One Hot Night

The Party

My heart races and beads of sweat gather at my brow. "No. No fucking way!" I shake my head vehemently, sending my locks swishing over each shoulder from where they're held back in a high ponytail. I don't care that my shouts draw the attention of almost everyone at this party, I'm fucking riled up, a little drunk, and I won't let this idiot spew more propaganda. "Rice would beat Edelman in any match-up. Hands. Fucking. Down."

"How can you even say that?" Cam sputters, holding up his hands as his eyes bug. He's careful to balance his red Solo so his beer doesn't slosh over the edge. "The game was slower thirty years ago! It's not even a fair comparison. Rice would get his ass handed to him. Edelman is a god."

"Fucking Patriots fans," I grumble, then have to restrain myself from the urge to spit. It happens whenever I'm talking to a Boston diehard. I don't even think Cam is from there, which only makes it worse. I don't get how someone can call Richmond home and cheer for the Pats. "How can you do Jerry so wrong? You should be ashamed. Some football fan you are."

A chorus of 'ohhhs' sounds off around us, bringing a smile to my lips. We've gathered quite a crowd to our heated debate. I take extreme satisfaction in knowing his own friends are on my side.

"Say that again. To my face." He tips his chin in challenge, but there's a twinkle to his gaze, as though he finds my accusation amusing. Or maybe it's my unwillingness to back down. We're almost flirting. Okay, we totally are. Most guys find it entertaining I'm into sports—you know, since I come with a vagina. Sexist motherfuckers. That is, until I show them up with my vast knowledge and prove them wrong. Then my little brain isn't so cute. But my memory and affinity for sports trivia comes in handy sometimes, especially in a situation like this. It's my cool party trick.

I lift my brows, holding back a smirk as I prepare to shut him down. I see his cocky swagger, and raise him with one swish of my ponytail. Pushing the black frames of my glasses up the bridge of my nose, I jut out my chest and take a step forward to invade his personal space.

His body sways, almost as if he wants to lean into me and press his chest to mine, or maybe that's the beer in his system.

"1,549 receptions. 2,895 receiving yards, and 208 touchdowns." The words fly from my lips, the information easily extracted from my brain like from an index card. But something weird happens to my voice. Even to my own ears I hear the huskiness, and my breath grows shallow. "If your boy Julian tripled his stats today, he'd still come up short." I suck in an inhalation and my breasts graze his solid chest. A surge of unwelcome lust passes through my veins as I deliver my final blow. "I feel sorry for your fantasy team."

"Damn, McClain!" someone hoots from behind us. Vivacious laughter assaults my ears, along with a mix of insults and shouts of awe from our spectators as they realize I'm right.

"Chick's a frickin' sports Einstein."

I bristle at the chick comment. Doesn't matter most of these guys are in their late twenties and early thirties, they're as sexist as the frat guys from the parties my best friends Alicia and Callie dragged me to when we attended VCU. We graduated this last May, but not much has changed. I'm still being dragged to parties, and men are still insensitive chauvinistic know-it-alls.

The only reason I've spent the last few hours guzzling cheap beer and making conversation with strangers is because I agreed to help Callie impress her new boyfriend, Chase, an arrogant peacock of a man. He's a firefighter. Hell, most of the guys at this party likely share the same profession, and while several are nice to look at, the inherent sexism is almost too much to take. These guys aren't my type. Even the man I'm having a verbal sparring match with, Chase's much older brother Cam, is the complete opposite of what I go for.