Praised By the Cornerback (Off-Limits #3)

Connor

“She leans in, all breathy and shit, and I’m thinking, fuck yeah, this is about to get good.

I asked her to talk dirty, said don’t be afraid to be mean.

And then she looks me dead in the eye.” I pause for effect, grinning at the three faces staring back at me from across the booth. “And says, ‘You’re annoying.’”

My teammates choke on their drinks, laughing.

“She seriously said you’re annoying?” Harlow asks.

“She sure did. And she said it like she was reading off a shopping list. ‘You’re annoying. We need milk.’ Like, girl, put some creativity into it. Call me a slut. Pull my hair or something.”

Cole loses it completely, bending over the table. Harlow’s still trying to hold his composure, but his mouth keeps twitching.

“Shit,” Rhodes wheezes. “Stop, man, I can’t breathe.”

“There’s more.”

“No.” Rhodes stares at me. “There can’t be more.”

“So after the annoying comment, I’m trying to salvage this, right? I’m like, okay, maybe she’s just nervous. So I go, ‘Yeah, tell me how annoying I am,’ trying to give her another shot. And she just—” I mime a completely flat expression. “She goes, ‘Very annoying.’”

Harlow breaks, covering his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking. Rhodes is wheezing again, and Cole has slid down in his seat, now half under the table, clutching his stomach.

“Very annoying,” Cole repeats. “Holy fucking shit, Knox.”

“I’m glad my pain brings you joy.”

“This is the best thing I’ve heard all week.” Cole grins at me. “Was the sex at least good?”

“It was okay once we got past the initial hurdle.”

“Just okay?”

“It was fine. Good, even. But it was…” I wave my hand vaguely. “Impersonal. And after, she didn’t even want to stick around. Just called herself an Uber and left.”

“Aww,” Rhodes’ voice goes soft with pity, making me want to punch him. “Poor baby Knox. You wanted to cuddle with the Tinder girl who called you annoying?”

“Fuck off,” I grumble, but I’m smiling.

Cole points at me. “You’re so clingy-coded, bro.”

“I didn’t—I’m not—” I stop, because denying it makes it worse. “Whatever. Can we talk about something else?”

“Please,” Harlow says, still grinning.

I lean back, scanning the club’s VIP section.

The music thumps through the space, the beat rattling the glasses on our table.

It’s packed tonight, and we’re getting our share of looks.

We just knocked the Miami Vipers out of contention, and half this city wants to throw a drink in our faces.

The club gave us the best section, tucked into a corner with a perfect view of the floor and enough security to keep the wrong kind of attention away.

I turn back to my teammates. “Speaking of weird. Anyone notice that Dalton and Barrett both disappeared after the game?”

That gets their attention.

“Yeah,” Cole says slowly. “That is weird. They always come out with us after a win.”

“Especially one that clinches the playoffs,” I add. “But neither of them showed.”

Harlow nods. “I noticed. They weren’t on the bus with us.”

“Suspicious.” I tap my fingers on the table. “And it’s not just tonight. They’ve been weird as hell lately.”

Rhodes raises an eyebrow. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying something changed between them ever since Serena locked them in that condo together. The way they avoid being anywhere near each other but keep giving each other the looks.”

“The looks?”

“Yeah. Especially Barrett. He’s been watching Dalton with this intense focus.”

“They’ve always been like that,” Harlow points out.

“No. This is different. This is weirder than usual.” I pause, letting the moment build. “I think they’re hooking up.”

Three pairs of eyes stare at me like I just announced I’m joining a cult.

“What?” Cole says finally.

“You heard me. I think they’re fucking.”

Rhodes blinks. “Knox, they hate each other.”

“Do they, though? Or is that just what they want us to think?”

“That’s—” Harlow stops, shakes his head. “No. You’ve got it all wrong. They’re like a cat and a dog. Dalton goes out of his way to piss Barrett off, and Barrett looks like he’s considering murder whenever Dalton’s around.”

“Exactly,” I say, pointing at him. “It’s too much. Nobody gets that worked up over someone they don’t care about.”

Cole shakes his head. “Nah. You’re seeing things that aren’t there. If anything, I think Serena’s forced bonding weekend made it worse. They probably wanted to kill each other by the end of it.”

“Or fuck each other.”

“Knox.” Harlow gives me the look, the one that says I’m being ridiculous. “Come on.”

“I’m just saying—”

There’s a commotion near the entrance to the VIP section that interrupts me. Security steps aside, and two guys walk in. Tall, athletic, moving with confidence.

I recognize them immediately: Adrian Vega and Rafael Santos. Both from the Miami Vipers. Both from the team we just knocked out of the playoff race.

“What the fuck?” Cole says under his breath.

“We’re in Miami,” Rhodes points out, watching the two of them. “We’re practically in their living room.”

“What are you thinking?” I ask him.

“We just kicked their asses. Let’s buy them a drink.”

“You can’t be serious, Rhodes,” Cole says.

“I’m dead serious.”

Cole and I both look at Harlow, and he just shrugs. “I’m with Rhodes.”

Rhodes raises a hand and waves them over. Vega clocks it first. For a beat they both hesitate, which is fair. We just crushed their season. But Santos grins and says something to Vega, who shrugs, and then they’re walking toward us.

“Look who it is,” I call out to Vega as they approach. “Number twenty-four. You finally stop following me around, or should I be expecting you at breakfast too?”

Vega slides into the booth across from me. “Depends. You planning on running slants in the hotel lobby?”

“Only if you promise to get beat again.”

His mouth twitches. “Interesting choice of words from a receiver I held to sixty-two yards.”

“Oh, we’re doing stats,” Cole cuts in, delighted. “Now we’re talking.”

“He started it,” Vega says, still looking at me.

