Page 143 of The Dixon Rule

I grin at him, riding the exhilaration of my total domination. I’ve never felt more on top of my game, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

After practice, Jensen whistles to call me over. “Lindley! The fuck did you put in your cereal this summer?”

I shrug modestly. “Nothing. Just stuck to a high-intensity exercise regimen. I added swimming to my workouts too. It makes a real difference.”

He raises a dark brow. “Is that all?”

A groove digs into my forehead. “What, you think I’m shooting HGH or some shit? I’m not an idiot.”

“Didn’t think you were, but shit, you’re looking sharp. And if I notice how sharp you’re looking, the officials are going to notice too. So keep your nose clean this year. We might have a lot of random drug tests coming our way thanks to you.”

Damn. I look so good, he’s worried people might suspect I’m using performance enhancers? I think that’s simultaneously a compliment and an insult.

In the locker room, some of the guys are organizing drinks at Malone’s. Nazzy is one of them, showing he didn’t learn shit from Jensen’s lecture during practice.

“You in?” he asks me.

“Can’t. I’ve got a thing tonight.”

Will grins from his locker. “Why don’t you tell them about your thing?”

“Why don’t you kindly fuck off?”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Patrick stumbles over in excitement. He and Nazzy like nothing better than to find new ammo to rag people about. They’re the two most competitive guys on the team and the two biggest jokers. Competitive with each other, jokers with everyone else.

“Lindley entered a dance competition,” Will tells the room.

I glare at him. “Traitor.”

“What? They were going to find out anyway.”

“You’re in a dance competition?” Patrick doubles over laughing.

Nazzy, though, appears oddly impressed. “No shit.”

“Yeah, I’m doing it with—” I stop abruptly.

“Go ahead, finish that sentence,” Ryder says dryly.

“My girlfriend,” I mutter.

Nazzy gawks at me like I’m a rare zoo animal “You have a girlfriend now? What the hell. We don’t see you for one summer and you go from Raging Fuckboy to Mr. Salsa-dancing Monogamy?”

“First of all, we’re not entered in a salsa category,” I say coldly.

Patrick howls.

“We’re doing the tango and the waltz.”

He howls louder.

“Think you might be missing one,” Ryder drawls. Asshole’s being unusually talkative today. “Isn’t there a third dance?”

“You know, I preferred you when you didn’t say a word. Go back to being the brooding asshole who doesn’t speak, please and thank you.”

“What’s the third dance?” Beckett’s chuckling as he laces up his shoes. Locks of blond hair fall onto his forehead.

“The cha cha,” I grind out. Then I flip up both middle fingers. “And go fuck yourselves. All of you.”

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