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High school girl becomes a BBC slut.

Everyone looks a little confused by this before he points out the red shirt. Garza rolls his eyes and the joke fizzles.

I'm so used to seeing everyone in a uniform that it's a little jarring to see them dressed up. Admittedly, they're all wearing some variation on the basic jeans and button-up/polo, but Garza looks anything but basic.

Black slim-fit jeans, black short-sleeve button-up over a blue (not red) v-neck that hugs his pecs, and black Doc Martens. He wears this all, effortlessly, on his tall, athletic frame. His near-black hair is pulled back into a top-knot, highlighting his ruggedly attractive face - high cheekbones, Roman nose, full mouth, hazel eyes, strong chin with a couple days' worth of stubble.

In the most simple terms, the man is fucking gorgeous and I seriously need to stop looking.

Yet, when he turns around to lead the way, it's all I can do to not fall over myself while checking out the way his jeans hug his ass. He doesn't ever "walk", his steps are somewhere between prowl and saunter. Right now he is prowling. I consider myself lucky that I decided against tucking in my shirt because I'm already getting close to half-mast watching him move.

I shake my head to clear it and fall in with the pack. The conversation flits between subjects, barely staying on one topic for very long, as we walk the rest of the way to the nightclub. The guys walk past the line of people waiting to get inside and the bouncer takes one look at our entourage before letting us in ahead of the line and without charging cover. It didn't hit me until later that I'd just experienced my first perk as a player, but whatever. A second bouncer checks our IDs and Efrain and I get a small black "x" across the back of our hand to signal that we're under 21. We could go to a club that serves minors under the table, but that would defeat the purpose of bringing us along.

The nightclub is already in full swing when we walk in. The DJ is spinning some reggeaton at the moment, but he mixes subtle Latin beats into everything he plays. People chat at the bar and in the lounges around the sides of the room. Steps lead down to the dance floor where women dance together in clumps. Men prowl the edges looking to pick one of them off or else fist pump in time to the music. I scan the crowd and recognize a chick named Marina that I met while out dancing with Preston.

Marina and a couple of her friends are dancing off to one side. I break away from the guys to say hi.

***

Most of my teammates clean up nicely. I can say this objectively, without any hint of sexual intent. I'm not interested in straight guys, but they're not half bad for breeders.

Card, on the other hand...

For some baby-faced 18 year old kid, who I've only seen in Chuck Taylors and cargo shorts when he isn't in uniform, he knows how to put himself together. I'm too busy checking him out without looking like I'm checking him out when Teague makes some dipshit comment about this stupid beaver keychain that I can't think of a decent thing to shut him down with. I settle for rolling my eyes and leading the group to the club so I don't end up staring at Card the whole way there.

We walk into the club and Card barely stays with us for longer than a minute before he walks off to talk to some Spanish girl. They hug and she starts enthusiastically introducing him to her friends. He tries to move off, but she grabs his hand and pulls him further onto the dance floor.

I get the guys' attention and point over to where Card and the girl are taking their places. "This should be good."

We find a decent vantage point to watch.

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