I give him my brightest grin, the one that usually gets me out of trouble or into it, depending on the situation. This is what we do. He’s a cornerback, I’m a receiver. We spent three hours today lined up across from each other, talking shit and trying to make each other miserable.

And I won’t lie, it feels good to smile at him from the winning side.

The waitress returns with more drinks. Santos launches into a story about their defensive coordinator’s halftime speech, and even Harlow cracks up. Santos is funnier than I expected, self-deprecating enough to put everyone at ease, and I find myself actually enjoying the conversation.

Can’t say the same about Vega.

Vega is weird. He participates just enough not to seem rude, but mostly he observes, watching everyone with his dark eyes. It’s impossible to tell what he thinks, and it unnerves me.

It isn’t long before a group of fans in Knights jerseys appears at the entrance to the VIP zone, lingering hopefully.

Harlow catches a guard’s eye and motions for him to let them through.

They come over to our table, phones out, asking for photos.

We oblige, because that’s part of the job, and I slip into entertainer mode easily.

Smile, arm around shoulders, make them feel like they’re part of the moment.

One of the girls looks around our group with wide eyes. “Where’s Kane Dalton?”

“He’s not here tonight,” Harlow says smoothly.

Her face falls. “Oh. That’s too bad. He’s my favorite. Can you tell him—” She launches into a long-winded compliment about his route running, and I tune out halfway through because I’ve heard variations of this speech about a hundred times.

When she finally leaves, I raise my glass. “Well, fuck WR2, I guess.”

“Aww,” Cole says, reaching over to pat my cheek. “You’ll always be our number-one class clown, baby.”

I laugh because that’s what I do, and anyway, he’s not wrong. I catch Vega watching the exchange with that unreadable expression, his eyes tracking the movement of Cole’s hand.

We fall back into easy conversation. Santos has this way of pulling stories out of people, and before long the whole table’s loud again.

Cole and Santos realize they had the same position coach in college and spend a minute roasting him.

Rhodes and Santos square off over the best postgame meal, neither willing to concede.

Harlow checks his phone for the third time in ten minutes and stands. “I’m heading out.”

“Hot date?” I ask.

“I’ve got a FaceTime with Bennett.”

“By FaceTime you mean video sex?”

Harlow doesn’t dignify that with a response, just gives me a look that could mean anything from “shut up” to “you’re not wrong” and leaves.

Which leaves me with Rhodes, Cole, Santos, and Vega, and somehow the table splits in two. Rhodes, Cole, and Santos get into an argument about some trade rumor, one I have no interest in joining, leaving me and Vega sitting across from each other in our own pocket of silence.

I lean forward. “Come on, Vega. Give me something. I know you’ve been thinking about me since the game ended.”

“Unfortunately,” he says.

I grin. “I knew it. You can’t stop thinking about that route I ran in the third quarter, can you? The one where I left you in the dust.”

Vega doesn’t take the bait. He just watches me, calm and unhurried, then asks, “Why do you keep volunteering for those blocks?”

I blink. “What?”

His voice drops lower, forcing me to lean in to hear him over the music. “Most receivers avoid contact whenever possible. You seem to go looking for it.”

“Somebody’s got to do it,” I say, shrugging like it’s nothing. Like I haven’t spent my entire career being the guy who does the shit nobody else wants to do.

“Yeah,” Vega says, thoughtful. “But you always do. Like a Boy Scout.”

Something about the way he says it makes me shift in my seat.

It’s not surprising that he noticed. He’s supposed to keep a close eye on me on the field.

But this feels like more than that. Like he’s reaching past the trash talk and the stats into something I don’t want examined.

And the fact that it’s Vega doing the noticing makes it a little harder to shrug off.

I’m still searching for a way to deflect when he speaks again. “You know what pisses me off most about playing against you?”

“That I beat you?” I smirk, trying to steer this back to safer territory.

He shakes his head. “No. That nobody talks about how good you are.”

I don’t know what to do with a compliment like that, so I laugh it off fast, turning it into a joke about how he’s clearly drunk if he’s complimenting me. Then I keep talking, easy and loose, trying to bury whatever the hell that was.

But it doesn’t quite take. Something’s off now, and I can’t shake it. Like Vega saw something he wasn’t supposed to.

Santos and Vega leave not long after, Santos clasping hands all around, Vega just giving me one last look I can’t read before they disappear into the crowd.

I drain my drink and immediately wish I’d paced myself better.

“What did Vega tell you?” Rhodes asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I missed what he said, but you looked like he’d caught you out.”

“It’s nothing,” I say, but my voice comes out too defensive.

Cole laughs. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not. It’s just hot in here.”

“Did Vega’s powerful bisexual energy rattle you?”

I stare at him. “What? Vega’s bi?”

“Not officially, no,” Cole says. “But in athlete circles, it’s widely known that he dates both men and women.”

“Oh.” I let that sit a second. “I didn’t know that.”

“Does it matter?” Rhodes asks, watching me carefully.

“No. Why would it?”

Cole and Rhodes exchange a look that I pretend not to see. I focus on my empty glass instead, on the ice melting at the bottom.

The room tilts a little as I push to my feet. “I’m getting another drink.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Rhodes asks.

“Probably not.”

But I go anyway, crossing to the bar at the edge of our section, putting distance between myself and that table, and whatever the hell just happened. I feel off-kilter and can’t put my finger on why.

I signal the bartender and order a double whiskey. While I wait, I stare at the space where Vega and Santos disappeared. One thing he said sticks with me: that nobody talks about how good I am. I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.

The bartender slides my drink across the bar, and I down half of it in one go. I’m looking forward to leaving this place. Leaving Miami and not seeing Adrian Vega until next season.

Preferably never.