Gray runs a hand through his hair. He’s cut it, the thick mass shorter on the sides and sticking up along is his crown in a messy fauxhawk. With his current scowl and fine features, he reminds me of David Beckham. Well, if Becks was giant and had a smooth, sexy voice.

“I think we’re spooked. And something’s going on with Rolondo. Fuck if I know what, though.”

“What position does he play?”

“Wide receiver. Jersey number four.”

“Ah.” I’d watched the wiry guy with long dreads. Rolondo had been off, dropping catches and getting in two scuffles with the defensive backs who’d been covering him.

“Yeah,” says Gray with a sigh, “‘Ah’.”

His unhappy expression sends a pang through my chest. But while Rolondo might have been off, Gray played to perfection. I now know why my dad wants to rep him. Gray’s what most would call a freak of nature, though I prefer the term gifted. He’s quick, coordinated, and huge. Insanely strong, once he gets hold of the ball, he does not drop it, no matter who knocks into him, and his blocking abilities are killer. A triple threat, because he’s also excellent at plucking the ball out of the air with deft precision.

Whatever happens during this season, Gray will be a big contender come draft time. But I know that won’t make him feel better now. “You guys will get it back,” I tell him. “Anyone can see that you are a first-rate team. You just need time to reorganize.”

“Time we don’t have.” With another curse, Gray grabs his water bottle and takes deep pulls on it, his throat working.

The silence draws my attention elsewhere, to how he’s now half reclined and nearly all on display. Dressed in nothing but a pair of silky red basketball shorts over tight workout shorts, his long, toned body glistens with sweat. And sweet baby Jesus, he’s a specimen.

Muscular bodies shouldn’t faze me. I’ve seen dozens. Gray, however, is on another plane. He’s so perfectly sculpted he could be an anatomy lesson. He doesn’t just have a sexy V-cut; his lower abdomen is so defined it lays like a plate of armor over his narrow hips.

And while some guys get too bulky with muscles and others too ropey, Gray is like my own personal Goldilocks story come to life because he is just right, lean yet strong, cut yet smooth.

And all that honey-gold skin shining in the afternoon sun.

“Look your fill?” Gray’s tone is amused. “Or should I just send you a picture of my rockin’ bod?”

Caught.

Horrified, my gaze shoots to his face to find him wearing a smug grin. He wags his brows while slowly rocking one leg from side to side, the movement overtly sexual, if not for the fact that he’s obviously teasing me.

It’s a struggle to keep my expression neutral. Hopefully I do. “You have no body hair.” The first stupid thing I can think to say.

Gray’s cheeks pink a bit. “I’m not a particularly hairy guy, no. Though I can assure you I have hair in some key places.”

I should drop the topic. But better to tease than admit I can’t take my eyes off him. “Your legs look as smooth as mine.” Hairless though they might be, there’s nothing feminine about Gray’s thick, strong thighs.

The pink on his cheeks deepens to red. “Yeah, well, my legs can cramp up a lot and the PT has to massage them.” Gray clears his throat and scratches his jaw. “It hurt like a bitch when he’d pull on the hairs so…”

“You shaved your legs for better massages,” I supply with a wide grin. Lots of athletes do, but it’s kind of cute that he’s embarrassed.

Gray scowls but then nods. “Did it one time. Then tried to grow the hair back, you know? Fucking itched like the devil.”

I laugh. “Oh, I know. Fiona once talked me into getting a full Brazilian—”

Gray chokes on the water he’d been drinking, spitting it out and sputtering. Blue eyes glare up at me as he wipes his mouth with his forearm. “Jesus, Mac. Don’t tell me these things. I cannot be imagining you all…” He waves a hand in my general direction. “Bare down there.”

I snort at his indignant look. “Oh please. I’m not bare down there anymore—”

“Not helping the situation,” he says darkly.

“I’m trying to commiserate, you noodle. Because the itching was torture when it grew back. And do not get me started on the pain of waxing. I was certain that evil woman had ripped my lady lips off.”

“Lady lips? Oh, Christ.” His gleeful laughter echoes through the stadium.

“This is so not funny,” I protest, my hands on my hips as his abs clench—which, unf—and he cracks up. “It was the worst pain of my life. And I’ve broken my arm in two places.”

Wheezing with laughter, Gray wipes a tear from his eye and tries to control his humor. With one last snort, he grabs hold of my wrist and tugs me onto his lap. I land with a yelp as he wraps an arm around me and gives my cheek a big, smacking kiss. “You always make me feel better, Mac.”

Ignoring his happy look and the way the spot on my cheek tingles with awareness, I lean away from him, wrinkling my nose. “Great. So glad my traumatic past could help.”

“I think I might be traumatized by ‘lady lips,’” Gray retorts with a snicker, but his expression is content and his gaze is on me, as if just looking at me makes him happy. Which is insane to think, but hard to interpret any other way. Not when his eyes travel over my face and his lips curl into a soft smile.