Sweet as Syn

7: SYN-Football Players Don't Love Cheerleaders?

A light knock at the door pulls me from my dream, and I flutter my eyes open just in time to catch Greyson peeking his head through, wincing in anticipation of waking the beast. When I don't curse him out or chuck a hazardous item at his head, he lets himself in.

"Oh, good. You've decided not to be satanic this morning." He blows out a breath and tosses me an incredulous look, checking out the lump of me under his red blanket. "Why aren't you acting like a little terror?"

Hey, I'm just as shocked I've woken up without any homicidal thoughts. I assume it's thanks to Greyson because everything good in my life seems to be tied to him as of recent. But of course I'd jump off a mountain before I told him that. So, I opt for being an asshole. "Shut up."

That makes him smile. "Ah. There she is." He saunters to his closet, and I definitely do not check out his butt in those tight, grey sweats he seems so fond of. "You down to grab breakfast?"

My belly rumbles at the thought. "I will literally never say no to food. Where are we gonna g—"

The rest of that sentence choked in my throat as he pulled his shirt over his head.

...

Christ...

I knew he had abs because I could see the outline of them through his shirts, but shit on a stick, there are eight of them. Eight. And they're bulging... just like his pecs. And he's got hair on his chest... like a full-blown robust adult male. His shoulders down to his forearms are veiny and hulking, like he came in here prepared to slay the demon that is me. And I don't think he'll have a problem with infertility, because the V leading down and disappearing into his waistband is enough to impregnate any woman in a five-mile radius.

He's holding his shirt, standing there, letting me look. Allowing me a moment to take him in. How chivalrous.

And then he pulls his sweats down right in front of me...

I yelp and dive under the covers, shielding my eyes as he chuckles darkly at me.

"We're going to that diner you love so much," he tells me casually as if he didn't just strip to his boxers in front of my eyes. "Come out, little one. The boys are downstairs, waiting."

Slowly, I emerge, and thank my lucky stars that he's covered up. But he's wearing a form-fitted hunter green T-shirt and ass-hugging dark jeans, and that does nothing to slow my pulse.

It was humiliating that I couldn't tear my eyes from him on the entire ride over. Who even looks the way he does? I am genuinely considering if it is genetically possible to be so delicious, when I am yanked from my thoughts and the truck, and lead into the diner.

It's a classic diner with red booths, checkered floors and an authentic jukebox, which we put coins in and played "Brown Eyed Girl" when we got to our table. The menu steals all my attention from Greyson because food has and always will be my favorite thing ever.

"Guys, I'm so nervous for our first game of the season, I can't stop shitting," Cameron confesses, and we all crack up. For such a big guy, you wouldn't expect him to be so soft.

"You say that now, until you remember how fucking amazing it feels to be on that field, body checking three hundred pounders while the crowd goes wild. I'm pumped," Greyson says, grinning wildly.

When the waitress comes over, we order enough food to feed an army, and that makes me smile. I always felt awkward going out to eat with my high school friends since they'd take a bite of toast and be full, while I'd be inhaling a triple cheeseburger, still starving after it. I was almost glad I had an excuse—me being poor—to not go out with them often. Thank gosh I have a pre-set meal plan here, covered by my scholarship, and four boys with bottomless pits for stomachs to keep up with me.