“You sleep well?” I ask inanely.
“Sure did. Hold on for a minute.” She scoops something I can’t see from a pan and turns her back.
Her blonde hair is caught in a low pony hanging over one shoulder. Bryant’s body is small and round all over—round tits, round ass, round thighs. She’s got a perfect, fuckable body.
My blood surges. I want another chance. I’m here. I might as well use the time wisely. I close the distance between us, vaguely registering the two pans on the stove, a few cooking utensils, a discarded bowl.
“I’ve got this ready for you.” She spins around, her tits brushing against my chest. Before I can dip my head to kiss her berry-red lips, she shoves a tinfoil-wrapped thing into my hand.
In the next moment, she’s got a palm on my back, urging me out into the hallway. “So I’ve got class this morning and then a practicum starting at one, but I want to go early to check out a few things. My afternoon’s full with some sorority things that you don’t want to hear about, so I’m thinking brunch.”
“Brunch?” I ask. “I was thinking—”
“Yes, ten thirty, after your morning practice is over,” she says as if I hadn’t spoken. “At the Steak House. I like that place the best because they serve mango juice and I love mango juice.”
“Ten thirty,” I repeat like a dumbass. “For brunch.” What in the hell is she talking about?
“Yup. Here are your flips, sugar.”
She points to the floor. I shove my feet inside the sandals. Before I can voice another objection, the front door is open, and I find myself standing on the other side.
“See you at ten thirty.” She smiles brightly one more time and shuts my own door in my face.
2
Ace
I head to practice wondering what in the hell just happened. I’m not really meeting up for brunch with this chick, right? I mean, she didn’t even give me a chance to respond, so if I’m a no-show, she can’t really hold it against me.
Right?
Fuck. But if I don’t go, it might get back to my new teammates that I stood Bryant up. And, judging by the worshipful way they’d all treated her last night, I don’t think they’d like it if they found out I ditched the girl.
Plus, there are two things I’m good at: sex and football, and right now I need to concentrate on the latter.
By the time I reach the Fieldhouse, the Renegades’ football facility, I decide that I’ll go to brunch, tell her to leave me the hell alone, then go back to studying the playbook. My teammates hate me now, but once I start winning, all that animosity will fade away. Locker rooms have no conflict when you’re winning.
The facility reminds me of pictures I once saw of a gentlemen’s club in a GQ magazine. It’s all dark wood and leather with the accents of crimson and gold. It’s as state of the art as the facility up in Western State, requiring a key card to get in and featuring more than one security guard walking the polished tiles in the corridors.
I nod at a tall guard wearing a black uniform with a crimson horse insignia over the chest, and make my way toward the locker room. When I stride in, most of the guys are already inside, changing out of their street clothes and shooting the shit by the leather-padded lockers. Mornings are for weight training, meetings with your position coaches, and, for those unlucky bastards who are banged up, visits to the medical staff.
“You’re late,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn to find Ty Masters looming over me. For a moment, I’m disoriented. Ty is a carbon copy of his brother Knox, who I played with back at Western. The same massive physique, dark hair, and intense green eyes. I’d never be able to tell them apart in a line-up. The only reason I know it’s Ty standing in front of me right now is because Knox is currently kicking off his rookie season in New York for the Cobras.
I fish my phone out of my back pocket and discover that I’m right on time. “It’s six twenty-five,” I answer, a furrow in my brow. “Practice starts at six thirty, no?”
“If you’re not early, then you’re late.”
Right. I’m still not used to the idea that if the schedule says eight, I’m supposed to be here ten minutes to. If you wanted me here ten minutes before the hour, then put it on the fucking schedule. As it is, I have five minutes and that’s plenty of time for me to throw on my weightlifting gear, which consists of gym shorts, a tank, and a pair of tennis shoes.
Ty strides off toward his own locker, high-fiving one player, joking with another. Everyone here looks up to him. If I was smart, I’d spend my days kissing his ass, but that’s not ever going to happen. See, I’ve got something Ty doesn’t.
Like his brother, Ty plays defensive end. He’s definitely good enough to play for the pros, has won a boatload of college awards, but the most prized one of all eludes him—a national championship title. And out of all the yahoos in this room, only one person has won that all-important game. Me. I’ve done it twice.
Which means I’m not bowing and scraping to anyone here. I might not be a first-round draft pick, but I’m a winner. At least for now.
I doubt I’ll enter the draft. Even if I did, I probably wouldn’t be drafted in the top rounds—there are better college QBs out there than yours truly. Not that I care. Okay. Maybe I do care. A little. I mean, it’d be sick to play football at a professional level, but everyone knows I’m not good enough.
I fucking hate not being good enough.
“Yo, QB,” someone shouts from across the room.
I finish pulling my tank over my head before turning to see who called me. It’s Travarius Daly, one of our star cornerbacks. Definitely pro material. Southern churns out NFL-ready players like a little football player factory.
“Yeah?” I call back warily.
