I tucked my hands under my thighs. “Yes. Although, from the time I’ve spent in the locker room, I’m pretty used to the noise level. And the smell.”

“The locker room?” Shawn frowned.

“I’m the Public Relations Assistant Coordinator for the team,” I clarified.

Shawn sat up a little straighter. “No shit?” He shook his head. “You’re just full of surprises. Forgive me, but… I can’t picture you in that role at all.”

“That’s part of the reason why I picked it,” I said with a smile. “Who would look at me and see someone confident enough to boss around ginormous football players?”

“I guess I should expect the unexpected with you, shouldn’t I, Giana?”

Shawn offered me a lazy smile, and I bit the inside of my lip, heart picking up its pace inside my chest. I was so used to staring at him on a stage. It was unnerving to have him staring back, and so closely.

Talk about his music.

Clay’s words snapped me back to the present. “I’m surprised you don’t have a gig tonight,” I commented.

Shawn relaxed into the bench. “I like to take a Saturday off from time to time. And believe it or not, I’m a pretty big football fan. I wouldn’t miss the first game.”

“It is kind of hard to believe,” I admitted. “That someone so artistic would also be a football junkie.”

“What, I can’t sing John Mayer songs and also paint the school colors on my chest and scream like a banshee in the stands?”

I chuckled. “Body paint? Now that I’d like to see.”

It was a joke, light and effortless when I said it, but Shawn cocked a brow at the insinuation that I wanted to see his body, and I instantly paled.

“Um. I mean, the school spirit, of course. Not the body paint. Or the body. Not that I wouldn’t like to see your body. I mean, not that I would—”

Shawn just smiled, letting me ramble on, no trace of any intention to stop me from embarrassing myself further. So I clamped my mouth shut, burying my face in my hands.

“Sorry,” I murmured through them. “It’s been a long night.”

When I peeked back at him, his smile was gone, concern etched into his features. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I frowned, wondering what he meant, and I was just about to tell him I only meant that I was a little tired after staying out so late last night when I realized he was referring to Clay.

Talk a little shit about me.

I folded my arms over my chest, sinking back. “Not really.”

I aimed for sad, poor neglected girlfriend as I trained my gaze on my kitten heels, not offering anything further.

“Is he always like that?”