Rookie Move (Playing for Keeps #1)(6)

“It doesn’t matter how careful you are. This is football, man. You did everything right and—”

“I still ended up with a fucked-up leg?” He chuckled humorlessly.

“Not the words I would have used, but they work.”

“That’s what makes it even worse with Baby G.”

I laughed. “That’s maybe the best nickname I’ve ever heard for him. Did you just come up with it? I haven’t heard you use it before. I might have to steal it.” I liked getting under Garrett’s skin. The problem was, he liked getting under mine too, and he was good as hell at it. I hadn’t figured out what to make of him yet, even after four years. He rattled me, and I didn’t rattle easily. There was something strangely compelling about him, and I wanted to figure him out even though I didn’t typically care to do the same with others. I sure as shit would never tell him that, though.

“He’ll kill both you and me.”

“Yeah, but it’ll be a good way to go, knowing we tortured him until the end.” We shared another laugh before Houston sobered.

“I don’t want him to get himself in trouble.”

And we all knew trouble was easy to find—money, power, sex, people praising the shit out of you. It went to people’s heads. It had happened before, and it would happen again. My chest tightened with that thought, but I shoved it away. “He’ll be all right,” I said because that’s just what you did. I wasn’t sure Garrett was any more of a loose cannon than a lot of guys that made it to the league. We were football players. Being a bit wild often came with big dreams and bigger egos. But I thought the hunger for greatness burned a little brighter in Baby G—fuck, I was so calling him that.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m just all up in my head.” Houston nudged me. “Also, Mom wants you to come over for the draft. She said family, and for the last few years, that includes your dumb ass.”

I grinned, not just because of what he’d said about family, but because being there would give me a chance to bust Garrett’s balls. After my two favorite F’s—fucking and football—there was almost nothing I liked more.

“Bet. I don’t have anything else going on tonight.”

“What about Alyssa?” Houston asked.

“Oh fuck. Don’t remind me. I need to stay away from women whose names start with A. They always end up going a little crazy on me.”

Ashley had been first. I’d thought she was great—sexy as fuck, loved football, and was a good time, but she’d literally stalked my ass. When I’d stayed at her place one night, I’d gotten something from the fridge, and when I closed it, an envelope had slid off from on top of it. Photos of me fell out—leaving the stadium, getting home, out to lunch with Houston, of me asleep in my goddamned bed. Yes, I’d known she was there when those were taken, but who in the hell took pictures of someone when they were sleeping?

Alyssa was my second A, and while she hadn’t been as bad as Ashley, we’d only been fucking for a month when she asked me to marry her, ring and all. It was ballsy as hell, and I wasn’t the kind of guy to balk at a woman doing her thing like that, but I sure as shit wasn’t ready to get put on lockdown by someone I’d only chilled with a handful of times. It had become a bit of a joke. I hadn’t had the same issue with other women I’d dated, just the two A’s.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with you, and you drive them that way.”

“Nah, it’s just because they know they’re never gonna get the D as good as they do from The Ramsinator.” I grabbed my dick for extra emphasis, making Houston burst out laughing.

“Never use that term in my presence again.”

It was what they’d called me in some online article talking about my game on and off the field. “If the shoe fits,” I joked. It was ridiculous as hell, and there wasn’t a part of me that wanted to be known as The Ramsinator, but it made for a good laugh.

“Shut the hell up,” he teased, then asked, “you been with a guy yet?”

Houston was the only person who knew I was bisexual. I mean, I assumed I was since I found men fucking hot. I hadn’t actually hooked up with a dude yet. I’d thought about it in college but chickened out. Now time kept going by, and I continued making excuses, but then I thought about all the hoopla that would go with it—the questions, the media, attention away from my game—and that was always when I shoved my desire even deeper into the closet. “Nope.”

“You’re missing out.” Houston waggled his brows at me. “I’d offer, but you’re like a brother to me, so that’s kinda gross.”

“You’re kinda gross,” I tossed back with the maturity of a twelve-year-old. Houston was my boy. I loved him like crazy, but I could never see him in a sexual way. I agreed with him. It would be like fucking around with my brother.

“Anyway, I’m out. I’ll see you tonight at my parents’ house at six.”

My gym was downstairs, in my finished basement. I walked up to the main level with Houston, where we bumped fists. “You know your way out. I need to go shower. I stink.”

“Not any worse than you always do,” he taunted as he headed through the living room toward the foyer.

This was the nicest place I’d ever lived in, though not completely my style—I didn’t really need four bedrooms, six bathrooms, and four thousand square feet of space. But I was good with my money, made responsible decisions and shit like that, so my house was one thing I’d splurged on. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing compared to some of the other guys’. I wasn’t flashy, but I wanted trails, lots of green space, and to be a little out of the city. Cedar Grove was the perfect neighborhood for that.