Page 72 of Playing Games

Truth is, I’ve been so wrapped up in spending time with Lexi that, outside of football, I haven’t even considered the other things our relationship has made me give up.

I haven’t been attentive to my friends or my teammates—other than Lexi, I haven’t spent much time with anyone at all. Ace alone has sent me at least fifty texts this week, begging me to hit up some random party or club with him. I’ve said no every time, even knowing he’s neck-deep in his I-just-realized-I’m-in-love-with-my-best-friend crisis. It’s a dick move, and I don’t like the weight of the realization as it hits me.

“It’s just all really new,” I finally answer, hoping it’ll be enough to stop her from digging further, but my mind doesn’t quiet. I don’t want to hide in the shadows of our apartments anymore. I want us to be out in the open. Official.

I deserve to be treated as though I’m real, and my friends deserve my honesty and respect.

“Do you like her?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I like her.”

That’s the whole problem with my newfound bravado.I love her.

“So…do you think this secret relationship is going somewhere?”

“It definitely has potential.” In fact, it has so much potential, I’m dead certain I don’t want to be with anyone else.Ever.

The server arrives with our food, thankfully pulling my mom’s attention away from her interrogation, but it’s too late for me. I’m down the rabbit hole with no escape.

I want to be with Lexi. And I want the whole fucking world to know it.

Which means I have to find a way to convince her to feel the same.

No matter what it takes.

Lexi

I walk out of my bathroom to a tangle of muscular, peachy-tan limbs in my bed. Blake’s chest is bare, and while the comforter covers his lower half, I’d bet good money he hasn’t bothered putting on anything down there since our latest round of sex ended just over an hour ago either.

I pause for a second, letting my gaze linger on him longer than I probably should. He looks so at ease, so utterly Blake, that something stirs inside me—something I can’t quite name and don’t know if I want to examine too closely.

I’ll admit it—spending time with Blake isn’t research anymore. It’s something else entirely that feels too big, too abstract, and too subjective for me to wrap my brain around just yet.

All I know is that he’sdifferent. Not just from other guys or relationships past, but from the world at large from my place on “the spectrum.”

He doesn’t leave me feeling drained or overstimulated the way most people do, instead, filling me with longing and a quiet ache I’m not used to and don’t know how to make sense of.

There’s no logic to lean on, no data to analyze, just emotions I don’t know how to control, swirling around in a way that excites and intrigues and outright terrifies me.

He’s the one person who manages to sneak past all my defenses, the one who makes me laugh more, smile more, feel more. And yet, I keep telling myself I’ll deal with it later, that for now, I can be content to enjoy the companionship at no cost to myself or anyone else.

It’s a lie.

For every action, there’s a reaction, and my actions, while self-serving right now, will have consequences I’m wholly unprepared to face. I’m too smart not to know it.

But being smart doesn’t protect you from willful ignorance, a human compulsion I’m manifesting in spades these days.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Blake asks, pulling me out of my own head and crashing me straight into the present.

“I always have a lot of thoughts,” I reply, and he grins, shifting to rest his back against my headboard. He folds his arms behind his head, the movement effortless yet impossible to miss. The flex of his biceps draws my eye, a not-so-subtle reminder of just how much time he’s spent perfecting his throw.

Statistically, if I had to estimate, I’d say Blake Boden has thrown at least ten thousand passes in his life. Though, to be fair, that’s purely speculative based on some quick math of averages. To know the exact number, I’d need every detail of his practices, training sessions, and games from the moment he first held a football. And something tells me even Blake wouldn’t know that number.

“And you’re still having lots of thoughts,” Blake teases, his grin turning into an amused smile that’s directed solely at me.

I glance down at my feet, my mind still spinning with how one person has managed to take up so much space in my brain. It’s…confusing. I normally reserve that space for data.

When I realize I’m still standing here, at the threshold of my bathroom door with Blake watching me curiously, I force myself to change the subject of my thoughts entirely. “And you’re looking very comfortable in my bed.”

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