Which is why you should stay away from him.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say, refusing to look Siggy in the eye.
Siggy shrugs, a knowing grin on her face. “Then don’t ask him. Go alone. But in the meantime, let’s discuss snowflakes or icicles …”
Five
Hollis
Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty.
I hop to my feet and stretch my arms out to the sides. The short burst of adrenaline from the quick workout provides me with both a distraction and a blast of endorphins—two things that I crave.
My body is rested. The wounds from the season are starting to heal. I can bend without groaning, and my shoulder only needs popped back into place every other morning now.
Despite the physical benefits of the season being over, I already hate it. The fact that I’ll never have another season to look forward to is something I try not to think about.
Grabbing a water bottle off the dresser, I walk to the window and yank the curtains apart. The room floods with early afternoon sunlight, and I gaze down the street. Remnants of Christmas hang oddly in the trees and on the lampposts lining the sidewalks. They look as out of place as I feel.
“I’m out of place everywhere. So what does it matter?”
Taking a long drink of water and letting my heartbeat settle, I let my gaze slide up the street until it lands on Paddy’s. A grin tickles my lips.
Larissa.
I’ve never known a Larissa before, but the name somehow fits her. It matches her sweet, kind smile and the vibe she put off that made me want to tease and joke around with her. But it also coincides perfectly with the sexy curve of her hips and the sparkle in her eye that made me want to do nasty, delicious things to her.
I glance over my shoulder. Tapping the beat to the song I was listening to on the side of my leg, I eye the device that holds Larissa’s number.
It took every bit of self-restraint that I had last night not to shoot her a text. I constructed no less than fifteen possible ice-breakers—everything from Hey, it’s Hollis (which felt like a vintage sitcom) to Just checking that you made it home all right (which screamed that, while I might be considerate, I might also be lame because no one leads with that) to Wanna fuck?
That one is self-explanatory.
They all felt legit. They all also felt wrong.
River told me to combine all three texts and hit send. Crew told me to sleep on it. And if there’s one thing I know from lots of past experiences, it’s to go with Crew’s advice. He’s never led me astray. River, though? Found myself naked and covered in strawberry-flavored lube once, thanks to him.
I stretch again and head for the shower. Before I can make it far, my phone rings.
I don’t recognize the number. My body tingles, hoping it’s Larissa on the other end—even though I have her number saved under her name, and this isn’t it.
“Hello,” I say, trying my best to sound cool.
It’s a good thing I didn’t lead with a line from last night—any of them—because the voice on the other end is not Larissa.
“Is this Hollis Hudson?” The tone is deep and gritty—decidedly not female.
“Yeah. It is. Who is this?”
“Hey, this is Lincoln Landry. How are you doing?”
Holy shit.
I run a hand over my head and try to ignore how the little boy who watched this guy play in the Majors is freaking out inside me.
Stay calm.
“I’m good,” I say, trying to seem nonchalant about being on the phone with a Hall of Famer. “How are you?”
“Not bad. Thanks for asking. I just wanted to touch base with you and thank you for accepting the Catching-A-Care award.”
I laugh. “What do you mean? Thank you.”
“Apparently, you had my team over here worried you were going to be the first nominee who refused to accept.” He laughs too.
“I …” I stammer as I try to figure out how to explain it and not seem disrespectful or unappreciative. Because I’m neither. “The stuff I do with the kids got exploited my freshman year of college. The school newspaper did a piece on it thanks to a girl I was …”
I gulp. Choose a word, Hollis—one that doesn’t make you sound like a dick.
“Involved with,” I say, finishing the sentence.
“So you were sleeping with her?” he jokes.
“Basically, even though there wasn’t much actual sleeping.”
“Ah, the best kind.” Lincoln chuckles. “I get it. Been there, done dumb shit too. Lots of it. It’s too easy to get in trouble when you’re great looking and full of talent.”
“You feel me then.”
“Hell, yeah.”
I grin. “Well, in that case, I was worried that your offer wasn’t real. That the call was a scam. Besides the campus paper, I’ve managed to keep most of my shit on the down low, so I wasn’t sure. There’s a girl who threatened to ruin my life a while back, and … you can’t trust anyone, you know?”
“You’re damn right I do. I trust my family. That’s it. Well, maybe my brother’s bodyguard. It would be shitty of me not to trust him when he’s taken a hit for me a time or two. Or ten.”
“I get it. I have two guys on my team who I trust implicitly. That’s about as far as I go.”
“Sounds like you have one key of life figured out already.”
“You mean I have to figure out more?” I joke. “I was hoping that was it.”
He laughs. “You’re still young. When I was your age …” He whistles through his teeth. “We’ll just leave that there. There’s not enough time, and if my wife walks in here, I’d be a dead man.”
“Second lesson—no wife.”
His laugh grows louder. “Nah, man. You have that one wrong. Get you one. Just make damn sure it’s the right one. The wrong one will screw you up faster than that hit you took during that interception on the last play of the year.”