“Heard you went home with Bryant last night,” Daly says, wandering over. He flicks an elastic band off his wrist and starts tying his thick mass of dreadlocks into a low ponytail.
“Yeah, I did.”
“And?” He watches me expectantly.
I stiffen. Is he expecting locker room talk? Does he want to know how tight her pussy is? If she gives good head? If I fucked her in the ass? At my old college, I probably would’ve given him a detailed account of the fucking, but, at my old school, I was a Grade-A asshole. I didn’t give a shit about etiquette. Hell, I didn’t give a shit about anyone around me. That’s why they ran me out.
This year, my senior year, I’m trying to be…better, I guess? I’m still an asshole, and I still don’t give a shit about many people, but I’m not falling into old habits. Or, at least, I’m trying not to. Besides, I have no doubt that sharing details about how I plowed Bryant last night would only confirm Ty’s low opinion of me. Through his brother, Ty knows all about my past bad behavior.
I settle for, “She’s a nice girl.”
Someone hoots. “Nice? Dude, that woman is a goddess.”
I glance over. Carter Kittredge, one of my roommates and the wide receiver I’m still not clicking with, is the one who made that declaration. The leanly muscled guy joins me and Travarius and rubs his hands together in delight.
“You know what this means, right, T?” he asks our teammate.
“Peach fuckin’ pie!” Travarius replies, and the two guys exchange an excited high-five.
“And oatmeal raisin cookies,” our star running back, Remy Borland, pipes up. “Holy fuck, those cookies.”
“Nah, her homemade donuts are way better than the cookies,” someone argues.
And now I’m surrounded by half a dozen players, all of who are raving about the various baked goods Bryant is apparently a whiz at producing. My mind’s spinning a little. I mean, yeah, the woman is hot and, yeah, the breakfast sandwich she made was better than anything I’d ever stuffed in my mouth, but she’s weird. And cool, too, or at least she seemed cool up until she tried faking an orgasm and then railroaded me into a brunch date.
But the way these guys are going on about her, you’d think she invented the Hail Mary.
&
nbsp; “Don’t fuck this up for us,” a stern voice tells me.
The warning comes from the left tackle, the guy who guards my blind side. Samson, whose huge belly folds over the top of his long athletic shorts, is a monster on the field. He hasn’t allowed a sack in five hundred thirty-three snaps. I plan to be extra nice to Samson.
“Yeah,” Carter agrees, frowning deeply at me. “I’ll lay you the fuck down if you screw this up for the team. We haven’t had good treats on the regular since she dated—” He stops.
I frown back. “Since she dated who?” And shit, why am I even continuing this conversation? I made a vow to clean up my act this year, which includes not engaging in locker room talk.
“Tommy Hillard,” Travarius fills in. “Slot receiver we had last season. Those two dated her sophomore year?”
Carter nods. “That’s right. Man, it’s been almost three years.” Dude is almost in tears.
I nod, because the name rings a bell. “What happened to that guy? He had good instincts.”
Carter snorts. “On the field, maybe. Off of it? Not so much.”
“He got kicked out for fighting,” Samson explains.
“Her only failure,” someone else remarks with a heavy sigh.
“She didn’t have him an entire term,” Travarius protests.
“Yeah, but he still blew it for us.”
“After that it was engineering students and the goddamned golf team,” Samson grumbles. Then he brightens up. “But Ace is bringing her back. Way to go, man.”
This team is fucked. I suddenly wonder if I shouldn’t have bothered with all the efforts to connect with these guys during training camp.
Travarius pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t fuck this up.”
The other guys reiterate the warning before wandering back to their lockers to finish dressing.
I resist the urge to scratch my head in dismay. Football players gossip about chicks as much as any other dudes, but this whole situation is…weird. They all seem oddly enraptured by Bryant, and equally protective of her. Who exactly is this chick?
She didn’t have him an entire term.
And what the fuck does that mean?
“Anderson.”
I look up at the sound of Coach’s voice. The stocky, dark-haired man stands in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes stern.
“My office, two minutes,” he commands. He turns to address the room. “Enough chatting, assholes. I want to hear the clanging of weights in about two seconds or you’re all running until your chicken legs give out.”
Carter snickers and gives a brisk salute. “Aye aye, cap’n.”
As the other guys finish changing and start filing out of the room, Ty Masters stalks up to me again.
“My brother said you had a reputation at Western for treating women as disposable.”
Equal parts anger and shame jolt through me. Anger, because who the hell is he to say that to me? And shame, because he’s goddamned right. I wasn’t exactly a choirboy before. I fucked my way through Western State without so much as a backward glance. I slept with my coach’s daughter even though I knew it threatened my position on the team. I definitely had more than one drink thrown in my face. I was a player, through and through. Hell, I lost my best friend because of it.
The shame in my gut hardens into a tight knot of guilt. Truth is, I always assumed I’d end up with Lucy Washington. We’d grown up together, and she was the only girl I ever felt comfortable enough around to actually let down my guard. I had a future in mind for us—marriage, kids, all that jazz.
