The photos were tasteful, done in full, saturated color so rich it appeared as though you were looking at an oil panting.
My photo was a side shot against a deep red background. I’m taking a knee, my helmet on the ground beside me, my head bent and my arm resting on my thigh. A sort of football-style “The Thinker,” the photographer had insisted.
Aside from showing the side of my ass, none of my goods are on display, though I suspect there might be a little Photoshop at work—things hang and all that. I look weary yet undefeated, my expression thoughtful.
“It’s a good pic,” I say absently.
Drew smirks.
And I glare. “What? It has artistic merit.”
“It’s man candy,” Johnson says. “Look at you, all thoughtfully flexing your muscles. Did you flex your ass too?”
“Nothing to flex. That’s just my natural form.” I give him a look. “Jealous?”
Rolondo laughs. “Yeah, he is.” He gestures to the screen. “I’m gonna have mine blown up and hung over my bed.”
“Typical,” Johnson says. “How’d you pose for yours? Doing one of your showboating dances?”
“Holding a football in front of his dick while he strikes one of his showboating poses,” I deadpan.
“Fucking hot as hell,” Rolondo assures.
“I’m not letting Anna see these.” Drew shakes his head. “She’ll be all over me to do one too. But, yeah, man. There’s an article here.” He hits the screen, and it goes back to another page. “They’re calling you the hot, tatted, sensitive centennial of football. Apparently your pic got the most hits.”
“What? Sexy Dexy got more hits than me? Oh, hell no.” Rolondo scowls and pulls out his phone, apparently checking all the articles himself.
I roll my eyes.
Drew’s mouth turns down at the corners as he reads. “It was that fucker Randolph Norris who said you were a virgin.”
Norris was a nose tackle who played for the rival college team we beat in our last two conference championships. He and I faced off several times, and he always came away looking like a chump. To say we dislike each other is putting it mildly.
And since he’d played for a college only ten miles from ours, he was privy to the local gossip.
“Fucking ass stain,” Johnson mutters. “I hated that guy.”
“He was drafted by New Orleans this year,” I add. “But Coach cut him during the last round of training camp. Rumor was he didn’t like Norris’s attitude.”
“Because it sucked,” Rolondo mutters. “Nearly snapped Finn’s head off during a light practice.”
Putting the health of the starting QB in danger because you’re showing off in practice isn’t a smart move. Thank Christ I don’t have him on my team anymore.
“So he’s bitter and clearly hates Dex,” Drew says. “He had loads to say—about how Dex never went out with any women, or dudes. How our college called him the patron saint of football. How people took bets on when he’d lose his V card.”
“Did they?” I ask.
They all give me hesitant glances. I guess so. I’m not really pissed at them, but it fucking irks to realize people have been talking about me this whole time.
And now the world is too.
I sit back with a sigh. “Put it away. I’m going to get indigestion before I even have a chance to eat.”
“And we all know you do not come between Dex and his meals.” Johnson wags a finger.
“No, that’s you,” I say.
“True that.” Rolondo grins wide.
“Man, you should, like, star in The Bachelor,” Johnson says. “I can see it now.” His voice drops. “This season, on a very special NFL Bachelor…”
“That’s your favorite show, isn’t it?” Drew asks with a grin. “I bet you watch it at night and just cry when he sends some poor girl home.”
We all laugh as Johnson turns red, his fair skin unable to hide his flush. “Do not.”
“Excellent come back,” I tell him.
“Anyway,” Drew says, “Dex can’t go on that show. He’s already got a girl.”
“No shit?” Johnson looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.