by Alley Ciz
In the middle of the room is a large California king mattress covered in a matching navy bedspread with nautical accents. A flat-screen takes up one wall while numerous shelves of football awards and accolades decorate the others.
I want to explore, but I’m too tired.
He sets me down next to his bed before moving to the dresser under the TV. Opening a drawer, he pulls something out and tosses it at me. With my sluggish reflexes, it bounces off me and onto the bed. I send a frown in his direction.
“Sorry, babe,” he says sheepishly.
“Not your fault—I’m still half-asleep—but what’s this for?” I point to the t-shirt on the bed.
“Something comfy to sleep in.”
“I have a bag in my car. I was planning on sleeping at home since I have to be at The Barracks tomorrow.”
“Get it in the morning. Wear that tonight.”
I pick up the gray t-shirt, the material worn and soft to the touch. I’m not surprised it’s one of his U of J football shirts; the front reads Property of U of J Football with a football emblem sporting #87 in it and NOVA #87 on the back. I roll my eyes. This guy is always trying to mark me.
“What?” He shrugs his shoulders when I look at him. “I like having my name on you.”
“Caveman.”
“You know it, babe. Now”—he holds his arm out in the direction of his bathroom—“you are more than welcome to use my toothbrush if you want.”
“That won’t be weird?”
“Not for me. I mean my tongue spends almost as much time in your mouth as it does in mine, so what’s the difference?”
My cheeks heat at the mention of how much we’ve been making out, but he’s not wrong.
Dead on my feet, I pick it up to get ready for bed. I brush my teeth and can’t help but smile as I think of how grossly cutesy it is to be sharing my boyfriend’s toothbrush. How the hell did I even get here, let alone this fast?
Replacing my outfit with his shirt, I fold my jeans, bra, and shirt into a neat pile, open the door to the bedroom, and stop short.
Holy shit.
Mase is standing at the foot of the bed, shirtless and barefoot, the snap of his jeans undone, causing them to sag enough for the band of his red boxer briefs to show, every muscle on display for my eyes to devour.
Each bump and ridge of his glorious eight-pack—yes, eight-pack, and swoon because I guess a regular old six-pack isn’t good enough for the Mason Nova—is nicely framed by the sexy V at his hips. His solid chest—the one that stretches his shirts in the most mouthwatering way—is topped by brown nipples beaded by the cold.
I’ve seen flashes of other ink when we’ve made out, but this is the first time I get to see all of it on display. The swirls and lines extend from his shoulder and halfway onto his pec, outlining it before continuing down the side of his ribs and into that V.
When he notices me, his hands flex and clench, making his giant arms bulge and his tribal sleeve dance. Every. Single. Detail about him is a girl’s wet dream come to life.
I’m hyperaware of the fact that I’m standing in front of him in nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of lacy booty shorts, my braless nipples poking against the fabric in a visceral response to all the hotness in front of me.
“So…” I watch his throat as he swallows. “I usually sleep in my underwear, but if that makes you uncomfortable, I can pull on a pair of sweats.”
His consideration for my feelings catches me off guard in the best way possible.
“No, it’s fine.” I shake my head. “But I can’t promise not to have Roman hands.”
“That was bad. Really bad.” He finishes taking off his jeans and tosses them onto one of the chairs. “And I thought I was the Italian one in this relationship.”
“Don’t hate on my quirky humor.” I climb into bed next to him.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He hooks an arm around my middle, pulling me in, the little spoon to his much larger big spoon. “I’m quite fond of it in the form of the witty shirts you always wear.”
The press of his muscular chest against my back makes me sigh as his body heat envelops mine. I try not to think too much about the fact that this is the first time I’m having a sleepover with a boyfriend.
Mase presses a kiss to the back of my neck, sending a fresh wave of tingles down my spine.
“Sleep, baby,” he whispers in my ear as I drift away again.
#Chapter38
Waking up with Kay in my arms is officially my new favorite thing of all time. I’ve never spent the night with a girl before, and clearly I’ve been missing out.
One of my arms is serving as a pillow under Kay’s head, and the other has found its way under her shirt to cup one of her generous boobs. She’s braless, her nipple pushing against my palm, and it takes every ounce of my self-control to not flick it to further attention.
If the way my morning wood is responding to the press of her heart-shaped ass against me is any indication, this is now my preferred method of waking up.
Rolling my hips back to ease the pressure on said morning wood, I carefully extract myself from Kay’s tempting body to avoid waking her up.
Last night she mentioned having to work at The Barracks today, so after I get dressed in a pair of basketball shorts and a Hawks football cutoff, I take a peek at her phone to make sure the alarm is set.
The tiny clock icon is there, and so are a flood of text notifications. She doesn’t have her preview option turned on—and anyway, as much as I’m curious to see what they say, I wouldn’t invade her privacy like that—so all I can make out are the names of the senders.
CTG BFF JT.
E.
B.
T.
Bette.
G.
CK.
Savvy.
King.
D.
Em.
Q.
Holy shit!
