“Okay. That’s not going to work. The angle is too awkward.” She taps her lip and holds her finger up. “I have an idea.”

She ducks out from under my arm and hooks her fingers in the waistband of her yoga pants.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Calm down. Some bathing suits have less coverage than my underwear. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

She kicks off her yoga pants, leaving her in a T-shirt and panties. They’re plain cotton boy shorts, which should be a good thing, but apparently my body doesn’t care that it’s not a satin or lace thong. All it cares about is the proximity of almost-naked pussy.

Rook’s sister is standing in my bathroom in her underwear. If I had a sister who looked like Stevie and I knew that she was standing in one of my teammate’s bathrooms half-naked, I would probably kick the shit out of the guy. Thankfully, I have a brother.

I try to keep my eyes averted, sort of, but I catch her reflection in the vanity mirror.

She has fantastic legs. Athletic. Strong. And her ass. Goddamn. She definitely does a lot of squats, based on how round and firm it looks. The ache in my groin turns into that stabbing pain again because I’m getting hard. I think about my grandmother in a bathing suit to counteract the effect of Stevie being partly undressed.

She steps into the tub, and I force myself to keep my eyes down, bringing up the image of that hot chick in the tub who turns into a rotting old lady in The Shining. That helps a bit. At least until Stevie moves into my personal space and starts touching me again. I mutter a string of profanity, especially when I feel her boob pressed against my arm for a few seconds. I have no choice but to latch on to her shoulder as we lift my leg over the edge of the tub. I’m sweating, I’m angry, and I hate my dick.

“I need you to stop touching me!” It’s stupid because I’m still holding on to her, not the other way around.

“Why are you yelling at me?” she shouts back.

“Because you’re half-undressed in my tub, and I’m a guy, and apparently my dick is a fucking sadist. It honestly feels like my balls are on fire right now. A semi has never been this painful.”

“Well, close your damn eyes and think about dead things.”

“It doesn’t matter if I close them. The image of you in panties is burned into the back of my lids, probably for the rest of my fucking life. It’s all I can see.”

“You’d think you’d never seen a set of bare legs before.” She helps me lower myself into the tub and steps out.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a pair up close,” I grumble.

“Such a surprise, with your warm, fuzzy personality.”

I try not to look as she aggressively yanks a towel free from the bar and swipes it down her toned, wet legs. They look smooth and soft. Also, I used that towel yesterday. So she’s sort of wiping my junk on her legs. It quite literally feels like my balls are filled with acid instead of semen, which I’d like to now unload all over her bare thighs.

She nabs her yoga pants from the floor and heads for the door.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“To get a cold compress ready and give you some time to calm the hell down.”

She’s gone for a while. Long enough that I start to wonder if she’s left me here for the night. I can probably get out of the tub on my own, but it won’t be easy, and it’ll hurt like a bitch.

I must doze off, because when she comes back, Nolan is with her, and I’m too out of it to string a sentence together that makes sense. It’s another reason I don’t like the meds. Together the two of them manage to get my groggy ass out of the tub. I shuck off my wet boxers and leave them on the bathroom floor, not caring what Stevie sees anymore.

“Christ, you’re heavy, Shippy,” Nolan gripes.

“Shippy?”

“It’s his favorite nickname,” Nolan snickers.

“I hate that nickname.” I sound drunk.

“How much medication did you take, Bishop?” Stevie asks as they turn me around and tell me to sit.

“Three pills. I half made up for the missed dose.” All the s’s blend into the other words.

“Well, that explains a lot. Let’s get him on his back.” I think Stevie is talking to my brother. My eyelids are hella heavy, too heavy to open more than a slit.

“My balls don’t feel like they’re on fire anymore,” I tell her.

“That’s great, Bishop.”

A shock of cold against the inside of my thigh makes me temporarily alert, and I ask about the exercises I’m supposed to do.

“What the hell is remotion sex?” Nolan asks.

Stevie laughs. “I think he’s trying to say ‘range-of-motion exercises.’ We’ll get to those tomorrow.”

“Oh. That makes a lot more sense, ’cause I don’t think he’s gonna be in any kind of shape to have sex in the foreseeable future.”

“Probably not, if getting excited makes him cry.” She pats my shoulder. I know it’s her hand, because it’s soft and warm and it seems to have a direct, semipsychic connection to my dick, making it stir. “See you tomorrow, Shippy.”

“I hate that fuckin’ nickname,” I grumble. And then it’s lights out.

CHAPTER 13

PRETTY PAINFUL

Bishop

“Hey, Shippy, rise and shine.” Those words are followed by a repetitive poke at my shoulder.

“Would you fuck off?” I slap my brother’s hand away. “And stop calling me Shippy.” I pry one lid open, slowly. It’s a challenge. My brain and body are not interested in doing things like moving or being alert.

“You have company.”

“Huh?” I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s nine in the morning. I’ve been out for a lot of hours.

“Company. You have a visitor.” Nolan is grinning, like an asshole.

“Stevie?” I attempt to sit up in a rush, forgetting that I’m not really in any kind of shape to be doing anything quickly. I bite out several curses and flop back down on the mattress.

“Look at how excited you got there for a few seconds. I mean, I get it. That chick is hot.”

“That chick is off limits, brother, so keep your hands to yourself. And don’t flirt with her,” I snap.

“I can’t not flirt. That’s like me telling you not to be an asshole.”

He has a point. “Just stay away from her. If she’s not here, who is?”

“Ryan.”

“Who?”

“King.”

“Oh.” No one ever addresses Kingston by his given name, apart from his parents. Not even his siblings. He’s always been King or Kingston for as long as I can remember. “What’s he doing here?”

“Picking you up for a team meeting or something. Or maybe going door to door trying to recruit people into his Polo Army.”

I ignore the dig at Kingston. He’s a good guy. Super straightlaced. Like, the straightest arrow I’ve met. Guy still drinks milk with dinner, and often at the bar, or whenever he can, really. He rarely has more than one beer, and he doesn’t drink at all if he’s driving. He honestly looks like he should head up the chess club, with his uniform of polos, khaki pants, and polished dress shoes.