Page 11 of Unrivaled

It sure did. Max pushed open the door to the locker room and waved him in. It was empty. “Yeah, if you’re looking for more than a half hour of romance, you’re better off looking elsewhere.”

With an expression of distaste, Grady pulled off his shirt. Max didn’t hurry to find him a replacement. “Grindr’s never heard of foreplay, I guess.” He tossed the shirt in the trash.

The shoulders on this guy. The waist-to-hip ratio. There was just so much of him, all round with muscle and… biteable.

Max didn’t need to know Grady was into a lot of foreplay. Not if he wasn’t going to give a hands-on demonstration, at least. He tore his eyes away and dug in his duffel for that T-shirt. “Grindrisforeplay.”

“If you say so.”

“Here.” Max thrust a bundle of red-and-black cotton at him. “No more wardrobe malfunction.”

Grady took the shirt and unfolded it. The expression of distaste returned. “I can’t wear this. It has your number on it.”

Max gave him a smile full of teeth. “My number or my DNA. Your call.”

Grady glowered. “What am I going to tell people if they see me wearing this?”

Max spent a few seconds imagining it. God, it would be glorious. “I don’t know, not my problem. Tell them you lost a bet.”

“You’rethe one who lost the bet.”

“Did I, though?” Max asked. “Doesn’t feel like I lost. Feels like I got exactly what I wanted.”

A muscle at the corner of Grady’s jaw twitched. Nora was totally right about the tooth grinding. “Just… take your shirt off.”

The sudden change in tactic had Max blinking. “Round two already? I have dinner plans, but I could be convinced—”

“The shirt you’re wearing doesn’t have a number on it, at least.”

Max could’ve argued, but the thought of Grady Armstrong putting on clothing still warm with Max’s body heat tickled something primal in the back of his brain. He took the shirt off and traded it.

“I can’t believe this,” Grady muttered.

“What? That you’re wearing my shirt, or that you ravished me in the hookup basement?”

The scowl deepened. “I didn’travish—”

Max cleared his throat as he caught his own reflection in the locker room mirror. Yep, Grady did a number on him, all right. He gestured to his neck. “You were saying?”

Grady smoothed his hands down the front of his—Max’s—shirt. “You didn’t exactly complain about it at the time.”

“I’m not complaining about it now.”

That earned him a twitch. Max couldn’t tell if it was an irritated twitch or if he was trying not to smile.

God, this was fun.

Perhaps sensing he couldn’t win, Grady changed the subject. “That one wasn’t me.” He pointed to a livid purple bruise running from Max’s hip to shoulder. “That from the game?”

“Wow, are you studying for the detective’s exam?” Max pulled his shirt on. He didn’t need Grady knowing where to land a hit to make it hurt. “Yes, it’s from the game.”

“Who did that?” He sounded impressed.

So maybe his interest was academic. Max could relax a little. Grady wasn’t a dirty player—at least not without a little effort on Max’s part. He offered a wry smile. “Eric Chen, if you can believe it.”

Grady’s eyes went wide. “Chen? That kid weighs, like, a buck fifty!”

“Tell that to my ribs.” Max grabbed his bag from the stall and slung it over his shoulder. “Either he hit a growth spurt this summer or he discovered the joys of anabolic steroids.”

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