I look away first and grab Austin’s beer, downing it, desperate for the alcohol to cut through whatever the hell that feeling was.
He’sstraight.
End of story.
Time to get that through my thick skull.
12
NATHAN
Normally, I’ve got a system for these trips.
I put my noise-cancelling headphones on, pull my hood up, and zone out until we hit the hotel.
It’s how I keep my focus, making sure I’m locked in for the game, which I’m freaking the fuck out about since my thigh is still sore. But apparently, nothing about today is going my way.
First of all, my thigh is still sore as hell, even two weeks after I pulled it. But it’s not like I can just sit out. The team needs me, which means I need to suck it up and play the best I can.
Second of all, I had to take a cold ass shower this morning, because the guys decided to take their sweet ass time and the hot water pretty much ran out by the time I got in.
And third, every damn rookie on this bus decided to show up early and screw with my routine. By the time I climbed on, my usual spot was gone.
And as soon as I found another, someone dropped into the empty seat beside me.
Not just someone.
Logan fucking Gray.
He threw me a grin when he plopped down beside me and said, “Hope you don’t mind. We’re short on seats.”
I minded. A lot. But the bus was already moving, full to the max, and now, three hours had passed and I’m stuck here, pressed against the window, while Logan lounges beside me like he owns the damn seat.
Logan’s legs are sprawled wide, with a family-size bag of sour cream-and-onion chips open in his lap, crunching away while watching a movie on his phone—with the brightness cranked high.
It’s too loud to think. Too cramped to breathe.
I shift toward the window, the cold glass pressing into my shoulder, headphones doing absolutely nothing to drown out Logan existing. My knee bumps his as I try to move.
I knock his leg with mine, trying to reclaim an inch of space. “Move your leg.”
He glances up at me and arches a brow. “There’s plenty of room.”
I scoff. “Not for you and your ego.”
That earns me a quiet huff of laughter and he shifts—barely—but enough that I reclaim an inch of personal space.
I blow out a slow breath and stare at the blur of trees outside. Peaceful. Quiet. Exactly?—
I force myself to stay calm when his leg touches mine again.
Deep breaths.
Homicide is frowned upon.
Across the aisle, Austin’s turned around in his seat, halfway facing Ryan. “Tell me that goal wasn’t sick,” he says, his hand slicing the air. “Top corner, baby.”
Ryan doesn’t even glance up from his phone. “You got lucky.”