I recognize most of the names, but not all. Based on the number of notifications, her phone must have been buzzing throughout the night. It’s a shock we both managed to sleep through it.
I’d be concerned something was wrong, but if that were the case, Grayson would have reached out to me when Kay didn’t answer. Seeing as my phone lacks any missed calls or texts, presumably things are fine.
It doesn’t stop my thoughts from running circles around themselves.
Who are all these people? How many of them are guys? What was with the cryptic text from JT about Kay being on the UofJ411 Instagram?
I may have failed at finding Kay’s IG handle, but when you have a hashtag dedicated to tracking your movements, it’s easy enough to see what people are saying about me.
I’ve just gotten done grabbing Kay’s bag from the car and stealthily dropping it off in my room, and now I am scrolling through posts from the game, shots of me winking at Kay and ones of her wearing my hoodie, when Trav emerges from the guest room he uses whenever he stays over.
“Hey, man.” Dressed similarly to me, he greets me with a fist out to bump. “Aw, aren’t you the little media darling,” he says, looking over my shoulder. “Brantley will love that.”
I make a noncommittal sound as we continue our journey down the stairs and into the kitchen to find the rest of my family.
“Where’s Coach?” Olly asks as I steal a piece of bacon from his plate.
“Sleeping. She’s not much of a morning person.”
“Would you boys like eggs for breakfast?” Mom asks from the stove.
“Sure, Moms,” Trav answers for us.
“What are your plans for the day?”
“Trav and I are gonna go for a run and then I think we’re gonna hang with some of the team to watch football at the AK house.”
“So the usual.”
“Yup.”
Kay makes her way into the kitchen then, looking so damn cute with her hair in a high pony and a purple bow that of course matches her purple marbled leggings and funny black tank with purple writing: cheerl
eader: [cheer-lee-der] - noun 1. An attitude with a bow.
I think I need to make you a punch card for how many times you refer to her as cute. Instead of you getting a free coffee when it’s full, you just have to turn in your man card.
“Hey, Coach,” the twins say in unison.
“Hey, guys.” She greets them with a sleepy smile.
I get up to snag a cup of coffee for her, because let’s be honest, we all know how badly she functions without caffeine in the morning.
I’m back in my seat in a flash and Kay settles in besides me, my arm finding its home around her shoulder as I slide the mug in front of her.
Look at us, totally nailing this boyfriend thing.
Her beautiful stormy eyes flit down to it then up to me, tipping up at the corners before she snuggles against me deeper. If you would have told me weeks ago that I, Mason Nova, the Casanova of the U of J, would be cuddling with a girl in my parents’ kitchen on a Sunday morning and that the girl would be my girlfriend, I would have told you you’d gotten your hands on a bad batch of drugs.
But if you were to tell me I would like it and the feeling of her body against mine would feel like home, well, I would ask you to go on because that is the last thing I would have thought I wanted.
Yet, here we are. And I wouldn’t change it for the world.
#Chapter39
With all the uncertainty and second-guessing I was doing after JT’s texts last night, I can’t believe how well I slept. Then again, if the way I passed out on Mase during the movie was any indication, I was meant to sleep in his arms.
Waking up alone is a little disorienting. How am I supposed to handle actually leaving the bedroom? Is it weird me being here? He said his mom—no mention of Brantley—wanted me to stay, but what do his parents really think of me sleeping over this early in our relationship?
Sitting up in his large cloudlike bed, I spot my duffle on top of the dresser, and a spark of warmth forms in my stomach at yet another example of his thoughtfulness. For someone who’s new to the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing, he’s killing it—not that I would ever tell him that.
Buzz! Buzz!
My phone dances across the bedside table, and when I pick it up, I have a staggering number of text messages waiting for me. Luckily the world hasn’t exploded the way the notifications would suggest; it’s simply those who love me and were there for me at my lowest checking in.
Don’t you think it’s time to come clean about E and…everything? My inner cheerleader taps her foot at me. She’s right. If this relationship is going to be real, Mase deserves to know all the parts of me—eventually.
I find the whole Nova-Roberts clan, plus Trav, in the kitchen. Mason’s dimples flash when he sees me, and I watch them deepen as he reads my shirt.
With the speed and grace only a finely trained athlete can accomplish, he’s out of his seat and back in it before I can even manage making it to the table. When he pushes a cup of coffee in front of me as I sit, I lean into him and kiss his cheek to show my appreciation.
It’s the little things like this—supplying me with coffee in the morning, commenting on my comical shirts—that all add up to show how much he gets me. I try to focus on these things to keep my mind off panicking, because dating Mason Nova is the biggest risk that doesn’t include people tossing me in the air that I’ve allowed myself to take in years.
I need to check Instagram later. I don’t want to—it is literally the last thing I want to do—but I need to know what I’m up against.
“What percentage of your wardrobe would you say is made up of your funny shirts?” Trav points at me from across the table.
“Shirt-wise?” I consider it for a moment. “At least half.”
“Kayla, honey, would you like anything to eat for breakfast?” Grace asks.
“No thank you. We always have food at these coach meetings.”
