The Friend Zone

by Kristen Callihan

  Which reminds me… I toss away my empty bottle and give him a look. “Ivy is my friend, who happens to be a girl. Not my girlfriend. Big difference, sweet cheeks.”

  “Ha.” He grabs a football from the ground beside his chair. “You do realize that when a guy has to define that difference, he’s usually lying to himself.”

  I snort. “You just want me to be all cow-eyed in love like you are. And then you won’t look like such a sap in comparison.”

  He grins. “Nice try, Gray-Gray. Now spill it.”

  Jogging to the back of Drew’s yard, I get in place for him to throw me the ball. I might have gone to practice at the school’s stadium, but I want to keep Drew company, and the more I can get the football in his hands the better it is for him.

  “She’s fun, easy. I like talking to her.” I take off running, halt, turn, and catch the pass Drew drills into my hands. Tucking the ball tight against my side, I turn again, run back to my starting place then toss it back to him. “And, no, I don’t want to fuck her.”

  This is mostly true. Mac has a natural sexiness that I’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice. But I’m not going to even entertain thoughts of sex and Mac. No. Way. That would make me a dirty, low bastard, and I don’t want to be that with Mac.

  Drew palms the ball. “I didn’t ask that.”

  I catch another pass, this one launched far over my head, forcing me to leap high. “You were thinking it.”

  Drew laughs a little. “Yeah, okay, I was. But only because you usually want to fuck any girl who comes into your orbit.”

  “Okay, fine,” I admit, starting another route. “You got me, I am a sex god.” I talk over Drew’s obnoxious snort. “Truth? Had we met before the texts, I’d have tried something. She’s funny and smart and hot. Who wouldn’t want her? Shit, I don’t know, man. I just like her. I really like her. She’s the first person I want to talk to. Every day.”

  Drew cocks his head, his mouth twitching as if he’s fighting a smile. Annoying. “Uh, bud,” he says with a barely repressed chuckle. “That’s how I felt about Anna. From the very start.”

  I frown, gripping the ball tight in my hands. “Ivy and I are just friends, though.”

  His silence is deafening. And I resist the urge to shift my stance. “This relationship is important to me. Hell, she flat-out said she feels safe with me because we’re just friends. I’m not going to fuck up that trust by hitting on her.” I want to be better than that. For her.

  My oldest friend in the world looks at me like I’ve grown horns, then slowly blinks. “You’re not tucking the ball in fast enough when you catch on the right,” he says. “Take better control.”

  Asshole. But he’s right, so I can’t complain. “That’s it?” I ask him instead. “No more ribbing?”

  “Naw.” Drew spins the football on the tip of his finger before he palms it. “I was just curious.”

  Right. Sure. I continue to run short routes, catching each ball Drew sends my way, practicing quick hands, tight ball tucks, and balance. He waits until I’m done and dead on my feet, a fresh batch of sweat coating my skin and soaking the waistband of my shorts, to attack.

  “I want to meet her.”

  Why that idea breaks me out in a cold sweat, I don’t know.

  Four

  Ivy

  Gray sends me a pass to view his practice. Due to the intensity of prepping for the post-season, the coach has put the stadium on lockdown, not wanting a bunch of fans watching his team as they prepare. So only a few people are allowed inside.

  Since I now have my car, I head over, parking in the student lot. Being on a campus brings back memories of my own school. And as much as I loved college, I’m not sorry to leave it behind.

  The team is already in the thick of it when I arrive. It’s a cold, crisp day, the winter sun weak yet shining onto the field and my section of the stadium. Snuggling down further into my puffy coat, I cup the cocoa I brought with me and watch.

  Even though he has his helmet on, Gray is easy to spot, tall and lean in comparison to the stocky linemen he’s standing next to. They’re sporting full pads and jerseys today but wearing running shorts on the bottom. I track Gray’s number eighty-eight as they huddle then break to get into formation.

  I love sports. It’s always been a part of my life. Football is no exception. I grew up with Hall of Fame winners coming over for Sunday dinner. I have numerous Super Bowl-winning “uncles” and have standing tickets to all major sporting championships. I might easily have turned jaded. But I haven’t. I still get a thrill watching athletes perform at top level.

