by Hannah Gray
Copyright © 2021 by Hannah Gray
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
contents
prologue
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
thirty-nine
forty
forty-one
epilogue
Other Books by Hannah Gray
playlist
acknowledgments
about the author
prologue
Ally
Staring at the tear-soaked letter in my hands, I shake my head at the words he will never read and the explanation he will never get. The only person who’s ever understood me, ever loved me, is now hundreds of miles away and getting farther with every second I spend on this smelly, old bus. A bus filled with passengers whose shoulders are slumped and whose eyes are filled with sorrow. All of us likely headed somewhere we don’t want to go.
I hope he knows I didn’t abandon him. He’s been abandoned his entire life; I would never leave him the way others did.
I had no choice, I tell myself those words over and over again.
I just hope, someday he can understand and forgive me. He’s all I have. Or had.
I’ll find my way back to him one day even if it means going through hell first. He’s worth it. My storm, my love, my person. My one and only person. He has dreams, and I can’t risk being the reason they don’t come true. Even if it kills me because that’s what losing him feels like—it feels like death. Which is unreasonable. After all, my own mother died, and yet somehow, this hurts worse. So much worse.
Our story isn’t a pretty one. There’s been too much tragedy for that. But I’ve found that the most beautiful things fought their way to be that way. And underneath the grit, there can also be a gem. Just because it isn’t pretty, it doesn’t mean it’s any less real. Because trust me, I’ve lived through this fucking shitshow. It’s real. So fucking real.
one
Cole
“It’s so fucking hot out here,” Knox, my teammate and one of my best friends, complains. Sounding like a little bitch. Taking his water bottle, he squirts it over his face. “I’m sweating like a hookah in church,” he says. His Maine accent missing the er sound in hooker.
“At least you’re sweating all the liquor from last night out of your system, you big lush,” I joke, shaking my head. “That’ll teach you not to drink the night before an early practice.”
He’s not really a lush. But he certainly hit it a little too hard last night. I think he forgot how shitty these practices can be when you show up hungover.
“For real.” Weston grins at him. “You were a fucking mess.”
There’s a group of us “new guys” on the football team here at Brooks University. The three of us freshman—Knox Carter, Weston Wade, and myself—have already become close friends.
“What are you two, my motha?” Knox’s accent drawls again. “Also, if my memory serves me right, you both were drinkin’ too, dicks.”
“I had two beers.” Lifting my shirt up, I wipe the sweat from my face and then point to him. “You were shooting whiskey like it was spring fucking break in Cabo and you were about to watch a wet T-shirt contest or some shit.”
“Yeah, and I had three and called it a night,” Weston says, walking backward onto the field. “You were so hammered that you actually tried to fight some of the frat guys.” He shakes his head before turning and jogging farther away from us.
Knox frowns, and then he turns toward me and shrugs. “Yeah, well, it’s still fucking hot out.” He pauses. “And those frat guys were being complete douche bags.”
Throwing my helmet back on, I laugh. “We’re in Georgia, dipshit. And it’s the end of August. The fuck you think it’s going to be, cold out?”
A stupid-ass grin spreads across his face as he points at me. “Hey, that would be fucking sweet. At least then I wouldn’t have swamp ass. My fucking nuts are roasting.” He chuckles. “Get it? Roasted nuts?”
“Dude, first off, I don’t need to know your fucking ass is sweating or about your nuts. Ever. Second, remember when you first came here, all you talked about was how happy you were to not deal with New England winters? You really want to go back to freezing your sack off?”
Literally, all he talked about the first week we met each other was how cold Maine was in the winter and how he loved the heat in the South.
Tapping the side of his helmet, he grins. “Guess you have a point there, Storm.”
“That’s what I thought,” I say, slapping him on the back. “Let’s get the fuck back to work.”
“Yo, Storm, Knox,” Weston yells from the center of the field, cupping his hands around his mouth. “You two going to fuck off all day, or are we going to get this practice finished up?”
Flipping him off, I make my way onto the field.
Storm is a nickname I have had since I was younger. Not sure if you can consider it a true nickname since my last name is Storms. But the nickname has been with me for quite some time. Seventh grade, to be exact. I didn’t know it would follow me all the way to freshman year at Brooks University, yet here I am, and all of my teammates on the football team call me it too.
For as long as I can remember, all I’ve ever wanted to do is play ball. It’s how I got my aggression out as a kid, and even now, it still is. Only now, I have more control of my anger when I’m on the field. Everything I do is calculated and well thought out. Usually.
Football is also one of the very few things in life that I truly love. It’s the one thing that has never left me, and I pray it never will. People change. This game? Well, she’s one loyal bitch.
