Laughing again, the alcohol in my cup is making me light and bubbly and kind of loopy.

“Yes, really. I’m super good at it, too.” I take another sip of my wine for good measure, those green eyes of his burning holes into the bare skin of my shoulders. Collarbone.

Cleavage.

Rowdy’s eyes take one more long drag of my hair before he clears his throat, focusing on the wall.

“Your turn.”

I tap my chin. “How about: never have I ever slept with someone knowing they only wanted to sleep with me because I’m popular.”

Rowdy stiffens. “Scarlett, come on.”

“Sterling, come on. Drink or don’t.”

Please don’t, please don’t.

But he does, raising his cup. Drinks from it before licking the rim, then licks the drops off those beautifully sculpted lips.

It’s mesmerizing.

“Never have I ever fantasized about a friend,” he mutters, voice low but steady. Steadier than mine, steadier than my hands, which feel weak.

Hell yes I fantasize about friends, I want to shout. I fantasize about him. Fantasize about all the unfriendly things I want to do to him, with him.

We stare at each other expectantly, raising our cups at the same time, pressing the plastic to our mouths, tipping back.

Chug the wine down because suddenly we both need it.

My pelvis wiggles on the couch, a dull ache building in my crotch. My breasts get heavy. Nipples hard.

I feel a desperate need to drink away this sudden heat between us, the way his gaze grazes my skin.

Say something Scarlett.

“Are you drunk?”

“No, it’s going to take a lot more of these to get this tank drunk.” He laughs. “But I’m definitely starting to feel a buzz. Should I get the rest of the bottle?”

“Please?”

He clucks his tongue, amused. “Such pretty manners.”

When Sterling rises, stands, and stretches, my gaze lands squarely on his backside, dragging over his round, ballplayer’s ass. His tapered waist.

His thick thighs.

That strong back, muscles straining against his tight gray compression t-shirt.

Jesus, his body is incredible—and I would know, because my eyes follow it allll the way into the kitchen.

When he returns and takes his place back on the couch, he’s closer than before, so close our thighs touch through the fabric of our pants.

“Did you check the thermostat before?” I ask, holding out my cup for the refill I so desperately need. “It feels warm.”

He pours. “Yeah. It’s set at sixty-eight, you should be good.”

Right.

Sixty-eight degrees.

Most definitely not sixty-nine.

“I thought of one while I was in the kitchen.”

“Go.”

He repositions himself, spreading his legs. “Never have I ever gotten anyone drunk on purpose.”

“I would never do that.”

“Nope.” His grin is lopsided. “Me neither.”

“Really? You don’t haze the new guys on the team? Get them drunk on purpose.”

“That’s not exactly what I was talking about.”

“No, but now I’m curious. What’s the worst thing you’ve done to someone on the team as a joke?”

He’s quiet, giving it some thought, debating about whether or not he can tell me. “I don’t know—probably the time I helped put Simon Grant’s car up on blocks in the parking lot.”

“That seems harmless enough.”

“You say that now.” Rowdy smirks. “But you try getting a two-ton car down off cinderblocks by yourself.”

“Has anyone ever hazed you?”

“Sure.” He leans back, arms up on the back of the couch, still gripping his cup.

I roll my eyes, wanting more detail. I hate having to pry it out of people. “And?”

“Anddd someone once took all my clothes while I was showering, which was so fucking dumb, because I solved that problem right away by stealing someone else’s.”

“Very clever of you.”

His grin is mischievous. “I didn’t say they fit.”

“Never have I ever stolen someone’s clothes.”

I laugh when he takes a chug from his cup.

“How is the wine? Need more yet?”

I squint into the half-empty cup he refilled not five minutes ago. “Yes please.”

He takes my cup, fingers wrapping themselves around mine—deliberately or not, his strong, steady fingers send a shiver up the nerves in my arm and straight to my erratically beating heart.

Rowdy pours light gold liquid into my cup, never taking his hand off mine.

Until he does.

I exhale.

“Never have I ever played Never Have I Ever for so fucking long and for so many days.”

We clink glasses in a mock cheers, drinking down our wine with matching laughs. “Never have I ever played a drinking game with wine.”

“Never?” he asks.

“Never.” I wink at him. “I’m not sure how I feel about it—the wine is a bit much.”

“Have you ever…” His throat clears before he goes on. “Dated an athlete?”

“Just in high school.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Not the same thing.”

No, I wouldn’t suppose so. Sterling Wade is nothing like the boys I went to high school with. He’s powerful, well on his way to becoming a man, with responsibilities.

“How is it different?”

“How much time do you have for me to explain?”

“All night.” I blush when he shifts in place, resting his arm on the back of the couch, our thighs and calves rubbing together when he relaxes.

“For starters, during the season, we’re constantly sore from working out. It sucks. Wanting to go home and pass the fuck out after practice is pretty standard, which makes life pretty boring, but—homework.” He exhales a deep breath before continuing. “Training. Practice. Rehab if you’ve been injured.”

“How often do you train?”

“Up to forty hours a week. It’s a job, not a hobby, so…not like high school where anyone can play if they make the cut. You fuck up and you’re screwed—your mommy isn’t coming to rescue you or call the principal to get your ass off the bench.” Rowdy shifts his big body again so he’s facing me. “Then obviously, stamina.”

“Stamina?”

“You know, going the distance.” How he says that with a straight face, I will never know.

“Are we talking about sex now?”

He has the courtesy to be sheepish about his blatant innuendo, shrugging, face turning crimson red.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Rowdy, but contrary to popular belief, no girl wants to have sex for hours when the goal can be accomplished in a few minutes.” I flip my long hair. “It’s not realistic, and it would make me sore as hell.”

Instead of arguing like I expect him to, Rowdy Wade tips his head back and laughs, Adam’s apple bouncing as his beautiful, unshaven throat constricts. I imagine those whiskers leaving marks on my silky skin, in places I can only see with a handheld mirror.

“Never have I ever considered a girl one of my best friends.” He pins me down, only a few feet away, stopping my mouth from opening when he continues, “Do you consider me a good friend Scarlett?”

“You know I do.”

“Never have I ever…” He pauses, swallowing. Stares straight at my mouth. “Never have I ever wanted to kiss one of my friends.”

He’s whispering, the hand in his lap now sliding down his thigh…toward mine. I watch that hand breathlessly—wide and sturdy and male—drumming on the denim material of his jeans.

Takes a drink of his wine with the other, the knot in his throat bobbing…nervously?

I’m tempted to drink from my cup, too, just to give my hands a job, before I start fidgeting from nerves, having him so close. When I inhale a breath, I catch a whiff of him, of the fresh air, aftershave, and laundry detergent fragrances on his clothes.

“Stop it, Sterling,” I whisper back. “You shouldn’t tease.”