I grimace. I’d hoped he’d missed that.
“Are you headed to the pros?” he asks. “I don’t see any notes in your file.”
I sink back onto the bed.
His question cuts through all the distractions I’ve managed to busy myself with over the past couple of weeks. It’s a topic I need to address, and I know that, but I just don’t want to. I don’t know how.
There are reasons to go into the pros—lots of them. But there are a few that make me think I shouldn’t, too, and I don’t know how to separate it all out.
“I have an invitation to the Combine,” I tell him. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet. I’m not sure I even have a shot now that I basically sucked this year.”
“It’s a big decision to go pro. It totally changes the trajectory of your life and puts everything in someone else’s hands—where you live, what you can afford, how much money you make, how long you’re in debt to an organization. On the other hand, it’s full of opportunities. It’s what a lot of people dream about. You can make a ton of money. Seeing your name on people’s backs and having them buy tickets to see you play is something … it’s incredible. There’s nothing like it. But it’s not as easy of a decision as most people think it is.”
“That’s kind of how I feel about it. Especially coming off this shit season …”
He sighs. “Confidence shaken a little?”
“I guess. I mean, I know I could go out there and perform, but it’s … Do I want to do that? It’s a lot.”
“It is a lot. What do you think happened to you this year?”
“My head, I guess. Wasn’t focused.”
I was worrying about this shit already. Crew’s grandfather died, and River’s mom was sick. Everything else going on felt heavier than football.
I bite my lip as the weight of my life settles over my chest.
So many things to decide, so many choices to make, and not a fucking person in the world to talk to about it. Holidays always suck when you don’t have a family. But it’s times like this whe
n you need a sounding board—or just somebody that actually gives a damn—that makes it the worst.
Sure, I can talk to River or even Crew, but they’re dealing with their own stuff. Coach Herbert would talk to me, too, but it makes me feel even worse to have to get advice from a coach about personal life shit. That’s not his job. He took me under his wing to coach, not to raise.
I’ll be fine, and I know that. I’m always fine. I refuse to be anything other than that.
I just wasn’t prepared to be so off-balance at the start of the season.
“You’ll be alright,” Lincoln says. “I know it doesn’t feel like it all the time, but you will. Just follow your gut. That’s the best advice I can give you. That’s your second key to life right there.”
My grin is shaky. “Thanks.”
“Figure out why you love to play ball to start with and work from there.”
“Football has always been a distraction for me. Therapy, I guess. I’m not sure it would function the same way at the professional level, you know?”
“Yeah, you’re right, and you’re smart for considering that.” Papers shuffle in the background. “You seem to make good choices. Your coach said in the nomination letter that you’re a leader on and off the field.”
My brain stops at the words your coach.
Coach nominated me?
He told me he didn’t know how the organization got my name.
Why did he do that?
“I know this is a very personal thing for you, so I appreciate you coming down here and accepting a few minutes of publicity. Other guys need to see the good that some of you do. There’s a lot to be said for leading as an example,” he says.
Flashbacks of drunk singing Adele’s “Hello” at parties, eating my weight in brownies that I didn’t realize had pot in them, and sleeping my way through half of Braxton’s female body come barreling at me.
“You know, I’m not the best leader—on the field or otherwise,” I admit. “I’ve had my share of … unfortunate circumstances.”
Immediately, I remember calling Crew to come and pick River and me up at the police station after we took a dare to trick-or-treat a sorority house naked one Halloween. It would’ve been fine if we’d made it there. Getting pulled over while only wearing banana hammocks—also on a dare—isn’t a good time.
“Haven’t we all?” Lincoln says with an amused tone.
I laugh.
“When are you coming into town?” he asks.
“I’m here. I’m early, I know, but I figured why not come down and relax a little before my last semester starts? And your people hooked me up with this hotel, by the way. Thank you for that.”
“Those people aren’t my people. My people are always less organized and not as professional. My people are oversized children like their boss. You’ve been talking to my wife’s people. She’s much more professional about shit than me.”
I laugh again. “Well, thank her for me then.”
“Hey,” he says, his voice rising. “If you’re in town, why don’t you come by for dinner one night? Thank her yourself.”
My eyes grow wide as I watch myself in the mirror above the dresser.
“Really? That’s … very cool of you, Mr. Landry—”
“Lincoln. Please. Mr. Landry is my dad. Trust me when I tell you that the differences between us are massive.”
“Well, that’s a very nice offer, Lincoln, but it’s totally unnecessary. Covering the hotel was way more than enough.”
“I agree. But you don’t know my wife. She won’t agree. As a matter of fact, when I tell her I talked to you and that you’re in town, she’s going to insist you come to dinner. It’s just how she rolls. And, like it or not, you’ll end up at dinner because she doesn’t take no for an answer. If I didn’t love her so much, it would be very fucking annoying.”
I try to process the fact that I’m being invited somewhere with Lincoln fucking Landry.
What the heck is happening here?
