Sweet as Syn

31: GREYSON-Bringing Syn Home

I don't know what feels worse: Losing a Thanksgiving game, or having your girl wincing when she sees your furious glare coming her way. I know Syn isn't scared of me, she's just feeling for me and the boys about our loss. Though, I still fear I'll slip up and scare her off.

But she's still here, waiting for me outside Boston Logan, leaning against my truck, looking fucking irresistible in the most elegant way. She's wearing tight black jeans, her cute bootie heels, the green sweater I picked out, and a black peacoat I forced her to let me buy so she wouldn't freeze to death.

Our away game at Florida State pissed me the fuck off because we lost 38-44 with them getting a TD in the last fifteen seconds, breaking the tie. But their team was good, our team was good, we played well and all is fucking forgotten when a proud, hopeful smile lights up the most beautiful face, all for me.

"Grey." She opens her arms wide and I slam against her, suffocating her with a coming-home-from-war-worthy hug. I saw that wince. She's worried I might be a grouch and take my anger out on her. I'd fucking never.

"Bear," I growl into her vanilla-scented hair, breathing her in, allowing every muscle to relax.

"You guys played so well, Greyson. It could have been anyone's game," she murmurs in the collar of my beige peacoat as she hugs me back just as tight, reassuring me.

I place her on her feet and cup her warm cheeks, ducking down and covering her cocoa butter-soft lips with mine. The electric chemistry streaming between us instantly heats me, even though it is a bitter twenty-four degrees out. And even though angry beeps sound around us, I slick my tongue over her top lip, begging for invitation. She parts her full lips for me and meets my urgency with her own. The kiss is deep and slow, and I can feel how greedy we are for each other with her little hands digging into my coat-covered shoulders.

"We should go before my cock rips out of my pants in front of the entire airport," I husk after feeling the material stretch as far as it could stretch, opening the passenger side door for her.

"We wouldn't want that to happen, they look really expensive," she taunts as I type my hometown address in Rhode Island into Maps and drive off.

Yeah, my navy Ralph Lauren trousers and sport jacket set cost just under $2,500. Even the white button down under it is stupid expensive, and I feel dumb wearing it. I'd prefer slumming it in my sweats, but I couldn't be caught wearing anything below designer around my dad. He'd eat me alive.

And yep, I'm bringing Synamie home to meet my family. The last and only girl I brought home was Nathalie, and I was a teenager in high school... and the interaction included her introducing herself before running upstairs to my bedroom. I don't think Nathalie and my brothers exchanged more than basic pleasantries in our entire relationship. So I don't know how this adult relationship shit is supposed to go. But I'm ass-over-dick for this girl—I think that's a saying—and I want to do it right. Though, I haven't admitted the words to her yet. I know it's silly, but she still feels like a dream I'll wake up from, and she is a very live in the moment type, so I didn't want to freak her out with the future. But those words, this weekend... it's all a look into our future together.

The second my anxiety and the pressure of it all starts to kick in, I feel a soft hand on my cleanly shaved jaw, and I sigh.

"Aren't I the one that's supposed to be freaking out?" she asks lightheartedly, and I reach over and plant my meaty hand on her tiny, yet incredibly muscular thigh. "I swear, you look like a goddamn Giorgio Armani model. You're stunning, Greyson, and this haircut... mmm-mmm," she hums, being the best hype-woman and turning my stress into laughter.