My fingers hook the inside of my pants and push.

I inhale when they catch the tip of my dick, the same way my breath hitched when Charlie pushed them down earlier.

Anticipation makes my heart thrum and my dick stiffen.

My pants also get folded into a neat square and set atop my shirt. Then socks.

I leave the stack and turn, glancing around the room like a tiger backed into a corner and looking for an escape route. I school my features; the last thing she needs to see is me panicking.

I know I have a great body; it’s part of my job as an athlete to be in peak physical condition. It’s my mental sanity that could use some work right now.

Charlie sweetly smiles.

“Good choice on the bottoms. I wouldn’t want to wear pants to bed, either.” She grins as I shuffle to the side of the bed closest to the door, pull back the comforter, and slide in.

I shoot her a stiff smile, nausea bubbling up in my throat.

“Are you okay, Jackson? You look a little…” Her head tilts as she studies me, sitting up to get a better look at my face. “Sick.”

She’s definitely only wearing a lacy bra.

“I’m fine.”

I can’t tell her I’ve never been this nervous—she’ll think I’m a sissy, not the strong guy she’s attracted to.

“Hmm. I don’t think you are, but I’m not going to pry.” She plops back down, head hitting the pillow, hair fanning out against the navy pillowcase. She looks like a fucking angel.

Beautiful. Serene.

Pure.

“I can leave if you want me to.” Her voice is soft and sincere.

“I don’t want you to.” My voice catches, but I manage to say the words. If she touches me right now, I’ll probably fall off the fucking bed and embarrass myself more than I already have this evening.

My back flattens and I relax. Sort of.

For her part, Charlie is silent, rolling to her side and looking over at me as I try to get comfortable. She tucks a hand under her chin—the same way she did earlier when we were just talking—and studies me some more.

Smiles.

Then, “What’s it like being out on that field with so many people watching?”

“It’s…” I don’t know how to describe it to her.

It’s not like this is the first time someone has asked, but it’s the first time I try to dig deep for an actual answer. Usually I go with a generic reply—indescribable, nuts, loud—but because Charlie is genuinely curious, I put actual thought into my answer.

“It is nerve-racking, but also one of the best adrenaline rushes you can have. The pressure of having every eye on you during an entire game is something you can’t…you just can’t duplicate it. If you make a mistake, everyone knows it was you and they boo you, but if you make an exciting play, everyone cheers. For you. So, it can be a kind of horrifying experience? Or it can be one of the greatest feelings ever.” I lower my voice as I think out loud. “Hearing the crowd all cheer at once brings chills all over your body.”

Charlie lets my last line linger, giving it a little time before saying, “Wow. I can’t even imagine what that would feel like.”

It’s something not many people will ever experience. I’m one of the lucky few who gets to know what it’s like—the minority of people who get to play in a damn stadium. Surreal.

Never gets old. You never get over it, and I hope I never do.

Charlie’s blue eyes are bright and full of wonder as she regards me across the mattress. “Has there ever been a time you haven’t wanted to walk out there?”

I try not to stare at her cleavage, but it’s almost impossible; she has a great rack—full and pushed up to her throat because of the way she’s lying on her side. “Uh.” I yank my eyes off her boobs. “No. But there have been a few times I’ve been sick and probably should have stayed in bed.”

“What happened then? What do you do when you’re sick?”

“Nothing. You play through it.” That’s what you do when it’s your job and you have scholarships and agents and people depending on you to perform.

That’s just what you do. You walk out onto the field whether you want to or not. Whether you’re sick as a dog or not.

You just do it.

Suck it up, JJ, Pops would shout from the sidelines. If you’re going to puke, do it in the end zone. I was never allowed to be home sick in bed.

“I don’t think I could do it. I’m too big of a wimp. Like, I get my period and the cramps alone turn me into the biggest baby. No way could I walk out onto a field if I didn’t feel good.”

“You would. Trust me—you would.”

“Mmm, I’m not so sure. You’re built of sterner stuff than I am.”

“Maybe,” I agree, knowing she’s right. I might have been raised—trained—to play, but I also believe people are born with the qualities that make them stick with it. People are born fighters, winners, follow-throughers.

You can’t teach it or learn it; you have it or you don’t.

“How many cold baths do you take in a week?” she asks.

Cold bath? “Um, none?”

“You know, that pool thing filled with ice?”

Oh, she means the ice bath. “A few times a week, depending. It helps recovery after a game or hard workout, for inflammation and shit.”

“Is it actually filled with ice?”

“No. I mean, some of them are, but ours are more state-of-the-art. It’s a fancy tub with really fucking cold water. Then you get out and get into the hot tub, then back into the ice bath.” It’s a form of torture.

“That sounds awful.”

It really is. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Are you sorry you chose Iowa? Will it hurt your chances once you graduate?”

Maybe. But I doubt it. “Not according to my agent. I’m at the top of my game.”

“Top of your game—what does that mean?”

“It means…” How do I say this without sounding like an arrogant prick? “It means I’m one of the best players in my position.”

“At Iowa?”

“No. In the country.”

Charlie’s eyes get wide. “Really?”

Seriously. How does she not know this—hasn’t she googled me yet? “Yes, really. Do you not follow along? Are you not my biggest fan?”

She laughs, and her boobs seem to get even bigger. “I don’t follow along, sorry. The game you invited me to was the only one I’ve been to in forever.”

“It’s America’s pastime—how do you not have a team?”

“America’s pastime is baseball.”

Is she for real? “No, it’s football.”

“Hmm.” She purses her lips. “Agree to disagree.”

“Do you even watch baseball?”

I can see her blushing from here. “No.”

Her disgruntled reply makes me laugh, and without thinking, I reach for her, extending my arm and resting my large palm on her bare shoulder.

We both freeze.

It’s my knee-jerk reaction to apologize, but Charlie isn’t giving me a look of disgust. Nope. She’s biting her lip and smiling, white teeth illuminating her face.