Playing the Game

16. Dibs On Blue Shoes

Brandon shows up beside me, connecting his shoulder to mine with a nudge, our age old greeting. He lifts an impressed eyebrow in my direction and gives me an appreciative nod.

"I've never seen you run that fast, Gray," he says with a smile. And then, always for the dramatics, he wipes an imaginary tear and pouts. "I was so proud."

A laugh escapes now. There's nothing like some encouragement from your best friend. "I know, right? I felt like The Flash."

"Bro, you were The Flash meets Antonio Brown meets Sonic."

"Fuck yeah," I give him a shove. "That's my inspiration dream team."

After a well-earned fist bump, our eyes shift back to the field. Trying to soak in whatever we can, while half listening to the hum of conversation going on around us.

It's not long before we realize that literally no one else on the sidelines is watching the field at the moment. No one's even talking about football. Instead, they're all gaping at the stadium stairs. And when we turn to see what the commotion is all about, we realize it's not without good reason.

Dashing up the steps, with excellent time and precision, is an assemblage of prime athletic beauty. A siren call, a sight for sore eyes. Especially for those of us forced to spend the better part of our day surrounded by the ugly mugs of our sweaty and smelly teammates.

I've never appreciated the female body more than I do right now.

Decked in blue and gold, shorts short and ponytails high, a couple dozen co-eds are currently doing one of the worst conditioning drills known to man. And they all look really good doing it. There's just something about watching chicks work out. Something about the way they move, the concentration on their faces, how those ponytails bounce with every step.

No wonder the guys can't stop staring. I can't stop staring.

Especially when a head of pretty champagne hair catches my eye. And when I trail the body attached to that hair, over the perfect set of tits and long golden legs, right down to the vibrant blue shoes on her feet, I'm a complete lost cause.

Mia Hill.

The girl who can't stand me, but I can't seem to stop thinking about. Can't seem to escape her these days either, but she sure seems to avoid me like the plague anyhow.

That's not exactly surprising. I suspected she would try to steer clear of me once she found out we were here together, I just didn't expect it to bother me so much. And what doesn't help is being so thoroughly captured by the sight of her every time our paths cross, filling me with memories and sensations I really don't have time for.

Sawyer stands on the other side of Brand, half in a daze as he practically drools at the scene. He looks like an idiot, but I'm not sure any of us look any better. "Who are they?" he mumbles under his breath, sounding like a lovesick buffoon.

"I don't know yet," Dean Porter, the Bruins' resident man-whore and complete jackass, answers right away. "But I'm working on it."

"It's the girls softball team," I say without thinking.

A dozen heads spin in my direction.

"How the fuck do you know that, Adler?" Porter inquires, his voice as sour as expired milk, and a face to match it. As a fucking douchebag that prides himself on having the lowdown of available pussy on campus, he sounds a little bitter that I have some info he hasn't gotten a hold of yet. "You got some kind of inside scoop you haven't bothered to share with the class?"

I don't answer him. He's not worth answering. A couple days ago, our residence hall was woken up in the middle of the night by a hysterical woman screaming and crying outside his door, claiming he kicked her out before letting her grab her shoes. Or her underwear. Sick fuck.