sent me a text yesterday saying he was pulling out of the juice-bar campaign because he didn't need this much drama over a fucking Instagram ad, followed by a paragraph explaining that he'd only been joking in the first place.
I need explanation because lol joking is not satisfied to anyone. Rory has the largest following, possibly because he’s a funny jerk who likes to flex his muscles. Very commercially viable.
Leon points at my screen again. “That one makes my shoulders look smaller.”
“We’ll work on the angle.” I explain to Leon like he’s five. Emotionally.
Then the air around behind me changes. I’m aware how insane that sounds.
I don’t hear him first. I smell him and my hair stands up.
Deodorant, sandalwood, circuit, something warm from practice underneath both and all the sudden, I am extremely conscious that three nights ago, my face was pressed against Will Mercer’s neck while he—
No.
Professional environment. Marketing. Protein powder. Money.
Will stops right behind me. Behind? Too close. His body doesn’t even touch mine, except my ponytail brushes something solid when I turn my head just a little and there he is, sweaty from practice.
Oh God.
Can everybody smell sex?
I’m pretty sure that isn’t a real thing. Surely. Pheromones technically exist but humans are not wolves and I am a psychology major, not a fucking Labrador.
Still. He is standing way too close.
I tilt my head up. Bad decision. There’s that vein running along the side of his neck that only comes out after intense physical training, and activity. I want to lick it.
Absolutely unacceptable thought to have between Leon's left nipple and Mason's protein sponsorship.
“Hey. What are we looking at?” That sounds so sexy in my ear my legs almost give out.
I quickly turn back to my phone without answering Will.
Then he speaks very calmly and politely. “Mason, the campaign reference is on the phone.” It sounds like he grits his teeth to let the words out.
That’s when I realised Mason’s attention has dropped to my legs. I’m wearing tiny black shorts because the locker room is approximately the temperature of Satan’s armpit and they suit my knee-high Celine boots.
Okay, fine. I always wear shorts. But I like these, especially when Will Mercer is behind me.
I look up at him to find his eyes. Completely innocent Captain Mercer face. Interesting.
I turn the phone towards him before I smile too much. “What do you think?”
He leans closer. Why? The phone is not microscopic and he is already standing close enough. His shoulder touches mine and sex with a touch of citrus explodes in the room.
The photograph shows a professional athlete leaning against gym equipment with an expression suggesting he has never once been rejected, inconvenienced or asked to clean up after himself.
“Too staged,” Will announces but his words are low, controlled.
I nod immediately. “Exactly. His face needs to relax.”
Leon folds his arms. “You told us to look smug.”
“Smug,” I explain to Leon patiently, “is cool. This is somebody tells me to act like an asshole.”
Mason nods like I have just delivered information applicable to national security.
It probably is, in his world.
I glance around. “Where’s Rory? I haven’t seen him around.”
Will's hands wrap around my wrist that is holding the phone up so fast I nearly laugh.
“Why are you looking for Rory?”
There. Again. That tone.
Not Captain Voice exactly. Captain Voice has edges and logistical consequences. This one is lower and far too restrained.
“Not Rory.” Will tells me.
I don’t care that I already know that. He already sent me his resignation manifesto. I need to do something before I lick Will’s neck while his vein is calling my tongue’s name personally.
Before I behave even more stupid, I tap Leon's chest with two fingers. “You two need to practise looking natural while holding products.”
Leon’s eyes drop to my hand. So do Will’s eyes. “I hold things naturally every day,” Leon protests.
“What do you want us to do?” Mason asks, apparently committed now to the capitalist exploitation of his own hotness.
“Stand over there.” I point towards the open space between the benches.
No one argues. A few other guys have finished showering and come up with just towels wrapped around their waist.
My eyes don’t even flinch at them. There are too many dicks in the room and I need to focus on photography training.
“You boys are finally becoming professional,” I tell both Leon and Mason.
Leon lifts both middle fingers. Fine. Progress has its limits too.
Twenty minutes later, half the basketball team is skipping rope to a remix of “Satisfaction”. I bring the ropes cause I skip when I’m stressed and I also enjoy seeing another human being suffer with me.