I learned at a young age that if I wanted something, I was going to have to do the work. Nobody was ever going to hand me my dreams on a silver platter—that’s for damn sure. So, once I was old enough to hold a ball, that was what I did. I worked my ass off and dedicated all of my spare time to this sport. I wanted to see just how far it would take me. And honestly, I knew I’d ride with it until the damn wheels fell off.
There’s only one other thing in this life that I’ve loved, and she went and did what everyone else had done to me. She l
eft. And now … well, now, she’s just another reason why I need this game to distract me from all the other shit in my life.
A series of unfortunate events. That’s how I’d sum up these past eighteen years.
But for a while, I got to hold her, my angel. And for that short time, she was all mine, looking at me like I’d hung the moon. I got comfortable—too comfortable. I let my guard down, left myself open to being hurt. And that was what that bitch did. She fucking eviscerated me, disposed of me like I was nothing. I’m used to the feeling. I just never thought that feeling would be inflicted by her. My addictive, mouth-of-a-pirate, dark-haired Ally Lee James.
Now, she’s gone, and all I have left inside of me is this rage. That rage fuels this fire for me to be faster, stronger, better than all of the other players. I will make it to where I want to be, and nobody will stand in my way. Not even myself.
Ally
“So, you came here from Ohio?” Sloane, my new roommate, asks in the most adorable Southern accent. Her blonde hair bouncing around as she unpacks.
I just arrived at the campus less than an hour ago, but I must say, I like it. The campus is made up with the most gorgeous brick buildings. Sidewalks and large trees line the property, making it appear like an actual neighborhood. It provides a comforting feeling, this campus.
“Sure did. You?” I answer cautiously.
I don’t know enough about this chick to know if I can trust her. After all, it’s the sweet and innocent ones that always get you. And she seems sweet as pie.
“I’m from Georgia. My hometown is Rangeley. About two hours south of here.”
“That’s cool. So, your folks aren’t too far then.” What am I even saying? Does she even have folks? And why the fuck am I saying folks? Am I suddenly seventy-five years old? Do we need to break out a game of shuffleboard?
Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice as she nods. “Yeah, they were happy I chose somewhere close by.”
I inwardly sigh in relief that she didn’t ask me about my “folks.” Thank fuck—
“Your family must be sad. That’s a long drive to Ohio.”
Fuck my life. I thought too soon and jinxed it.
I could play it off like I have a picture-perfect family back home or some shit. But I know, eventually, when I have no visitors or I never travel home, it’s going to come up. I might as well rip the Band-Aid off now.
Clearing my throat, I shrug. “I actually don’t have any.”
“Any what?” she says, straightening out her stack of folded clothes.
I’m not a girl who gets embarrassed. Yet here I am. Face. On. Fucking. Fire. “Err … family.”
Looking up at me, she grimaces. “Oh crap, girl. I’m sorry.”
Shaking my head, I chuckle and sit down on the edge of my bed. “No big deal. It’s been that way for a long time. I’m all good.”
It’s quiet for a moment. And awkward. Really awkward.
“Well, do you have a boyfriend? I mean, you have to, as gorgeous as you are,” her sweet voice drawls, breaking the silence.
“Nope. Single, not so ready to mingle.”
Her mouth hangs open. “How? I mean, you are, like … dirty sexy.” Her eyes widen, like she’s going to piss her pants, as she waves her hands in front of her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything bad by that, by the way. I meant it as a compliment. You are, like … the cool girl. You’re, like, edgy and shit. Not like actually dirty. I’m super jealous.”
I laugh once. It appears Sloane might talk when she’s nervous. “It’s all right. And … thanks, I guess?” Dirty sexy? Eh, whatever. I’ve been called worse.
Nodding her head in an exaggerated way, she widens her eyes. “Definitely say thanks because it’s a good thing. A really good thing. Well … other than the fact that you are probably going to hog all the guys, and they won’t even notice me when all of that is around,” she says, waving her hand at me.
I smile. “You are crazy, my friend.”
Has this girl looked in a mirror? She’s basically a model. We’re just two very different-looking creatures. I’m edgy and apparently dirty-looking, and she’s a Southern belle.
Her mouth hangs open. “And you have a dimple? Are you freaking kidding me?! I have always been so jealous of bitches with dimples.” She pauses. “Not that you’re a bitch. You’re not. You know what—”
I hold my hand up to stop her. “I know what you meant. Stop acting like I’m going to throat-punch you. I swear, I play nice.” Thinking about my words, I pause. “Well, I do until someone does me wrong. Then … well, then you have a reason to be scared.”
Her eyes widen as she nods. “Noted. Don’t do Ally wrong, or she turns into an alley cat.”
