Kyle Robbins was a prick, and the fact that he’d cashed in on the whole Name, Image and Likeness thing any time he could meant he brought even more attention to the media circus we already had around us on any given day. I hated it, and only tolerated him because he was a damn good tight end and on the same team as me.

I cracked my neck when he was gone, catching the inquisitive gaze of our quarterback and team captain, Holden Moore, as I settled back in place on the squat press machine.

“You good?” he asked, racking the weights he’d been using like he wasn’t all that interested in the answer. I knew better, though. Holden was a born leader, one of the few players on this team I actually looked up to. He was checking in not because he was nosy, but because he gave a damn.

“Good,” was my only answer, and then I was back in position, kicking into the platform until my legs were straight. I released the latch on the weight, squatting my knees toward my chest on an inhale, and grunting as I extended to push the weight back up.

After another ten-rep set, I locked the weight once more, sitting up and wiping my forehead with a towel.

Just as a petite pair of saddle tan flats came to a stop between my Nikes.

My feet dwarfed those little shoes, at least twice the length and width, and I arched a brow as my gaze climbed up the legs they were attached to. Those legs were covered in black mesh tights, see-through but for the areas where the fabric was thicker, creating a polka-dot pattern. The corner of my mouth curled in amusement when those tights ended at the hem of a black skirt with a cat nose and whiskers stitched into the front.

I knew then that it was Giana Jones.

She was always dressed like a quirky librarian, like a mix between a nun and a naughty schoolgirl. For some reason, I’d always found it irresistibly adorable, how she mixed and matched modesty with a covert kind of sex appeal. I wasn’t sure she even realized she did it, that she could catch more stares from wearing a turtleneck than some girls could in a bikini.

She folded her arms across her chest as I took my time bringing my gaze the rest of the way up, noting her pale pink sweater and the collared white shirt she wore beneath it. One finger pressed her oversized glasses up the bridge of her nose when I finally met her gaze, and I smirked even more at the curl that popped out of place where she’d piled her thick hair on top of her head in a braided bun.

“G,” I mused, sitting back a little on the bench so I could appreciate the view more. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”