  But it is abundantly clear that Gray’s team is off their game. Missed passes, bad timing, sloppy defense, uncoordinated offense. Squabbles break out, players’ tempers on edge. Oddly, when viewed as individuals, it’s also clear that the players are excellent. Their talent is evident. It’s when they must play as a team that the weakness is exposed.

  The head coach seems to agree. He nearly has a fit after yet another bad play. I say nearly because he’s one cool customer. Most would be shouting. The offensive coordinator is, his face purple as he bellows at his players to get their “damn heads out of their asses and fucking get it together.” The defensive coach has been reduced to ribald cursing that’s basically one long spew of, “Fuck!” But the head coach merely whips off his hat and slaps it against his thigh before pacing along the sideline.

  Whistles are blown and the players go to their respective coaches. The rest of practice consists of endless and brutal drills.

  When they’re finally set free, the guys trudge off the field with their heads hanging low. It’s too silent, and I ache for them. Slowly, I make my way down to the field. One lone player has remained. Gray pulls off his pads and jersey with a single tug, sliding the entire kit over his head and tossing it next to his helmet on the ground with a look of self-disgust.

  “Hey, Cupcake,” I say softly as he plops onto a bench seat.

  “That was some shit, eh?” His usual smiling mouth is a flat line. “Fuck it, we’re so fucking off now.”

  “Is it because of Drew?” Losing the starting quarterback can often mess with a team. From talks with Gray, I know Drew was their leader and their friend.

  Gray runs a hand through his hair. He’s cut it, the thick mass shorter on the sides and sticking up along is his crown in a messy fauxhawk. With his current scowl and fine features, he reminds me of David Beckham. Well, if Becks was giant and had a smooth, sexy voice.

  “I think we’re spooked. And something’s going on with Rolondo. Fuck if I know what, though.”

  “What position does he play?”

  “Wide receiver. Jersey number four.”

  “Ah.” I’d watched the wiry guy with long dreads. Rolondo had been off, dropping catches and getting in two scuffles with the defensive backs who’d been covering him.

  “Yeah,” says Gray with a sigh, “‘Ah’.”

  His unhappy expression sends a pang through my chest. But while Rolondo might have been off, Gray played to perfection. I now know why my dad wants to rep him. Gray’s what most would call a freak of nature, though I prefer the term gifted. He’s quick, coordinated, and huge. Insanely strong, once he gets hold of the ball, he does not drop it, no matter who knocks into him, and his blocking abilities are killer. A triple threat, because he’s also excellent at plucking the ball out of the air with deft precision.

  Whatever happens during this season, Gray will be a big contender come draft time. But I know that won’t make him feel better now. “You guys will get it back,” I tell him. “Anyone can see that you are a first-rate team. You just need time to reorganize.”

  “Time we don’t have.” With another curse, Gray grabs his water bottle and takes deep pulls on it, his throat working.

  The silence draws my attention elsewhere, to how he’s now half reclined and nearly all on display. Dressed in nothing but a pair of silky red basketball shorts over tight workout shorts, his long, to
ned body glistens with sweat. And sweet baby Jesus, he’s a specimen.

  Muscular bodies shouldn’t faze me. I’ve seen dozens. Gray, however, is on another plane. He’s so perfectly sculpted he could be an anatomy lesson. He doesn’t just have a sexy V-cut; his lower abdomen is so defined it lays like a plate of armor over his narrow hips.

  And while some guys get too bulky with muscles and others too ropey, Gray is like my own personal Goldilocks story come to life because he is just right, lean yet strong, cut yet smooth.

  And all that honey-gold skin shining in the afternoon sun.

  “Look your fill?” Gray’s tone is amused. “Or should I just send you a picture of my rockin’ bod?”

  Caught.

  Horrified, my gaze shoots to his face to find him wearing a smug grin. He wags his brows while slowly rocking one leg from side to side, the movement overtly sexual, if not for the fact that he’s obviously teasing me.

  It’s a struggle to keep my expression neutral. Hopefully I do. “You have no body hair.” The first stupid thing I can think to say.

