“I hear Langley’s always looking for a drinking buddy,” Parker offers with a smirk.
Smith groans. “Fuck that.”
“I don’t know…” Reid says, trailing off. “It might be time to find yourself a good woman.”
“Exactly.” Brady squeezes my thigh again. “Spending time with the woman you love is way more satisfying than playing the field.”
Smith’s brows knit together and he mutters something unintelligible.
“No, they’re right.” Coop nods sagely. “Think about it. Waverly hasn’t won a national championship in fifteen years, but as soon as we all started dating, look what happened.”
I can’t tell if they’re fucking with him or if they really believe it, but the theory completely discounts raw talent and years of training.
“You want a shot at a repeat,” Reid says, shrugging. “You need to get yourself a partner.”
“Shiiiit,” Smith drawls. “I’m gonna have to go talk to the boys about this.”
Coop smirks. “Just don’t forget what Coach said.”
Smith cocks his head and the other guys all reply in unison. “Wear a damn condom. Anyone who shows up for training camp with a newborn is running extra laps!”
Sutton gasps. “He did not!”
Kennedy snickers. “It was quite the post-game motivational speech.”
We all laugh and true to his word, Smith moves to another booth to discuss Coop’s girlfriend theory. Judging by the looks his teammates are slinging his way, they’re not buying.
“Athletes are superstitious as hell,” Brady whispers. “Ten to one, Smith will have a girlfriend before training camp starts in the fall.”
“That’s…wild.” But also, kind of sweet.
“That reminds me,” Coop says, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I believe you owe us an unforgettable show, Vaughn. Time to pay up.”
“I was kind of hoping you’d forgotten about that.” Brady sighs and climbs to his feet. “But I’m a man of my word.”
I arch a brow in question, but he just drops a kiss on the top of my head and lopes off toward the DJ booth.
“He promised us a show if we won the game today,” Parker explains.
“What kind of show?”
He shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
A few minutes later, the opening notes ofNaughty Girldrift from the speakers and a spotlight directs our attention to the bar.
“Holy. Shit.” Brady is standing on the bar, back arched, as he leans against a silver pole that extends from the scarred countertop to the ceiling. “He’s not…”
“Oh, he is,” Parker howls, pumping his fist in the air. “Get it, big boy!”
Queen Bey starts singing and Brady slides down the pole into a crouch. Then he pops his hips, and the crowd goes nuts.
I whistle as he crawls across the bar, shaking his head as if whipping his hair, and I can’t help but laugh because he’s mimicking a routine I did for him a few weeks ago. If I had any doubt he was enthralled, it’s been erased.
He climbs unsteadily to his feet and takes two long steps that aren’t quite a run before jumping onto the pole and executing a chair spin. His hand position is actually pretty good and when he finishes the move, he transitions into a back arch. It’s really more of a dip, but it doesn’t matter because by the time he throws a few body rolls and finishes the routine with a fan kick, half the club is on their feet, cheering him on.
The song ends, and he jumps down to high fives and back slaps.
“That was hot.” Sutton turns to me, eyes wide. “Did you know he could do that?”
