Page 78 of Studs Up
Colorado started strong, and Ricki Lopez took several shots. But as Pumas dialed them in, Colorado was starting to scramble. Lopez tried in vain to get another shot off, but he didn’t have his balance right.
“He’s gonna miss,” I said absently.
And he did. The ball sailed over the cross bar, sending it right into space.
“How do you do that?” He asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Do what?”
“You’ve guessed the outcome of every shot and every one on one almost perfectly.”
I hadn’t realized my commentary had been out loud, but he seemed amused.
He propped his arm on the back of the couch and rested his head on his fist. He looked so relaxed and at peace. His features had softened, and his eyes shone bright. His body was cozy and warm, and I was enjoying this way too much.
“Well, I suppose since you’ve trusted me with your biggest secret, I can trust you with mine. Studying,” I said and sipped my beer. His cheeks turned pink as he carefully watched my lips on the bottle. Someone was getting horny again.
“Not good enough. You’re a fucking mind reader.”
He didn’t like my grin and playfully shoved my leg with his foot.
“Come on.” He pouted. His lip turned out, and I wanted to sink my teeth into it. I wanted to make him squirm.
“Do you know why I didn’t jump to the pros and went to college instead?”
He shook his head, and I shifted to angle toward him.
“I’m not that good,” I said. He didn’t argue, and I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Oh,” he said, feigning surprise. “Oh no, Nolan, you’re the best central defender to have ever defended. A whole wing of the Soccer Hall of Fame will be dedicated to you and your illustrious career.”
“So fucking patronizing,” I growled.
His grin was no less patronizing and incredibly sexy.
“I’m an average defender at best. I knew if I wanted to get my silverware, I had to be the smarter player.”
“So you went and got a degree?” He asked skeptically.
“Ask me what kind of degree.”
“Okay, Nolan, Mr. Smarty Pants Reed, what kind of degree did you get to make you a better soccer player?”
“A master’s in sports psychology.”
The way his mouth fell open was adorable. I reached out and shut it.
“Close your mouth, sweetheart, or a bird is gonna make a nest in there.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Nope.”
He sat up and crossed his legs, eyes eager to know more.
“You got a psychology degree to analyze and outsmart your opponents.”
“And they say you’re just pretty.”
