calorie choices for those in training. But you can ask the grill to make you anything.”
I turn then, because I have to, and see Masters has a giant cheeseburger, French fries, and a glass of milk taller than my head.
“Now you tell me.”
He plucks the tray from my hands and says, “You should have had breakfast with me. I could’ve shared all kinds of important Western State secrets with you.”
I’m forced to trail after him like a puppy as he makes his way to the back, which has about ten tables shoved together and forty guys. It’s a good thing I’m not carrying my tray, because the sight of half the football team sitting together makes my hands sweaty.
I use the only diversion I have available—Masters’ butt. It’s a work of art and I’m not even into men’s asses. It’s hard and round, and even though he’s wearing cargo shorts, I can still see the flex and release of his glutes. The more I think about Masters flexing and releasing, the tighter my body gets.
No way is Knox Masters, all six-foot-six-inches of prime NFL bound manhood, a virgin. He’s got the wingspan of a god and his hands are big enough that I think they could actually span my waist, which is in no way tiny. When we walked in here, my brother looked almost small at six-four and two ten. I’m not sure what Masters weighs, but he’s solid everywhere. His thighs look like tree trunks, and his shoulders are so wide they blotted out the sun when he virtually accused me of creeping on him at six in the morning.
The door to the stadium was open!
Then he spent the whole time pretending he wasn’t a football player even after I’d hinted broadly that I knew who he was. I should punch him for that.
Now he’s playing another game.
Bodies don’t come harder or finer than his. Sure, there are great forms everywhere in college, particularly among the athletes, but Masters is of a different caliber. Already people are whispering Heisman and First Round in connection with his name. Panties probably decorate the sidewalks as he walks to class. Women all around the campus have to be offering themselves as tribute on the altar of his purported virginity on a nonstop basis.
Jack sits in the middle with his arm around an empty chair. His brows furrow when he spots Masters carrying my tray.
“I’ll take that.” I tear my eyes off Masters’ butt, pluck my tray out of his hands, and settle into the seat Jack has saved for me.
Masters isn’t done with me. Jack’s eyes get wide as a child’s on Christmas when Masters whispers in my ear, “You can run, Eliot Campbell, but this campus is too small for you to hide.”
Gulp .
He leaves me without another word and ambles casually down toward the other open seats, as if he didn’t—I’m not certain whether it was a threat or a promise.
“What was that all about?” Jack mutters under his breath.
“I thanked him for carrying my tray,” I make up.
“And his ‘you’re welcome’ was a secret?”
I dig my fingernails into my palm under the table so I don’t blush. “I don’t know what’s in his head.”
That’s as truthful as any answer I can give.
“Then you aren’t looking hard enough,” Jack says wryly.
I look up to see Masters standing—looming really—across the table from us. All the seats are filled, but he sets the tray down anyway in a small sliver of space.
“Move down, Telly, will you?”
“Sure, Masters.”
Telly, the Warriors center, shoves his tray down one spot. Soon the entire right side of the table is shifting, one player by one player. Masters calmly takes his seat.
“Thought I’d sit with the offense tonight. See what secrets you all are cooking up.”
“Hell, man, you got to ease up during practice,” Telly jokes. “I thought you would tear Ace’s head off there a couple of times.”
Before Masters can say anything in his defense, Ace leans across the table and points his knife in Masters’ direction. “Don’t you ever ease up on
I turn then, because I have to, and see Masters has a giant cheeseburger, French fries, and a glass of milk taller than my head.
“Now you tell me.”
He plucks the tray from my hands and says, “You should have had breakfast with me. I could’ve shared all kinds of important Western State secrets with you.”
I’m forced to trail after him like a puppy as he makes his way to the back, which has about ten tables shoved together and forty guys. It’s a good thing I’m not carrying my tray, because the sight of half the football team sitting together makes my hands sweaty.
I use the only diversion I have available—Masters’ butt. It’s a work of art and I’m not even into men’s asses. It’s hard and round, and even though he’s wearing cargo shorts, I can still see the flex and release of his glutes. The more I think about Masters flexing and releasing, the tighter my body gets.
No way is Knox Masters, all six-foot-six-inches of prime NFL bound manhood, a virgin. He’s got the wingspan of a god and his hands are big enough that I think they could actually span my waist, which is in no way tiny. When we walked in here, my brother looked almost small at six-four and two ten. I’m not sure what Masters weighs, but he’s solid everywhere. His thighs look like tree trunks, and his shoulders are so wide they blotted out the sun when he virtually accused me of creeping on him at six in the morning.
The door to the stadium was open!
Then he spent the whole time pretending he wasn’t a football player even after I’d hinted broadly that I knew who he was. I should punch him for that.
Now he’s playing another game.
Bodies don’t come harder or finer than his. Sure, there are great forms everywhere in college, particularly among the athletes, but Masters is of a different caliber. Already people are whispering Heisman and First Round in connection with his name. Panties probably decorate the sidewalks as he walks to class. Women all around the campus have to be offering themselves as tribute on the altar of his purported virginity on a nonstop basis.
Jack sits in the middle with his arm around an empty chair. His brows furrow when he spots Masters carrying my tray.
“I’ll take that.” I tear my eyes off Masters’ butt, pluck my tray out of his hands, and settle into the seat Jack has saved for me.
Masters isn’t done with me. Jack’s eyes get wide as a child’s on Christmas when Masters whispers in my ear, “You can run, Eliot Campbell, but this campus is too small for you to hide.”
Gulp .
He leaves me without another word and ambles casually down toward the other open seats, as if he didn’t—I’m not certain whether it was a threat or a promise.
“What was that all about?” Jack mutters under his breath.
“I thanked him for carrying my tray,” I make up.
“And his ‘you’re welcome’ was a secret?”
I dig my fingernails into my palm under the table so I don’t blush. “I don’t know what’s in his head.”
That’s as truthful as any answer I can give.
“Then you aren’t looking hard enough,” Jack says wryly.
I look up to see Masters standing—looming really—across the table from us. All the seats are filled, but he sets the tray down anyway in a small sliver of space.
“Move down, Telly, will you?”
“Sure, Masters.”
Telly, the Warriors center, shoves his tray down one spot. Soon the entire right side of the table is shifting, one player by one player. Masters calmly takes his seat.
“Thought I’d sit with the offense tonight. See what secrets you all are cooking up.”
“Hell, man, you got to ease up during practice,” Telly jokes. “I thought you would tear Ace’s head off there a couple of times.”
Before Masters can say anything in his defense, Ace leans across the table and points his knife in Masters’ direction. “Don’t you ever ease up on
Similar Books