I don’t typically work on Sundays unless it’s right before a competition, but Coach Kris will take advantage of any NJA alumni in the area when we are trying to work out specific areas giving us trouble.
Buzz! Buzz!
“Look who’s little miss popular this morning,” Trav teases as he plucks some bacon off Livi’s plate. Nice to see I’m not the only one he pirates food from.
“We can blame your best friend for that development.”
“Blame?” Mason splays his hand over his made-to-stretch-cotton-against-it chest. “Thank is more like it.”
I roll my eyes at his arrogant Casanova side peeking out. I let him have it, though, because he is able to understand what I mean by blame without me telling him the whys.
“I live for your eye rolls, babe.” Mase gives me a smacking kiss on my temple.
“There is something seriously wrong with you.”
“Agreed,” comes from Trav, the twins, and Grace. Nothing from Brantley.
Around the table, everybody laughs, the family dynamics reminding me of all the Dennings/Taylor gatherings I experienced in my life. Again, Bette’s comment about being my true self with Mason hits me. The real question is…will he want me when he learns about all the broken pieces? And if he does, will he stay with me because of me, or because I’m Eric Dennings’ younger sister?
“So what has your phone doing an Irish jig, Short Stack?”
I bite back a groan at the reminder of how my drive to The Barracks will have to be spent making phone calls instead of rocking out to the radio.
“The CasanovaWatch hashtag.” Mase winks when I cant my head to the side.
“Oh-ho-ho.” Trav doubles over, clutching his stomach before holding his own phone out to us. “I’m pretty sure everyone on the team has sent me this post.” On the screen is a boomerang of Mason winking.
“Don’t worry, bro.” Mase takes the phone, admiring the looping video clip. “I’ll teach you how to wink like a pro.”
“May I see?” Brantley holds a hand out to Trav, participating in the conversation for the first time since I stepped into the kitchen.
I swallow down the last of my coffee as Mase and Trav battle it out, using the twins as judges to determine who the best winker is.
“As much fun as it is to witness you guys basking in your bromance”—I scoot to the end of the bench—“I need to go.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Mase offers, and I say my goodbyes.
Even for the short walk out to Pinky, he puts his arm around my shoulders to keep me close to his side. I like the way it feels, but I don’t know if I can allow this to be our new normal.
“I miss your heels from the other night.”
“Is this your way of telling me you’re into cross-dressing?” My snark earns me a pinch in the side.
“Don’t even try to act like I wouldn’t look stunning in a sequined dress.”
I roll my eyes. He’s so ridiculous.
“What I meant was, when you wear heels, it’s easier to walk like this because your shoulders aren’t down by my hips.”
“Hardy-har-har.” This time it’s his side being pinched.
“Couldn’t help myself.” He hits me with another one of those winks he most definitely is the master of then backs me into the side of my Jeep, the cold metal of the door seeping through the thin material of my shirt.
His hands come up to cradle the back of my head, gently tilting it up.
“Come watch football at the AK house when you get off?”
My heart elevators up to my throat at the suggestion, but I still find myself nodding.
His fingers fan out along my skull and I know I’m going to have to fix my ponytail, but as his lips touch mine, prickly stubble hitting my lips as they part to grant his tongue access, I just don’t care about my hair.
I taste the fresh mint of his toothpaste, the salty grease from the bacon, and the addictive flavor of his coffee.
“Fuck, Skittles.” His voice is thick with lust as he breathes into the kiss.
“Mase,” I whisper back, unable to pull away.
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“It makes me hard when you call me Mase.” He grinds his hips into me to illustrate just how true that is.
If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late, but with each kiss, nip of his teeth, stroke of his tongue, and squeeze of his fingers, I find it harder to care about that either.
“Should I have the guys start an over/under on whose mouth your tongue spends more time in, Nova?” Trav’s amused voice bellows from the house.
Mase, not giving a damn, kisses me for another solid minute before pulling away.
On shaky legs, I climb into Pinky. As I start down the driveway, watching Mase and Trav shove each other playfully in my rearview, the stutter behind my breastbone tells me all I need to know.
I may not have seen any of them coming, but I think I may have to keep them after all.
#Chapter40
The squat bar is loaded in the rack with a few hundred pounds as I take my position under it for my set. The first workout of the week helps shake off the cobwebs of the weekend, and Coach always makes it the most brutal. It makes me extremely grateful Trav and I at least run on Sundays.
Alex ambles over after finishing his set on the bench press. “So your chick is pretty cool.”
I can’t stop my smile at the mention of Kay. “Thanks, man.”
“If you mess this up, it’s cool if I ask her out, right?”
“Nah, man—I called dibs.” Noah sits up on the weight bench.
I clench my jaw to bite back my instant response. They may just be trying to get a rise out of me, but even the thought of her with someone else causes a haze of red to fill my vision.
Kay is mine and no one else’s.
What if she doesn’t feel the same way? You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Homegirl’s been hesitant each step of the way. Made you work for a date. Didn’t want to wear the hoodie. Hell, you don’t even know her IG handle. It’s not official official until it’s on social media.