What do I do? Do I just say yes because this is the coolest thing to ever happen to me? Or do I say no because why would a guy like this invite me to dinner?
“How about our house tonight at seven?” he asks.
“I …”
He laughs. “Just say yes. Unless you have other plans and really just can’t, you don’t have a choice. Trust me. I only golf once a week now. Before you know it, Danielle has you doing what she wants, and you’re happy about it. It’s fucked up.”
“I mean, I don’t have plans, so if you’re sure …”
“I am. I’ll text you the address in a little while. It’s totally casual, so don’t feel like you have to dress up or anything. Hell, I might even order pizza. You like pizza?”
I grin. “Who doesn’t?”
He just laughs. “Okay. Great. And bring whoever you’re traveling with—bring them all. We’re cutting into your holiday the way it is, so we’ll just make this a family affair.”
Fucking great.
Forcing a smile, I nod even though he can’t see me. “Okay. Sounds good.”
“Cool. Well, I’ll see you and your guest or guests tonight.”
“Thank you, Lincoln. I appreciate the call and the dinner offer.”
“Not a problem. See you soon.”
“Goodbye,” I say.
I sit on the edge of the bed. My brain tries to process the conversation but fires too quickly from one talking point to another. Ultimately, though, it lands on the boiled-down fact that I’m going to dinner tonight at Lincoln Landry’s house.
Bring whoever you’re traveling with—bring them all.
I scrub a hand down my face.
“Can I show up alone?” I ask out loud, hoping a voice will sound out of nowhere and answer me.
The idea of arriving at Lincoln’s house by myself makes me want to puke. I’m used to either having an entire football team or at least River and Crew with me for all important events. If it’s not a football thing, I usually just don’t go. It’s a survival skill I learned early on in life—opt out of everything you can. If you’re not available, people can’t invade your shit. It’s preventative protection at its best. A life condom, if you will.
This was one of the biggest reasons I wanted to turn down the Catching-A-Care thing to start with. I only agreed after a spirited argument to accept from Coach Herbert.
But now I’m not even sure if I can show up by myself. Will I seem like some kind of weirdo who comes by himself when he was instructed to bring his whole damn family?
Fuck.
My head hangs, the muscle pulling at the base of my skull. I have no idea what to do. All I know is that I wouldn’t be here if Coach hadn’t nominated me to start with.
I pick up my phone again and find Coach’s number.
Me: Why didn’t you tell me you nominated me?
It takes a few minutes of me staring at the screen before he responds.
Coach: I didn’t want to hear you complain or argue with me. How are you doing, kid?
Me: Okay, I guess.
Coach: Need anything?
My chest sinks a little.
I need a lot of things, but nothing I can ask him for. He can’t help me with it anyway.
Me: Nah, I’m good. Thanks.
Coach: Hit me up if you need anything, Hudson. I mean it.
I set the phone beside me and stare at the wall.
Over the past four years, Coach has been the guy to help me figure shit out. If he didn’t have an answer, he made sure he found someone who did. Coach always did things in a way that didn’t strip my confidence or self-respect, and I appreciated that more than I could ever tell him.
Not that I have told him that. But I think he knows.
He took pity on the kid in foster care from Indiana and offered him a football scholarship. He had hope in me when no one else did.
Now I don’t even have that. I’m not his charge anymore. The end of the season axed that.
Standing, I lif
t my chin. I fill my lungs with air and then shove it all out of my body just as quickly.
Focus on what you can control.
Right now, that’s dinner tonight.
The issue of showing up alone rears its head again, and I nibble on my bottom lip as I work through it.
I could show up alone or …
An idea percolates in the back of my mind as I take in the roof of Paddy’s through the window.
I could ask Larissa to go.
My lips twitch back and forth as I try to work the idea all the way through. I don’t really know her. Hell, I don’t know her at all. But asking her to accompany me isn’t any crazier than her asking me to be her fake date. She didn’t want to be alone when what’s-his-fuck came by the bar. I don’t really want to show up at Mr. Hall of Famer’s house by myself either.
If I go alone, all of their attention is on me. They’ll start asking questions—poking and prodding into shit I don’t want to discuss. Topics generally on the table for most people aren’t items I want to break down over bread.
I got none of that.
But wouldn’t it be just as awkward to sit next to a woman in that situation who I don’t know anything about? And who doesn’t know anything about me?
This isn’t some sorority chick I’m taking to a Kappa party or a football banquet—a girl who doesn’t care to know anything about me besides the size of my dick. I feel the conversations in the Landry house might be different from what I’m used to ... so I might need a different kind of date.
“Shit,” I say out loud, unsure what to do.
I pick up my phone.
Me: Need help.
Crew’s text comes immediately.
Crew: What kind of help?
Me: I’m not in jail or anything. Settle down, Hollywood.
Crew: When you ask for help, shit’s usually fucked up.
River: He’s not lying, Hollis.
Me: Well, you’re usually with me, River. So fuck off.
River: Eh, good point. Continue.
The Relationship Pact: Kings of Football Page 5