The Friend Zone

by Kristen Callihan

“She’s great, isn’t she?” I watch Mac’s long legs stride toward the dance floor. The top she’s wearing dips down nearly to her waist, revealing the satiny expanse of her narrow back. I’ve never been one for noticing backs, but I have the insane urge to follow her, run my palm down that smooth curve, down to her— I take a breath and get a grip on my wayward thoughts.

  Johnson turns to me. “You gonna sign with her dad, for serious?”

  “He’s cool. And clearly knows what he’s doing if Ivy thinks that way about agenting.” She’d lit up when she talked about the business. But I don’t like the way Mac fled the table. My suggestion that she should be an agent clearly made her upset, and I have no idea why.

  I can’t ask her now, so I turn my attention elsewhere, raising my voice so it can be heard over the pounding music. “Hey, newbie,” I say to Cal, who has been quiet all night, “Drew and I are going to practice some drills tomorrow morning. Join us.”

  Drew nods. I’ve talked to him about it, and he’s agreed to help Cal. The trick is getting Cal to accept the help.

  My new quarterback glances between us and a frown pulls at his face. But before he can protest, Drew attacks. “Look, man, I’d like to keep myself in condition. I’d rather have another QB to work with.”

  Cal isn’t stupid—thank God—but he shrugs, obviously unwilling to argue right now. “Sure.”

  He’s about to say something else, but a strangled sound leaves Rolondo. It’s as if he’s stuck between laughter and horror. “Uh, G-Man.” He makes the sound again, his eyes on the dance floor. “Your girl…”

  The guys all turn, and their expressions mirror ’Londo’s. Drew winces and mutters, “Damn,” as if he’s witnessing an atrocity.

  I wrench around, my fists clenched and ready to pound the shit out of anyone who might be bothering Ivy. And freeze. Good God Almighty. My mouth falls open.

  “What is she…?” Dex shakes his head as if confused.

  And I can only stare, numb with shock. Because Ivy is dancing. At least I think she is. Her long limbs are flailing around without any apparent rhythm, her hips all over the place. It’s like a full-body convulsion. And people are backing up. Probably fearful of being clobbered on the head, which is a very real possibility.

  My lips twitch. Behind me, Rolondo leans close. “Man… That’s some impressively bad dancing.”

  I glare at him over my shoulder, then grab Ivy’s beer and take a long drink. Slamming the glass down, I stand. “Gentlemen, a man has to do what a man has to do.” With a deep breath, I brace myself and head out to the dance floor to save my girl.

  * * *

  Ivy

  Gray is a horrible dancer. I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes. When he’d joined me on the dance floor, I’d given a happy shout. But then he started to move. And it isn’t good.

  He’s flopping around as if he’s having some sort of toddler tantrum. It’s so bad that the small circle of people around Anna and me gets even wider. With good reason—Gray has a long reach. Anna, who had been sort of smiling when I was dancing with her, looks at Gray with wide, shocked eyes. Her gaze slides from me to the spectacle he’s making, and then her face breaks into a full-blown grin, as though his craziness makes her happy.

  Then again, he’s really going at it and I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. Given his excellent coordination on the field, I’d expected him to be better at this, but we can’t be perfect at everything.

  We dance for another song. The beat pulses around us, and soon his guys are all there too. Even Drew, who draws Anna close and they kind of just cling and sway together. The rest of the guys join Gray and me, forming a wall around us. They’re better at dancing, but they don’t seem to find anything wrong with Gray’s performance. As good friends do, they simply nod at him with varying degrees of amusement, and then dance.

  And it’s fun. Rolondo attempts to teach me some of his moves, setting his hands on my hips and guiding me, but it’s hard to keep up with him. Gray slides closer, getting in front of me, and his crazy motions calm to something more like Rolondo’s.

  Together, they sandwich me, taking control of the dance. Not so close that I’m pressed in or overwhelmed, but enough that I’m laughing and breathless. All of the guys dance with me, each of them taking turns to show me different moves. But I always end up back with Gray, who gets better at dancing but never manages to perfect his technique. I think he might be trying too hard, because I see glimpses of greatness.

