He chuckles. “You know it.”
Three hundred pounds of pure muscle and quick speed, he really could snap me in two. But he’s the least aggressive guy I know.
He offers me a stick of beef jerky out of the bag he’s demolishing, and I shake my head.
“What’s doin’, Battle?” His gray eyes scan my face as if he’s seeing under my skin. “You seem…subdued.”
Keen powers of observation and constant awareness of his surroundings are what make Dex an excellent center. But I’m not appreciating those skills now. I’m thinking of Anna, who kissed my bruises with a tenderness that made my heart flip over in my chest before she sucked my cock until I lost my mind. Anna who, with her plain speaking and fierce declarations, gave me back a piece of my pride. Anna, who still won’t kiss me on the mouth or let me kiss hers.
I want to be with her so badly right now, to claim that mouth once and for all, it takes effort to respond with a calm voice. “As compared to who? Rolondo?” I glance at the man in question, who is currently showing off his new touchdown victory dance in the aisle. “Or maybe Lloyd?” I give a nod toward the massive defensive end sleeping in the seat across from us. A line of drool hangs from his lips, and Marshall—running back and all around knucklehead—is leaning over him, dangling a dirty shoelace before Lloyd’s nose. That won’t end well.
Dex snorts at the antics but isn’t deterred. He turns his attention back to me. “I mean subdued for you.”
During the games, it’s his job to watch over not only my ass but also every man on the field. He can read an impending blitz, call a play change if he senses a shift in defense. His instincts have been honed like a blade, which means he notices anomalies before, during, or after any game.
“Headache,” I say with a shrug. This is a major concession, because no one wants to admit to physical pain. But I prefer that over the truth, which will lead to endless hounding.
Dex takes a bite of jerky, his big teeth grinding down the toughened meat like it was a dinner roll. “So not chick problems, then?” His grin is knowing.
Fucking. Gray. Fucking blabber-mouthed, soon to be dead, pain in my ass Gray.
“Cuz I’ve heard you’ve got yourself a cute little redhead—”
“You guys are worse than girls, you know that?” I mutter then slouch against the window. “A bunch of gossiping girls.”
He just shrugs. “I ain’t the one staring all hangdog out the window. Like a love-struck girl. I thought we talked about this. Not smart, man. Especially for you.”
It’s all I can do not to fist my hands, show any sort of reaction. After the fiasco that was known as Jenny, I suppose getting involved is a stupid idea for me. Dex’s dig is unfair, however, seeing as after the breakup, I was so focused on kicking ass, we won the National Championship. Again. Unfortunately, thanks to Jenny’s bitter lies, Dex’s job of keeping me healthy on the field was that much harder at the time. I might as well have had a “Pummel Baylor” sign on my chest after the dirt she slung about me got out.
“You ask Battle about his new girl yet, big D?” Rolondo’s now hanging over my seat, his grin wide and fucking evil. He laughs, a low, easy chuckle, before giving my head a playful slap. “You think you’re hidin’ anything, man?”
“Seriously?” I snap at the both of them. “You all haven’t got anything better to do?”
“Yeah.” Rolondo’s grin is still in place, shining brighter than the diamond in his ear. “Doesn’t beat seeing you cringe in your seat. Damn, boy, you blushing?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and pray for a bus crash.
“He’s got it bad,” observes Diaz from behind me. Which is when I realize that they’re all fucking looking at me. The whole goddamn bus. I am going to kill Gray, who is conspicuously quiet in his seat at the front, trying to appear innocent as he flips through Sports Illustrated.