Page 82 of Bone Deep
Twenty-Four
All Star
Spencer
This motherfucker. This motherfucker has me sitting practically in the end zone on a Sunday afternoon. No, literally on the grass right by Arizona’s end zone in some kind of tent setup. Sun’s blaring, whole stadium humming with energy, and I’m basically on the field, wedged into a cushioned chair with a bucket of ice-cold sodas and a view so close I can count the sweat on the players’ brows.
I lean over to Jen and mutter, “I can’t believe this is where you guys sit for games.”
Jen grins, her cheeks flushed. She’s in an extra-large jersey, Ryan’s number nineteen stretching over her pregnant belly. “Well, we know several of the players, Spence. Perks. But yeah, these are great. We used to sit in one of the boxes on the fifty, but they started doing these casitas a couple years ago, so the boys made sure we get one for home games.” She shifts, resting a hand on her stomach. “Which is a good thing with Lexi and I being as big as a semi. We’d never make those stairs. Probably pop one out on the way up.”
I bark out a laugh before I catch myself. It’s easy around Jen. Still, I glance at her belly, and something tightens in my chest, a feeling I keep locked away. That kind of future isn’t for me—too messy, too fragile—but in this moment, seeing how this friend group holds space for each other, it makes me wonder if I’m missing out on something. Gives me the tiniest sliver of hope that maybe there’s something good left in people.
Before I can spiral, Jen elbows me, sharp and familiar. “Ow! What?” I grumble.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she points out onto the field, smirking.
I follow her hand, and my vision zeroes in on Ryan Buterbaugh, bent double, stretching, that glorious, ridiculous ass right there in the sunlight, snug in those white football pants. Not even fifty feet away. My mouth waters. He straightens, and that perfect bubble shifts as he moves. Then he spins, like he can feel my eyes on him, and hits me with that stupid, beautiful grin.
Next to me, Jen hums, “Mmhmm.” I keep my mouth shut. She’s not getting shit out of me today.
Ryan jogs over, helmet in one hand, cheeks already pink from the warmup. He stops right in front of us, and Jen doesn’t miss a beat.
“Looking good out there, Butters,” she says, grinning wicked.
“Thanks,” Ryan answers. His gaze flicks to her, then to me. “But I haven’t even thrown any warmup passes yet.”
I know he knows what’s coming, the little shit. He’s just lobbing it up for her. “I was talking about your ass in those pants,” Jen quips, and makes squeezy motions with her hands.
And there it is.
Ryan laughs, full-bodied and unbothered. He turns around, popping his hips out, giving us both the full show, then glances over his shoulder. “It’s good, right? Nice and bubbly.”
My fists clench in my lap and I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting every urge in my body. He’s going to pay for that later. He knows he’s killing me.
Jen leans forward and smacks his ass, the pop echoing beneath the tent. Ryan just laughs, but I nearly see red. I want to be the one touching him. I want to claim him, but my damaged brain’s too chicken-shit to do anything about it.
Ryan turns back around, meets my eyes, and for a second it’s just us in the world—green eyes, flushed cheeks, that sexy as fuck lip-biting grin.
“Heya, Spence,” he says, a little softer, a little less sure than he is with everyone else.
I swallow, hard. “Hey, Ry.”
He gives me that look, the one I know means he’s nervous—shifting his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—um, I’m glad you’re here. Means a lot.”
I canfeelJen’s head on a swivel, looking between the two of us. But I just shrug, trying to play it cool. “No biggie.” I wave out at the field. “Now go impress me, Ball Boy.”
Ryan grins wide, his annoyingly gorgeous face beaming brighter than the Arizona sun. Before he turns to go back to his team, he taps the dimple in his chin twice, a secret message just for me, and winks.
Then he’s off, running, helmet under his arm, leaving me sitting there with my heart in my throat and a riot in my chest.
Goddammit.
I become keenly aware of eyes on me. I turn. Jen is staring, eyebrow cocked.
“What are you looking at?” I snap.
“Nothing. I’m just trying to think if I’ve ever seen you blush,” Jen says, her eyes way too smug.