  Gray’s cheeks pink a bit. “I’m not a particularly hairy guy, no. Though I can assure you I have hair in some key places.”

  I should drop the topic. But better to tease than admit I can’t take my eyes off him. “Your legs look as smooth as mine.” Hairless though they might be, there’s nothing feminine about Gray’s thick, strong thighs.

  The pink on his cheeks deepens to red. “Yeah, well, my legs can cramp up a lot and the PT has to massage them.” Gray clears his throat and scratches his jaw. “It hurt like a bitch when he’d pull on the hairs so…”

  “You shaved your legs for better massages,” I supply with a wide grin. Lots of athletes do, but it’s kind of cute that he’s embarrassed.

  Gray scowls but then nods. “Did it one time. Then tried to grow the hair back, you know? Fucking itched like the devil.”

  I laugh. “Oh, I know. Fiona once talked me into getting a full Brazilian—”

  Gray chokes on the water he’d been drinking, spitting it out and sputtering. Blue eyes glare up at me as he wipes his mouth with his forearm. “Jesus, Mac. Don’t tell me these things. I cannot be imagining you all…” He waves a hand in my general direction. “Bare down there.”

  I snort at his indignant look. “Oh please. I’m not bare down there anymore—”

  “Not helping the situation,” he says darkly.

  “I’m trying to commiserate, you noodle. Because the itching was torture when it grew back. And do not get me started on the pain of waxing. I was certain that evil woman had ripped my lady lips off.”

  “Lady lips? Oh, Christ.” His gleeful laughter echoes through the stadium.

  “This is so not funny,” I protest, my hands on my hips as his abs clench—which, unf—and he cracks up. “It was the worst pain of my life. And I’ve broken my arm in two places.”

  Wheezing with laughter, Gray wipes a tear from his eye and tries to control his humor. With one last snort, he grabs hold of my wrist and tugs me onto his lap. I land with a yelp as he wraps an arm around me and gives my cheek a big, smacking kiss. “You always make me feel better, Mac.”

  Ignoring his happy look and the way the spot on my cheek tingles with awareness, I lean away from him, wrinkling my nose. “Great. So glad my traumatic past could help.”

  “I think I might be traumatized by ‘lady lips,’” Gray retorts with a snicker, but his expression is content and his gaze is on me, as if just looking at me makes him happy. Which is insane to think, but hard to interpret any other way. Not when his eyes travel over my face and his lips curl into a soft smile.

  And I realize that I’m in his lap, sitting on his thick thighs that bunch and flex against my butt. My palm cups the hard curve of his shoulder, and his skin is smooth and warm and slick. All I want to do is stroke it, run my finger down the valley of his chest, maybe circle the little indent of his belly button.

  I let my hand fall to my lap and clear my throat. “‘Lady lips’ will soon be a faint memory.”

  “Nope,” he says, wrapping his arm around my hips. “It’s burned in my brain.”

  “My work here is done then. Now go and take a shower, Stinky, before you freeze to death.” The truth is that Gray’s sweat-slicked body doesn’t smell bad to me. No, it’s the opposite. I have the mad urge to burrow my face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in. Which is bad.

  He laughs again, not letting me go, but pulling me against his tight chest. Jesus, his body is gorgeous up close. So solid and steady that I want to press into all that strength, ease this sudden ache in my breasts. His voice is a luscious rumble in my ear. “I’m in no danger of freezing right now, Special Sauce. Believe me.”

  I don’t know how to interpret that. Or what is going on with me. “Boundaries, Gray.” I edge back, because I’m in danger of doing something stupid, like drooling. “Sweaty, gross boundaries.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says, loosening his grip. “I’m going. Only one thing first.”

  His eyes gleam, shining lapis blue in the winter light.

  “What?” I ask, slightly weary of that glint.

  “Is this overstepping boundaries?” he asks with mock innocence, right before the shithead crams my head into his sweaty armpit.

  * * *

  Gray

  I’m still smiling as I make my way into the locker room after my shower. Mac’s squeals of horror were adorable. She fought the good fight, but still ended up with a face full of my sweat. Which is disgusting but oddly satisfying to me, in a caveman kind of way. I might feel bad about it, if it weren’t for the fact that Mac had been laughing her ass off the whole time we wrestled. That, and she’d gotten a few good hits in.