Her words catch me off guard, reminding me of my nickname. Nobody has called me Allycat in well over a year.
“Just out of curiosity, why are you single but not ready to mingle?” she says tenderly, tilting her head slightly as the words flow out of her pretty pink lips.
“I’m here to go to class, study, and get a job,” I tell her with a small shrug. “No time for penises and all that comes with them.”
Bobbing her head up and down, she shrugs. “All right, fair enough. No peen for Ally.” She giggles lightly. “So, what are you studying?”
“Music,” I answer.
“Wow, that’s so cool. Do you want to be a singer?” she says with what seems like genuine curiosity.
“Maybe,” I say hesitantly. “Or a songwriter. I love music and have always loved to sing. I just don’t know if I want to sing in front of that many people.” I chew my lip nervously. “I think, as human beings, it’s easy to lose sight of what actually matters. Having everyone know my name—that isn’t important. Helping others through tough times—that’s what matters.”
She nods. “That’s pretty admirable that you already know that much about your future. So many people just chase the money or the fame. I applaud you for not thinking that way.”
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly, pushing my hands against my legs. “Anyway, what about you? What are you studying?”
“Well, uh, I haven’t declared that yet. But I’m hoping to study … criminal justice,” she states sheepishly. “Right now, I’m just signed up for general classes.”
“Sloane, criminal justice? That’s badass!” I make a mental note to not get drunk and tell her about all the times I shoplifted. I was so hungry that I had no choice. But she might not see it that way. Plus, it’s embarrassing. “Why haven’t you declared? Are you just not one hundred percent sure of it yet?”
“No, I’m very certain that’s what I want to do.” Her cheeks grow red. “My parents wouldn’t be on board with it.”
“They don’t know that you want to study criminal justice?” My eyebrows pull together. I can’t wrap my brain around what parent wouldn’t be proud of their child for chasing a degree like that.
She shakes her head. “Not really.”
“Do you think they wouldn’t want you going into that type of career? Too dangerous or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” she mutters, looking down at her hands.
She seems nice enough. She’s got that Cover Girl model look going on with her beautifully curled blonde hair; flawless, creamy skin tone; light-green eyes; and pink lips. She’s like … an American Girl doll. Absolutely manicured and in a damn sundress while unpacking her things on a Tuesday. She’s gorgeous. And extremely put together. But something about her seems … masked. The sundress, the hair—I’m not buying it. Not one bit. Those who try to be perceived as perfect, more times than not, are just as flawed as the rest of us. We’re all fucked up. Some of us just hide it better than others.
I look down at my own attire—a faded black Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, showing a few tattoos on my arms, and secondhand cutoff jean shorts that are fraying at the bottom. I’m a far cry from being put together. Then again, that isn’t my style anyway. I’m somewhere between edgy and punky.
I run my hand
s through my own long dark-brown hair. “I suppose I should finish unpacking.” I shrug and offer her a small smile.
Suddenly shooting up, she grabs her small crossbody bag before turning toward me. “Orrrr, we could go to the cafeteria and get food? That sounds much better. Besides, they have an ice cream machine.”
I ponder it for a second. Sure, this girl isn’t who I’d typically run with. But that isn’t a bad thing. I could use some … normal friends. Not like anybody is actually normal, but she seems nice enough. And it has been since … well, forever since I’ve hung out with normal people.
Sitting up, I grab my cell phone from the bed. “Yeah, screw unpacking. Ice cream sounds much better,” I say honestly.
two
Cole
Making my way off the field behind the rest of my team, I hear Coach call from behind us, “Storm, my office after you’ve showered and changed and no longer smell like ass.”
“Yes, sir,” I answer, though I have no fucking idea why Coach wants to talk to me.
“Somebody’s in troooouble,” Knox mocks from behind me.
“Uh-ohhh,” Weston chimes.
Holding my finger up, I flick them both off.
Showering fast, I throw my clothes on. Every passing second of not knowing what he could possibly need to talk to me about makes me incredibly anxious. He’s probably kicking me off the team. I have no idea why he would, but ever since I got to college, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Life is far too good right now.
Poking my head inside his open door, I tip my chin up. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”
Looking up from his playbook, he waves me in. “Close the door behind you, son.”
Fuck. This is bad. Really bad.
I do as he said and have a seat. “Everything all right, sir?”
He pulls his glasses off. “I’ve got to ask you something, and you need to tell me the truth.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“If I make you QB1 and team captain, can you handle the pressure? Because I’ll be honest with you, Storm. I’ve seen a lot of promising players come in here, guns blazing, and burn themselves out—fast. You’re only a freshman after all.”