Page 40 of End Game

Does she care? She’s never brought a guy home before, so I don’t know what she’s into. Does she go for the jocks with the perfect washboard abs? Does she like white guys, black guys, anything but Chinese guys? Will I ever be enough to measure up to her expectations?

Without a word, she ducks into the bathroom. Tucker’s mom is a dentist, so we always have extra toothbrushes on hand. I kind of want her to keep one here, along with all of her regular overnight gear. She should have her sleep bonnet and fuzzy socks here.

But no pajamas. I can’t lie, I like the sight of her in my shirt too much. It might be the only way I get to see her wearing my clothes.

Because we’re going to do this again. I like having her in my bed, even if nothing is happening. Sleeping beside her, our limbs tangled together… yeah, that’s got to happen again.

When she comes out of the bathroom, her hair is fixed, and her face washed. She’s not squinting anymore, so she must have put her contacts back in. She toys with the hem of my shirt. It looks more like a tent on her.

“So…”

“So?” I towel off my hair.

“What happens now?”

I check the bedside clock. “Now, we go to breakfast, and then we go to class.”

Her eyes go wide. “Shit. We have to go to class today.”

Luckily, I know her schedule nearly as well as I know mine. We have an hour and a half before her first class of the day, and two and a half hours until mine starts. She has a full day of school, study group, and practice ahead of her. So do I.

Not for the first time, I wish we were in the same major, or at least in the same classes. Dietetics and accounting don’t call for classes that overlap, and it’s more important that we set ourselves up for future success than take a class together because I can’t stand to be away from her. A few semesters ago, she took statistics, and we studied together over the phone as much as we could. It wasn’t nearly as much as I would have liked.

I clear my throat. “I have clean shirts if you want to borrow one.”

“Oh. Um…”

“No pressure.”

She digs through her bag, coming up with a clean pair of leggings and a new sports bra, but no shirt. “Um, yes, please.”

With a wave, I usher her to my dresser, where my shirts are neatly folded and organized.

“These are the smaller ones,” I say, pointing to the Newton Football shirts I got my freshman year, when I was about forty pounds lighter. They’re only an extra large instead of an extra-extra-extra large.

She pulls out a navy blue shirt and holds it up to her chest. It stretches down her thighs, the sleeves nearly to her elbows.

“I’m going to look like I’m wearing my boyfriend’s shirt,” she complains.

“Is it really that big a deal?”

She makes a face. “Only when I’m not actually seeing anyone, and everyone starts gossiping behind my back.”

I don’t pretend to know the first thing about female social politics. I keep to myself, stick with my guys. Nobody gives me a hard time for getting laid or for abstaining. Nobody gives a shit, period.

“I can see if Sam has an extra outfit…”

Diana shakes her head. “No. I’ll be fine. It’s fine.”

She ducks back into the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later in the fresh clothes. My cock twitches at the sight of her wearing another of my shirts. She looks absolutely gorgeous, her wavy hair loose and free, her face devoid of makeup.

“Let’s grab something to eat,” I suggest. If she really hates the outfit, she has enough time to head back to her house and change… but that will cut into our limited time together, so I don’t want to suggest it.

As we head down the stairs, I see Mack has vacated the couch, the blankets left by Wes neatly folded on the coffee table. His door is open—he’s not home, either. Tucker is probably still asleep, and if the sounds coming from Miles’s room are any indication, he and Sam are getting busy, so now wouldn’t be a good time to interrupt anyway.

“Maybe you should leave a few outfits here,” I suggest casually.

Diana looks at me, confusion creasing her forehead.