  When the song ends, Gray leans close, the clean scent of sweat coming off his skin. “You want to sit down now?”

  “No way,” I shout back, because another song has started. “I love dancing!”

  He grimaces—the poor guy probably hates dancing since he does it so badly—but then pulls me close. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  So we dance, stopping every so often for me to drink more beers and then go back out again. The night becomes a blur, with Gray in its center, laughing with me, dancing with me. And it’s brilliant.

  Seven

  Gray

  My life runs on patterns. Always has, probably always will. Now there’s a new pattern: football, coursework, Mac, sleep. And I don’t really want it any other way.

  When I’m not studying or at practice, I’m searching out Mac, heading to her place. It feels like home to me now. I like the quiet and the fact that I don’t have to yell at some dickhead to flush the fucking toilet or not leave his underwear on the couch. But mainly it’s just hanging out with Mac where the only interruption is the occasional arrival of Fiona, who always grins at me like she knows something I don’t and calls me a “mountain of hot man-flesh.”

  Mac had blushed bright red the first time Fiona called me that. It was cute.

  But now we’re alone and curled up on the couch, eating pizza and watching college hockey. My bloodthirsty Mac is shouting her approval at the TV as some guy named Logan smashes another player against the boards.

  A twinge of envy hits me. It must be sweet to fly across the ice. But I have to chuckle when Mac yells, “Good deke!” as she grips her pizza crust like a hockey stick.

  It occurs to me that, a month ago, I’d have laughed my ass off if someone had told me I’d prefer staying in, without the possibility of sex, to going out and hooking up with some girl.

  Only what I really want to do is put my arm over Mac’s slim shoulders and draw her close to my side. I have the insane urge to run my finger down her blunt nose, then trace the heart-shaped curve of her upper lip. Rosebud lips. I’d heard the expression before but didn’t know what it meant until now. Mac’s lips are a perfect¸ rosy pink and plump, like she’s in the process of blowing a kiss even when relaxed. They kind of drive me crazy.

  So does the way her nose wrinkles every time she laughs. Which is often.

  It makes me disgruntled. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I so oversexed that I can’t just be friends with a girl without having the desire to try something? I want this friendship to work, want to be more than a guy driven by the urges of his dick.

  Annoyed with myself, I sit back and cross my arms over my chest. “You got any video games?”

  Mac tosses her crust onto the pizza box—and I grab it, not willing to waste perfectly good crust. She smirks at this but answers me. “Nope. Video games aren’t really my thing.”

  “Figures. You probably avoid them because you suck at them.” I don’t think that, but it’s fun to egg her on.

  Predictably Mac sits up straight and glares. “I rock at video games. When I so choose to play them.”

  “‘When you so choose?’” I snicker. “The formality of your speech reveals the falsehood behind your claims, young Padawan.”

  She turns in her seat, her knee knocking into my thigh. “You’re calling me a liar?” Pink washes over her cheeks and her dark eyes shine.

  God, she’s pretty. So pretty it hurts my heart. I want to haul her onto my lap, settle down, and kiss her sexy little
mouth until I can’t move my lips anymore. Since I can’t do that, I give her my best patronizing look. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You just don’t have the reflexes necessary to compete.”

  “I have the reflexes of a cat.”

  I snort, totally enjoying myself now. “If you mean Garfield, then yeah.”

  A couch pillow hits me in the face. I sputter and find myself nose to nose with Ivy whose eyes spark with challenge.

  “You better run, Grayson, because in about five seconds I’m gonna have you pinned and begging for mercy.”

  Hell yes, please. Make me beg. Take my stiff cock out and ride it until I cry. Because I’m in serious danger of tackling her, I jump up and back away as if it’s all a joke to me. “Bring it, Mackenzie.”

  * * *

  Ivy

  I know Gray is teasing me. And it works. He’s going down—hard. I get to my feet and raise my fists. “First hit wins bonus points.”

  “You’re so cute when you’re delusional, Mac.” He gives me a little come-hither gesture with his hand.