A few guys still hasn’t showered, or has showered but then joined the skipping challenge now, which defeats the whole point of showering at once.
But it also means the locker room smells like sweat, deodorant and several layers of wet towels.
Will smells clean.
I know because he keeps ending up beside me instead of heading towards the shower himself.
Not touching. Just there. Always fucking there.
“Move.” I take the rope from Mason. “You need to smile. If you can smile while skipping, you can smile in front of a camera.”
“I am smiling.” His face is protesting, not smiling.
“You look frightened.”
Then I start skipping because I can be a perfect demonstration. I can’t ask people to smile while skipping if I don’t know that it’s actually possible. I’m not a monster.
I’m simply Collins’ little sister, who made me skip to a hundred whenever I lied growing up. Grow some balls and tell the truth or skip until you give up lying, he told me.
It also took me five fucking years to realise that is biologically impossible, so now I’m good at skipping and doing faces because revenge is sweet when you can be smug. Or do fast jumps. Or cross your ropes. Back. Shuffling. Sweet. Teasing.
Then I glance at Will who is watching me. His head tilts a little on the side and his eyes have softened a little.
Nate sprawls across one of the benches like an unemployed Roman emperor and starts applauding. “Baby, you just became five thousand degrees hotter.”
“Because I can skip?” I wink at Nate.
“Because you're humiliating trained athletes.” He tips his head back howling.
I laugh. “Wait until you see me box.” I finally stop.
Several whistles answer that. Someone asks for private lessons. I don't exactly catch who.
Then, because I am a fundamentally good person with excellent impulse control, and maybe a little smug, I grab the hem of my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist.
A few gazes drop to the strip of stomach I have just exposed.
Oh. Fuck.
A hot little thrill runs directly down my spine as I meet Will’s eyes. They have gone dark and intense, as he slowly looks back down to the skin on my stomach.
Maybe I am a monster.
“Put Will in,” Nate shouts.
“No,” Will grits through his teeth.
The vein in his neck appears again when he swallows.
“Scared?” Nate teases him mercilessly. “Of losing to a freshman girl in front of your team?” He grins.
My smile widens as Will takes the rope from DJ.
Oh. It’s on. I’m not evil. I am merely very competitive.
Five minutes later, his calves are clearly dying, I'm still moving and Nate has nearly fallen off the bench laughing.
“Your captain is fading!” I announce.
“I trained for three hours before this,” Will says between breaths. “You arrived after all the hard work.”
What an excuse, Will Mercer!
I let a smirk stay on my face and switch the direction without warning. Competitive Will follows while the locker room yells in anticipation.
I’m about to give out when the rope clips Will’s shoe. Aha!
I drop mine immediately and point both hands at him “Defeated!”
He bends forward with his hands on his waist, breathing hard.“I’m tired.”
His eyes lift to me and because my brain hates peace, I remember what his hands feel like on my waist.
“Show’s over.” Will straightens up and points at every sweaty, half-dressed guy in the room.
Leon points towards the showers. “We’re still—”
“You have class.” Will declares.
“My class was twenty minutes ago.” Mason whistles.
“Then you're already late.” He wastes no time.
I stare at Will.
Oh My God. Is he actually—? Actually no, I have no idea what this new irresponsible conclusion is about.
Will could simply be tired. Or irritated. Or exercising captaincy concern about academic attendance thirty minutes after practice while every single person in this room is capable of reading a clock.
Nate howls. “Cap wants the locker room.”
Will gives Nate a look and the smile disappears so fast. That of course, doesn’t stop Nate at all. He walks past me on his way out. “Dinner later, baby? I've been dumped by the cute redhead.”
“Maybe.” I'm still watching Will. “Redhead dumped you? Why?”
Instead of answering, Nate bends and kisses the top of my head. Completely ordinary Nate behaviour. He has kissed probably several household appliances while drunk.
Will’s eyes burn into the touch of Nate’s mouth on my hair but his expression doesn’t change. Not even slightly. But his neck does.
That vein jumps.
Oh My God.
Naturally, I look straight into Will’s eyes. And smile.