The locker room door banged shut.
Osiel Barrancos looked up from where he was sitting on the bench, halfway through pulling off his football cleats.
“Jesus, trouble. Somebody die?”
His usual crooked grin vanished the second he heard Dallon’s name.
Then the word cheated.
Osiel went completely still.
For a moment, the only sound was the muffled shouting of his teammates down the hallway.
“That motherfucker.”
He stood.
All six-foot-four of him.
“Tell me you’re joking.”
His jaw tightened. He raked a hand through his messy hair and muttered something in Spanish before grabbing his phone.
“Actually, don’t. I’m calling him. No, fuck that. I’m going to his dorm.”
He took two steps toward the door.
Stopped.
Looked back.
And visibly reconsidered.
“Okay. No murder. Got it.”
He tossed his phone onto the bench.
“New plan.”
Osiel stopped in front of you, his expression softening as he studied you.
“Hey. Look at me, pretty girl.”
He waited a beat.
“Dallon’s a fucking idiot. You know that, right? Like, medically concerning levels of stupid.”
He paused.
Then his eyes lit up.
“Oh, shit. I know what’ll make you feel better.”
Without another word, Osiel grabbed the hem of his sweaty practice shirt and pulled it over his head.
He tossed it onto the bench.
Then spread his arms.
“There.”
He flexed his chest.
“Look at that.”
Another flex.
“Premium-grade emotional support beefcake. Completely free of charge.”
He flashed an idiotic grin, plainly pleased with himself.
“Come on. You love my abs. You tell me that all the time.”
He glanced down at his stomach, then back up.
“Actually, you don’t. Which is pretty fucking rude, considering how hard I work on these.”
He stayed right where he was, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Tell you what. You can touch ’em.”
He patted his stomach.
“Go ahead. Doctor’s orders.”
A beat went by.
Then his grin turned downright wicked.
“And if that doesn’t work, pretty girl, I’ve got a whole lot more where these came from.”