* * *

Ivy

Gray is a horrible dancer. I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes. When he’d joined me on the dance floor, I’d given a happy shout. But then he started to move. And it isn’t good.

He’s flopping around as if he’s having some sort of toddler tantrum. It’s so bad that the small circle of people around Anna and me gets even wider. With good reason—Gray has a long reach. Anna, who had been sort of smiling when I was dancing with her, looks at Gray with wide, shocked eyes. Her gaze slides from me to the spectacle he’s making, and then her face breaks into a full-blown grin, as though his craziness makes her happy.

Then again, he’s really going at it and I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. Given his excellent coordination on the field, I’d expected him to be better at this, but we can’t be perfect at everything.

We dance for another song. The beat pulses around us, and soon his guys are all there too. Even Drew, who draws Anna close and they kind of just cling and sway together. The rest of the guys join Gray and me, forming a wall around us. They’re better at dancing, but they don’t seem to find anything wrong with Gray’s performance. As good friends do, they simply nod at him with varying degrees of amusement, and then dance.

And it’s fun. Rolondo attempts to teach me some of his moves, setting his hands on my hips and guiding me, but it’s hard to keep up with him. Gray slides closer, getting in front of me, and his crazy motions calm to something more like Rolondo’s.

Together, they sandwich me, taking control of the dance. Not so close that I’m pressed in or overwhelmed, but enough that I’m laughing and breathless. All of the guys dance with me, each of them taking turns to show me different moves. But I always end up back with Gray, who gets better at dancing but never manages to perfect his technique. I think he might be trying too hard, because I see glimpses of greatness.

When the song ends, Gray leans close, the clean scent of sweat coming off his skin. “You want to sit down now?”

“No way,” I shout back, because another song has started. “I love dancing!”

He grimaces—the poor guy probably hates dancing since he does it so badly—but then pulls me close. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

So we dance, stopping every so often for me to drink more beers and then go back out again. The night becomes a blur, with Gray in its center, laughing with me, dancing with me. And it’s brilliant.

Seven

Gray

My life runs on patterns. Always has, probably always will. Now there’s a new pattern: football, coursework, Mac, sleep. And I don’t really want it any other way.

When I’m not studying or at practice, I’m searching out Mac, heading to her place. It feels like home to me now. I like the quiet and the fact that I don’t have to yell at some dickhead to flush the fucking toilet or not leave his underwear on the couch. But mainly it’s just hanging out with Mac where the only interruption is the occasional arrival of Fiona, who always grins at me like she knows something I don’t and calls me a “mountain of hot man-flesh.”

Mac had blushed bright red the first time Fiona called me that. It was cute.

But now we’re alone and curled up on the couch, eating pizza and watching college hockey. My bloodthirsty Mac is shouting her approval at the TV as some guy named Logan smashes another player against the boards.

A twinge of envy hits me. It must be sweet to fly across the ice. But I have to chuckle when Mac yells, “Good deke!” as she grips her pizza crust like a hockey stick.

It occurs to me that, a month ago, I’d have laughed my ass off if someone had told me I’d prefer staying in, without the possibility of sex, to going out and hooking up with some girl.

Only what I really want to do is put my arm over Mac’s slim shoulders and draw her close to my side. I have the insane urge to run my finger down her blunt nose, then trace the heart-shaped curve of her upper lip. Rosebud lips. I’d heard the expression before but didn’t know what it meant until now. Mac’s lips are a perfect¸ rosy pink and plump, like she’s in the process of blowing a kiss even when relaxed. They kind of drive me crazy.

So does the way her nose wrinkles every time she laughs. Which is often.

It makes me disgruntled. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I so oversexed that I can’t just be friends with a girl without having the desire to try something? I want this friendship to work, want to be more than a guy driven by the urges of his dick.

Annoyed with myself, I sit back and cross my arms over my chest. “You got any video games?”

Mac tosses her crust onto the pizza box—and I grab it, not willing to waste perfectly good crust. She smirks at this but answers me. “Nope. Video games aren’t really my thing.”

“Figures. You probably avoid them because you suck at them.” I don’t think that, but it’s fun to egg her on.

Predictably Mac sits up straight and glares. “I rock at video games. When I so choose to play them.”

“‘When you so choose?’” I snicker. “The formality of your speech reveals the falsehood behind your claims, young Padawan.”

She turns in her seat, her knee knocking into my thigh. “You’re calling me a liar?” Pink washes over her cheeks and her dark eyes shine.

God, she’s pretty. So pretty it hurts my heart. I want to haul her onto my lap, settle down, and kiss her sexy little mouth until I can’t move my lips anymore. Since I can’t do that, I give her my best patronizing look. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You just don’t have the reflexes necessary to compete.”