  That smug… “Oh it is on like Atari Pong!”

  Gray halts mid-lunge, his mouth falling open as a laugh sputters out. “It’s supposed to be ‘on like Donkey Kong.’”

  “You say what you want. I say what I want.” I swing, but he ducks, and my fingertips catch air. Damn it.

  His blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay, but why ‘Atari’ Pong? Why not just ‘it is on like pong?’”

  “I like my descriptors.”

  A full-bellied laugh erupts from him. Distraction enough that I bap the side of his big head. “Point!”

  That shuts him up. Narrowing his eyes, he circles closer. “Bring it, Special Sauce.”

  “Oh, Cupcake, you are so dead.”

  We dance around each other, lunging and feinting. When his hand throws a playful swat toward the crown of my head, I twist and duck.

  “That’s right,” I say, doing my best Ali, feet moving in an intricate pattern, “fear the wrath. Bob and weave. Bob and weave.”

  Gray is cracking up now, his face red and his eyes tearing. He’s trying to concentrate but he’s laughing too hard. Which leaves him wide open on his left. Unfortunately I’m laughing too, and the rat fink keeps getting in taps on my head.

  “Take that,” he says, tweaking my nose.

  “You…argh!” I duck and barely evade.

  He freaking cackles with evil glee. “Oh yeah, I own this like a patronus, baby.”

  The words kind of hover like a bad stink as our gazes clash, and we both pause.

  “You,” I gasp through a laugh, “are such a nerd.”

  “That was boss and you…”—he snorts—“know it.”

  “Ne-rd.”

  I don’t even see Gray move, he’s so fast. One moment I’m singing out my disdain, the next his beefy arms are around my waist, and he’s bringing me down. He controls the fall, taking the impact and sheltering me from banging into the floor. But we still land in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

  “Silly girl.” His grin is wide. “You fell victim to one of the most classic blunders.”

  Weakened, I let my head rest against the hard swell of his biceps as I smile and quote The Princess Bride back to him. “Never get involved in a land war in Asia?”

  Slowly he shakes his head, and his golden hair falls over his brow. “Nope.”

  “Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line?” Gently, I flick the lock of hair back. He watches me do it, but his smile doesn’t falter. It grows as he leans in close.

  He takes my air with his proximity. Suddenly I’m aware of Gray all around me. The massive wall of his chest pressing into mine. The thick swell of his thigh resting on my legs.

  He’s warm, strong, and alive. And he doesn’t move, just studies my lips as if he’s never seen them before. The soft heat of his breath tickles my nose, his lips near enough to brush my own. For a moment we simply exchange air, and my head grows light, my body heavy and languid.

  The heat within me surges. I want to close that distance. I want to know what he tastes like.

  “Gray,” I murmur, fear and urgency making me panic.

  “Mmm?” he asks absently, his gaze somnolent.

  And then I feel it, the length of his cock growing heavy and hard against my thigh. A shudder works through me.

  “What…?” I take a short breath, and our lips almost brush.

  Gray makes a sound deep in his throat. He’s gone so tight, tension vibrates along his frame.

  “What is the most classic blunder?” I ask in a haze.

  His long lashes sweep down on a slow, dazed blink. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I forgot where I was going with it.”

  Our eyes meet, his such a deep, true blue that I can’t think straight. I should stop this, lighten the mood, fucking get my head together. But he feels so good, the wall of his chest against my breasts making them sweetly ache.

  He trembles, his eyes closing, as if he can’t concentrate either. As if he might dip his head and brush those gorgeous lips of his over mine.

  “What in the hell are you doing, Grayson?” snaps the distinct voice of my father.

  It has the effect of a gunshot. Gray leaps up with such speed that it takes my breath in a sharp whoosh. The next instant, he’s got my wrist and pulls me up so quickly that I practically fly. Jesus, but his strength is impressive.

  “Ow.” I glare at him, rubbing my wrist.

  Gray blushes. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” But I’m not looking at my wrist.

