Free False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) by Alison Hendricks Page A

whole stadium.
    But I guess money doesn’t make you immune to a complicated family.
    “Shit,” Erickson says suddenly, even though he sinks another ball.
    I look up at him, and he grins at me. A weird sensation passes over me, and I get a little light-headed. It’s probably just the beer, though. These nights at The Top are the only times I drink anymore, even if I’ve only had a couple glasses.
    Mostly because Sommers wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone.
    “We never set a wager.”
    My brow arches, and a slow smirk crosses my lips. “A wager, huh? All right, Thor. What are you going to give me when I beat you?”
    He stares at me, but I can see a bit of heat flush in his cheeks.
    “Really? That’s the best name you can come up with, huh?”
    I shrug. “Are you really going to complain about being compared to a Norse god?”
    His blush deepens. He leans over the table, turning his head away from me as he takes his shot. He misses terribly, and I hear his mumbled, “No.”
    I flash him a grin and look for my own shot, circling around him. He taps his chin as if he’s deep in thought, and the next couple turns pass with neither of us making much headway, and Erickson just rambling on about all of the things he could bet. Laundry duty—something none of us have to do anyway, thank God—first dibs at the gym, meals, drinks, stupid-ass pranks.
    I throw in a few suggestions of my own as we start clearing the table. But there comes a point where we can’t really one-up each other anymore. It’s too hard to make shots without concentrating. Erickson has the edge on me since he’s only drinking Coke, so I have to stalk all the way around the table to line up the perfect shot.
    Then again, once I sink my third-to-last striped ball, he’s left with absolute shit to shoot from.
    “No shame in forfeiting right now. You’ll save us both some time,” I tease.
    “Fuck that. If you want to win, you’re going to have to take it from me.”
    I snort. “And what am I winning, again?”
    “Something,” he says distractedly.
    Which means he doesn’t know, since we still haven’t decided.
    He comes over to my side of the table, and I see him eye up a difficult shot. I have no idea how he’s even going to be able to hit it properly, but he surprises me by leaning halfway on the table. I start laughing at the picture of this huge guy poised on the edge of a pool table like a lounge singer on a piano, but my laughing chokes off when he leans toward me.
    He’s just reaching for a shot, and he’s not even that close. It’s not like he’s even touching me. But I can feel the barest hint of his breath against my neck before he holds it to concentrate. I can feel the heat of his body, smell the light scent of soap and aftershave.
    I’m around guys all the time. Guys who are half-naked and up in my face more intentionally than this. It shouldn’t affect me at all.
    But then I remember the locker room, and that weird feeling from earlier comes back, tangling in my gut. It feels like somebody killed the AC in here, and I let out a breath, trying for air. Erickson’s totally oblivious as he takes his shot, and I’m not even watching him play.
    Instead, I take a step back, swallowing hard.
    Once I’m not so close to him, I feel… mostly normal. A little more buzzed than I should be, and in a bit of a daze.
    “I figured out what I want when I win,” Erickson announces triumphantly.
    I snap out of it long enough to see he’s sunk another ball. But not before my brain starts thinking about the locker room again.
    Fuck.
    What the hell, brain?
    “Yeah?”
    I practically choke on the word. Not as hard as Erickson chokes on his next shot, but still.
    “Teach me some of your moves.”
    My brain betrays me again, but I quickly pull myself back to reality. He means my football moves. Not… any other moves I might have.
    “You know I’m gonna whoop your ass, right?”
    He just smiles at me, and a light glints in his blue eyes.