Page 59 of Touchdown, Tennessee
With each passing day, we started texting more, sometimes about simple things like my history class, other times about sex.
This morning, he’d sent me a picture of himself at the library, and on the desk in front of him, I saw a big research computer screen. When I looked closer, I saw that he was looking at some sort of newspaper article archive.
Andrew: The hell is all that?
Gray: All of that is you.
The fuck?
Pretty easy to look up every newspaper article that’s ever mentioned you or the Tempests team. Not just the school paper. Local Bestens ones, too, and ones from your previous college, before you transferred.
Still that obsessed with me, huh?
Or just doing my job.
Clearly both. See anything you like?
I like the Halloween picture of you from your freshman year at the last school.
What.
The actual.
Fuck.
I wasn’t sure if it was just standard practice for Gray to look up every little shred of information on someone he was writing about, or if he was just picking on me to piss me off.
Either way, I wasn’t going to let him get to me.
He was under my skin, but he didn’t have to know that. He’d fucked me, after all. All I had to do now was make him like me.
No chance you found that.
Yep. I like you in a tutu. Wear one for me sometime?
My chest had gone molten at the memory of that Halloween. There was certainly photographic evidence of me in a light pink ballerina tutu, red lipstick on my lips thanks to some of the sorority girls who had decided to “doll me up,” and a little sparkly tiara on my head.
Is this what you’re like when you’re dating someone?
We’re not dating, football prince.
No shit. Someone would have to be out of their mind to date you.
I’d sent that text as a lighthearted joke.
But he hadn’t responded.
That was the last time he texted me, yesterday morning.
I didn’t know if I’d offended him or what, but judging by the way he was sitting on the edge of the field all night now, I didn’t think I had the ability to affect him at all.
For the whole game, he’d just been sitting there, kicked back, occasionally taking notes about God knows what.
He looked so fucking good.
A dark green plaid scarf wrapped around his neck, a black knit sweater on, and his usual dark denim jeans.
“You’re staring at the poor guy so much,” Luke said as he came back over toward me, giving me a sly grin. “He’s going to think you’re trying to catch him like a football.”