  My father is standing in the doorway, his dark brows forming a line over narrowed eyes. He’s in a suit, though it’s rumpled around the edges like he’s come here straight from the airport. I’d forgotten he was coming home today. “Hey, Dad.” Shit. What he walked in on couldn’t have looked good.

  “Ivy.” His tone is pissed. Pissed-Off Dad takes things slow and steady. Right before he blows.

  Gray tucks his hands in his pockets, as if this will somehow convey innocence. I want to roll my eyes. We are innocent. But he’s not looking at me. “Mackenzie. Hi.”

  Dad raises one brow. “Want to tell me why you were on top of my daughter, Grayson?”

  “Uh…”

  Smooth, Gray. Really smooth. “Dad, stop with the overprotective-father act.”

  “It’s not an act. I am an overprotective father, Ivy.”

  I shove past both of them and head to the kitchen. “Do you want a beer?”

  Dad grunts. “I could take a beer.”

  Gray finally finds his voice. “So you just get back in town?”

  “Yes. And not a moment too soon, it seems.” Dad’s glaring a hole into Gray’s forehead. “We have things to talk about, Grayson.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Gray doesn’t recognize Dad’s I’m-going-to-give-you-a-lecture-from-hell tone, but I do.

  “For now, I need to discuss some things with Ivy.”

  Great. Cue the needless lecture to me, as well.

  “Right.” Gray nods. “I’m headed out anyway.”

  I’m about to protest, but Gray edges toward his coat, keeping his gaze on my dad as if he’ll attack when his back is turned. I almost roll my eyes again, only I’m not so sure my dad won’t attack. “See you tomorrow, Mac.” Gray gives me a look that I read well. Don’t argue with him. Just get it over with.

  I’ll be good, I answer with my own look. At least until Gray is well and gone.

  Eight

  Ivy

  I’m waiting for the first strike. But Dad goes for my underbelly instead.

  “You look good, kid.” My dad gives me a ghost of a smile. He’s pissed but trying to play nice. “Glad you’re here.”

  He doesn’t say glad you’re home. He never does. And I’ve never really noticed until now. It hits me; I have places to stay, but not a home. Our family is too transient for that.

  Forcing a smile of my own, I give him my standard reply. “Glad to be here.”
/>
  Dad tugs on his ear. “Listen, I’m sorry I missed your arrival—”

  “It’s okay,” I cut in. I don’t want to hear him make excuses. And because I’ve missed him, I don’t want to fight. Quickly I go to my toes and kiss his cheek. “And you look good too.”

  Dad pats my shoulder and gives the top of my head a peck. There are few people who make me feel small in size. Dad is one of them. At nearly seven feet, with a wing span of eighty-six inches, he was a formidable opponent on the court. His size makes him look a bit like an overgrown scarecrow, all long limbs and boney joints.

  I step back from him. “Besides, Gray picked me up, and I was happy to see him.”

  Maybe I do want to fight because Dad scowls. “Gray Grayson has the potential to be a superstar.” His voice is so low, I need to strain to hear it. Which is exactly what he intends—force your opponent to focus on you and you’re in control.

  Like that, our fragile bubble of keeping the peace bursts.

  “He’s a superstar now, Dad.” I pop the top on a beer and hand it to him with a little more force than necessary.

  Dad simply stares down at me from his great height. He’s more silver-haired than brown now. But his brows are still dark, and this makes his glare more penetrating. I wonder briefly if he’s coloring those damn brows just for that effect.

  “You know what I mean, Ivy.” Dad doesn’t drink his beer. He frowns. “I’m this close to signing him.”

  “He is my friend.”

  “That little show just now didn’t look like friendship to me.”

  Chest tight, I flop into a chair. “We were goofing around, and I’m twenty-two years old. I really don’t need a lecture.”

  Dad sits as well, only with much more decorum. Setting his untouched beer on the table, he steeples his hands together as he leans back. “No, sweetheart, I think you do. You’re right. That young man is a superstar. With a reputation.”

  Heat prickles over my chest, and it’s all I can do not to huff like a child. “I know all about his reputation. It doesn’t matter to me.”