First, Simeon had been right. Noah had shown up late seriously looking like a mega fuckable Clark Kent. That had been mistake number one. I wasn’t sure who he was trying to impress with his office job outfit, but I’d have been a lot happier if he’d arrived in nothing at all. I’d never been into the whole geek thing before, but his lean body, thick, dark hair, and square-rimmed glasses did it for me. I wanted to fuck him while he was wearing them and see if they fell off his face.
This was a reoccurring thought while he speed-walked after my longer strides, scribbling on a notepad as I told him what I expected from him for the day.
His second problem was thinking I was going to readjust my expectations because he’d been late. The look on his face when I’d corrected that assumption would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so pathetic. Noah had a tendency to flush when he was angry, and I enjoyed watching the rosy color spread across his face and beneath his collar.
I left him to figure out a grocery list. Judging by the fact that he was barely a hundred and eighty pounds soaking wet, I was willing to bet he had no clue how to feed a guy whose career depended on keeping his muscle mass and weight up. I pounded three or four servings of chicken or fish per meal. And he was so flustered that he hadn’t even asked about ordering groceries online.
Being petty wasn’t usually my style, but I didn’t mind when it came to showing a stuck-up fuckboy a thing or two. Even if that thing or two amounted to nothing more than how many times his ass would have to run to the store before he had me stocked up for a solid week.
I synced my phone with the surround-sound system, and showered with music blasting loud enough to drown out the noise in my head. Training camp started today, and I wasn’t there. I’d tried to ignore the date and tune out the knowledge, but it was an impossibility. All forms of media were in a lather, gushing about warriors preparing for a season of battles. I loved the game, but the coverage killed me every season.
If it wasn’t for every news outlet making out like football players were untouchable heroes, the veterans would be a lot less insufferable. It was always the long-time pros who wrapped themselves in the bullshit cloak of that honor—not backup players or a few of the special teams guys who were just thrilled to have a job.
The whole media circus was why guys like Noah scorned me. I was sure it didn’t help that athletes were often hyper-as-fuck homophobic and toxic.
I pressed my forehead against the tiled wall and let the jets of multiple showerheads pound into my back. The cold water felt good on my sore muscles. I’d worked out too hard without a proper warm-up, and now I’d suffer. And turn into an even bigger asshole than usual. If there was anything worse than not being able to mow down guys while hauling ass to the end zone, it was not being able to work out. The combination would be killer for my pent-up frustration.
I followed the shower with an ice-cold soak in the tub, and was pissed that I was in so much pain. Taking care of myself should have come naturally, but in high school, college, and the NFL, I’d always had coaches ushering me off to trainers as soon as I so much as winced. They couldn’t cope with the idea of their material getting even a little damaged. My body got them wins and championships, and they couldn’t afford to have it fall apart until I was past thirty. Because in the NFL, being in your midthirties practically makes you a fucking dinosaur.
I fell asleep in the tub and woke up feeling like my nuts had crawled up into my sac, which wasn’t conducive to a cheerful mood.
Climbing out left me feeling about a hundred years old, and my thoughts went right back to the doom of my career in the next decade or so. Getting drafted by the NFL should have been my ticket to freedom, but every year that passed was a reminder that my number would come up soon. If I kept spending the way I had when I’d first signed, all my cash would be spent on stupid-ass cars I didn’t drive and a huge house that I didn’t like living in. I felt the burn of regret every time I walked through the empty rooms, but I’d invested in the damn monstrosity after signing my last contract. Having grown up poor as dirt and in the foster system, I’d gone on a serious YOLO binge after getting my bonus. But I was no fucking Peyton Manning, so the Barons weren’t about to let me limp around the field just because fans were enamored with me.
And now I was being a dick about poor Peyton Manning.
Fuck me. Time for food.
Noah’s glacial ass should have returned by now.
After wrapping a towel around my hips, I took a step out of my bathroom. The security system went wild about two seconds later. It was more my fault than Noah’s for forgetting to tell him it automatically armed once the door locked, but it still royally pissed me off. I stormed downstairs with every intention of reaming him, but his panicked expression almost convinced me to cut him some slack.
Until I saw the five grocery bags at his feet.
With a curt headshake, I brushed past his narrow frame and slid halfway out the door. I wordlessly input the alarm’s code. I turned to find his eyes quickly jerking back up to my face. He’d been checking out my half-naked body. And he was flushing all red again.
“You didn’t give me the PIN,” he said quickly.
“Yeah. I know. You could have called me.”
Noah opened and closed his mouth, clearly looking for a way out of the blame, before frowning. “That’s true. I’m sorry.”
Huh. Surprise, surprise.
Almost disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see him all fired up and self-righteous, I jerked my chin at the grocery bags.
“You were gone for three hours to buy that?”
He glanced down, frowning deeper. “The traffic is insane—”
“Welcome to summertime in the Hamptons.”
“I’d never been to the Hamptons before our meeting, so I didn’t know what to expect,” he said sharply. “Anyway, it took me an hour to get there and another one to get back, and the store was massive. I didn’t even know what you wanted. Your guidelines were pretty vague.”
“Vague? I’m not picky, baby. Just a few chicken breasts, bacon, an avocado or nine, and I’m good to go for lunch.”
His jaw dropped. “A few chicken breasts for lunch?”
“Your serving size is a third of mine.”
His mouth seemed to gape wider. It was giving me really nasty ideas.
“Man, I’d love to be able to eat like that.”
And there went my admiration for his pretty lips.
“It’s not a fun hobby, kid. Eating is a job for me. A chore. I have to force-feed myself to keep my weight up to two-sixty. My body type is naturally lanky, so it’s a struggle to not be a beanpole like you. Then I’d be trampled by the D line all across the goddamn field.”
“First,” Noah said flatly, “I’m not a beanpole. Second, I don’t know what a D line is. Dick line? Seems like there must be a lot of those on the field, so good luck to you.”
My mouth pressed into a tight line. I wasn’t going to laugh at his ignorance. I was not.
“Defensive linemen.”
“I see.” Noah rolled his eyes and snagged the bags from the floor. “Welp, I got enough chicken for lunch, and you can make yourself some fish for dinner.”
“What about breakfast?”