Page 21 of Praised By the Cornerback

Connor launches into an explanation, simplifying it without being condescending, using a salt shaker and two glasses to map out routes. Isla watches him with rapt attention, and I notice the way she keeps touching his arm. Light grazes that linger too long.

I take a drink of my whiskey and tell myself it doesn’t matter.

Madison asks me something about the Vipers’ season, and I answer on autopilot. My attention keeps drifting back to Connor and Isla. She’s leaning in now, saying something that makes him laugh. His hand rests on the table between them, and she traces a finger along his knuckles.

McKenna follows my gaze. “You good, man?” he asks quietly.

I look at him. “Fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t push. Brooks is deep in conversation with Chloe, their heads close together. Erin is scrolling through her phone, half-checked out.

The evening continues like that. Drinks, stories, laughter. Connor remains at the center of it all. He doesn’t flirt back, but he doesn’t discourage Isla’s attention either.

At some point Brooks and Chloe slip off together, and not long after, McKenna and Madison do the same. That leaves Connor, Isla, Erin, and me at the table.

“We should take this party somewhere more private,” Isla suggests, her eyes glassy from the wine. “I want to see where the pros stay. Take us back to your room.”

Connor glances at me before answering. “Uh, we’re just over at the Marriott.”

“Perfect. We’ve got wine up in our room. Erin, grab it and meet us there?”

Erin sighs but stands, clearly used to being given orders, and peels off toward the lobby. Isla’s already up and moving toward the exit, and Connor follows after settling the tab. I stand more slowly, debating whether to make an excuse and leave now.

But I follow them anyway. Out of the bar, the short walk from the Hilton to the Marriott, into the elevator. Connor stands across from me, and our eyes meet for a beat before he glances away.

His room is the same layout as mine but messier. Duffel bag open on the floor, clothes draped over the chair, laptop on the desk. The three of us settle in, Connor and Isla on the bed, me on the small couch near the window.

Erin arrives a few minutes later with two bottles of wine, distributes glasses, and drops into the desk chair. The conversation picks up again, easier now in the smaller space. Isla dominates most of it, telling stories about influencer drama and brand deals gone wrong. Connor listens with genuine interest, asking questions.

Erin is quieter but warms up after her second glass of wine. She works in marketing, lives in LA, came out this weekend because Isla insisted. She directs most of her comments toward me, as if she’s sensed I’m the other introvert in the room and we should stick together.

I appreciate it, but I can’t focus on what she’s saying. I keep getting pulled back to Connor and Isla on the bed.

Isla clearly likes him. It’s obvious in the way she angles her body toward his, the way she finds excuses to touch him.

And it bothers me. More than it should. Connor can talk to whoever he wants, do whatever he wants.

But I keep thinking about that morning. The way he looked at me while he touched himself, the sound of my name in his mouth.

“Adrian?” Erin’s voice pulls me back. “Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you’re staying in Orange County for the whole training camp or heading back to Miami at some point.”

“Staying here.”

“That must be nice. Getting away from home for a while.”

I make some noncommittal sound and take another drink of wine. My glass is nearly empty. When did that happen?

Isla laughs at something Connor said. She’s leaning closer now, her hand resting on his thigh.

I set my glass down and stand. “I’m calling it a night.”

Everyone looks at me. Erin seems surprised, Isla barely registers it, but Connor’s expression does that complicated thing again.

“Already?” he asks.