Page 6 of Tackle

Did that make her pathetic?

Looking around her sparkling clean pub, she decided that, no, it definitely did not. She felt about The Parting Glass how Oz felt about football—sacrifices had to be made to live one’s dream.

Guess she had something in common with him after all.

And that put a smile on her face that lasted her whole drive home.

Chapter Three

Bent at the waist, giving the locker room a view of his towel-covered ass, Oz towel dried his hair before standing back up, whipping his head, sending the damp strands flying. He reached into his locker, pulled out his jeans, and stepped into them, hiking them over his hips before tossing the towel off.

“Looking good, hot stuff.” Lincoln Scott, one of the team’s receivers, smacked Oz on the ass as he walked by. He stopped in front of his own locker a few doors down.

“Bite me.” Oz pulled a t-shirt over his head, slipping his arms through the sleeves, then tugged at the hem to cover his six-pack.

“Whoa hoo, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. And I doubt it was because the other side was occupied.” Linc’s honey-brown eyes flashed and his pearly whites gleamed—striking next to his caramel skin tone.

“Better than waking up next to a stranger.”

“You’re just jealous. Isn’t that pretty little tavern wench giving you any?”

Oz ground his teeth, kicking himself for telling Linc about Emerson. “Fuck you, Linc. Keep your fucki—”

“Ladies!” their quarterback, P. Colton, shouted, grabbing their attention. “Will there ever come a time I walk into this locker room when the two of you aren’t bickering like two old hens?” He gave them each a hard look.

Linc shrugged, tossing his towel to the side, letting his junk hang out without a care in the world. “Doubtful.”

Oz gave Linc a glare and answered Colt, “I wouldn’t hold your breath.” His and Linc’s relationship was a bit of an oxymoron. He could be his best friend or worst enemy depending upon the situation.

“Well, personally, I’m getting tired of playing referee.” Colt set his helmet on the shelf of his locker and started pulling off his pads.

Oz sat down on the bench to put on his shoes. “He started it.” He knew the statement was childish, but he was tired of being called out every time when it was Linc who deserved Colt’s anger.

“And you retaliated,” Linc rebutted.

Because Linc had gotten on his last nerve. Finished tying his laces, Oz stood. “Whatever. I’m out of here.”

He shouldered past Linc and was almost to the door when he heard, “Oz, wait up.”

He stopped, turning just enough to see Linc jogging up, sans shirt with his jeans unbuttoned barely hanging onto his hips.

“I wanted to say sorry about the tavern wench crack. I know she means something to you.” He held out his hand. Oz hesitated but did take it. Linc flashed him a grin. “But that doesn’t mean I still don’t think you need to get some. And soon. You’re wound tighter than a gnat’s asshole.”

Oz tried but couldn’t suppress the smile that twisted his lips. “Not sure gnats have assholes. Pretty sure that’s all you.”

Linc winked. “I know.”

Oz traveled the corridors to the parking lot and got into his Escalade. Then sat in the running SUV, hands gripping the wheel, psyching himself up.

Today would be the day.

It had to be. He had no other choice.

Out of fear of rejection, he’d been sitting on the question for almost a week and time was running out.

Coasting through the parking lot, he applied the brakes when he got to the exit. Turning right would take him to The Parting Glass. Left, home. He made the right. The pub was less than a block away, and he was there before he could chicken out. The parking lot was mostly empty—being that off time between lunch and dinner—and he got his usual prime spot right in front.

He turned off the engine but didn’t make a move to get out.

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