  “What’s with that smug look, Gray-Gray?” Dex asks me as I pull out my boxers. The big center is far too perceptive and I’m not about to go under the microscope.

  “Nothing.”

  Johnson glances at me too. “Uh-huh. Got anything to do with that hickey on your chest?” He shakes his head, sending his long yellow hair flying around his shoulders. “Damn, boy, only you could fuck around with a girl five minutes after practice.”

  I look down at my chest where a small bruise is forming near my nipple. My grin grows and I rub the spot. “Not what you think, man. Mac pinched me.” Hurt like a bitch but totally worth it. “We were just messing around.”

  The guys all stop to look at me with varying expressions of disbelief.

  “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” Dex asks.

  “Yeah, well she was kind of pissed that I gave her a noogie.” I button my jeans.

  “Mac?” Diaz, the big—usually silent—Puerto Rican lineman is putting on his shoes. “That the tall dark-haired honey watching our practice? The one who looks like Strawberry Fields from Quantum of Solace?”

  “Gemma Arterton,” Johnson supplies. “Nice.”

  I suppose Mac does kind of look like her. Especially with that hairstyle. Only Mac is more appealing. “Yep. Oh hey,” I look around at all of them. “Palmers is doing Eighties Night. I told Mac we’d go.” Already I’m texting Drew. He wanted to meet Mac. Now’s his chance.

  Silence greets me, and I lift my head to find my guys playing a game of Let’s Not Acknowledge Gray.

  “We’re going out,” I tell them emphatically. “So stop pouting about practice and fucking get with the program.” The guys need to relax and, frankly, we need to bond or whatever. We need this.

  “Fine,” Dex mutters. “But only because I have to meet this girl who is your ‘bud’. I’m pretty sure this might be one of the seven signs of the apocalypse.”

  “True dat,” Diaz agrees with a short.

  “She’s awesome.” I tug on my shirt, then look at Rolondo, who's rubbing lotion on his elbow like he’s auditioning for Silence of the Lambs. “You’re coming, ’Lo.”

  It wasn’t a question, but he treats it as one. “Naw. I’m not up for it tonight.”

  “Bullshit.
You’re going.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Rolondo Jamal Smith, don’t make me drag you out by your ass.”

  His eyes narrow but he’s obviously trying not to laugh. “You imitating my mama, G?”

  “Hell no.” I totally am. “I’ve no desire to piss her off. That woman is a sweet-potato pie-making goddess.”

  ’Londo smirks. “Damn straight she is.”

  “Speaking of, when is she sending another shipment? Tell her I love her, okay?”

  “Little suck up.” He tosses his lotion into his bag with a sigh. “All right. I’ll go.”

  Grinning, I give his head a nudge, and get a slap on my arm for my efforts. Rolondo saunters off, still grumbling about punk-ass, shit-talking white boys, but his step is lighter.

  It’s only when all the guys head out, leaving me to finish dressing, that I notice Cal Alder, our new starting QB, coming in from the showers. He’d been in there for a while and now moves with a reluctant slowness that I know far too well. I’ve had shit games after when I’ve sat under the spray of the shower like a zombie, hoping the water would wash away the shame of defeat. Never works, though.

  And the poor bastard has some big shoes to fill. He’s a sophomore, forced to play the big game with a team that loved their former quarterback. Oftentimes, Drew barely had to communicate with us during a play, he just knew where to throw or pass, and we just knew where to catch it. Fucking strange, but true. We were in sync. We’re not in sync with Cal.

  “Hey, Cal.”

  He flinches as if he hadn’t noticed my presence. Despite the stiffness in his shoulders, he turns to face me. Cal is nothing like Drew. He’s not a pretty boy. He doesn’t laugh much or talk like an English professor. Truth be told, he looks more like a bruiser. Blunt features, a nose that might have been broken at one point. And his eyes are eerie as fuck. Frosty green, surrounded by dark lashes, when he points them at you it’s like you’re expecting lasers to shoot out or something.