Except I was a selfish ass. I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too. I wanted to party and fuck and be wild in college, get all that shit out of my system, and then settle down. And I expected Lucy to wait for me while I did that.
She didn’t wait.
And I…didn’t handle it very well. I lashed out at her. Hurt her. Pretty much severed the bond between us and destroyed the one friendship that always meant so much to me.
I’m an asshole, remember?
“I’m not that guy anymore,” I answer through gritted teeth.
Ty arches a brow. “No?”
“No.”
He ponders that for a moment. Then he shrugs and says, “New team, new slate.”
A small gust of relief washes over me. “You mean that?” I say gruffly.
“Always say what I mean,” is the equally gruff response. He slaps a hand on my arm and adds, “Coach’s waiting for you.”
I watch Ty leave the locker room. He might look exactly like his brother, but he’s way more easygoing and less into being the center of attention. And, from the girls I’ve seen him hanging out with, my guess is that he’s not a virgin like his brother was—holding out for the one, which was the biggest load of bullshit that Knox Masters enjoyed shoveling into the locker room. My one is football, not a girl.
Shrugging out of my thoughts, I duck into the hall and make my way to Coach Johnson’s office. It’s a huge space with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the practice field. So much natural light streams in that he doesn’t even have to flick on the overhead lights.
“Hey, Coach. You wanted to see me?” I shift awkwardly, because in my experience, a visit to my coach’s office usually means I’ve fucked up.
“Have a seat, JR.”
I lower myself onto one of the plush chairs in front of his huge, mahogany desk. Coach sits down, too, clasping both hands on the desktop.
“How’s it going?” he asks, studying my face. “Anyone giving you trouble?”
I wrinkle my forehead. “You mean the other guys?”
He nods.
“Oh. Ah, no, sir. They’ve been very welcoming.” Well, that’s not entirely true. All through summer camp, they were cordial but guarded. Today’s the first day that none of them looked at me with suspicion, and it bugs me that their sudden warming up had more to do with Bryant and her damned cookies than me.
“Good, good to hear.” He’s nodding some more. “Let me know if that changes. I brought you in because these guys need a leader.”
I shift in discomfort again. A leader? I’m not a leader. My plan for this year is just to keep my head down.
“And I had a good feeling about you,” he continues.
I can’t help but offer a dry look. “Yeah? You sure you don’t have amnesia? I mean, you know what happened with my old team.”
After winning two national championships for Western State, my coach decided the starting job would be given to some untested and unproven freshman. I was to move to another position—either wide receiver or defensive back. If I didn’t, then I was in danger of riding the bench all season long. It was a humiliating comedown, and when I was offered the opportunity to transfer, I jumped at it.
“You made some bad decisions,” Coach Johnson agrees. “But the fault wasn’t entirely yours. I’m not one to question another coach’s methods, but I don’t think Coach Lowe correctly handled that situation.”
No shit. That bastard was so pissed I hooked up with his daughter, Stella, that he lit a match to my football career and sent it up in flames.
“I’m not as strict when it comes to that,” Johnson goes on. He leans back in his chair and changes the subject. “I heard you’re meeting Bryant for brunch?”
It’s difficult to keep my jaw closed.
Okay. What in the fucking fuck is up with this school? I’ve got teammates high-fiving each other because I hooked up with a jock chaser (which, at any other school, is such a common occurrence that nobody would even bat an eye), and now I’ve got my coach telling me he knows about my brunch plans? The brunch plans I didn’t even agree to?
“Sir?” I say stupidly, because it’s all I can think to say.
His brow furrows. “Did I get it wrong? I thought she mentioned she was meeting you at ten thirty?”
Where is an emergency exit when you need one? Well, I guess that’d be the door. Would he ream me out if I just got up and left? I’m tempted, because…becaus
e I don’t know what in the hell is happening right now.
“No, it’s ten thirty,” I find myself replying.
“Ah, I thought so.” He gives another nod. “I just wanted you to know that I’m aware of it—”
Of what? Brunch?
“—and that I have no objections.”
To what? Brunch?
“Oh.” I shove a hand through my hair. “Okay.”
“I’ve noticed a change in you through the duration of camp,” he says. “You’re more mature than the kid I met at the beginning of the summer. But while Bryant can hold her own, I’d be a bad dad if I didn’t give you the fatherly warning.”
Wait. What?
“I think my daughter’ll be good for you, Ace.” He smiles. “She knows football and football players. You’re going to have to learn to say no, though.”
Panic races through me at each word he utters. My brain is only capable of producing a flurry of short, increasingly horrifying thoughts.
His daughter.
“She sometimes has a tendency to steamroll over folks, and, like her momma, she thinks food solves everything. Try not to eat everything she cooks for you.”
Bryant is Coach’s daughter?
“She keeps thinking that everyone runs like those string beans we call wide receivers. You quarterbacks don’t run around as much. We want you to stay around two twenty-five, two thirty. No more. I’ve told her that, but she doesn’t listen to me.”
Bryant is Coach’s daughter.
I fucked my coach’s daughter.
“My office door is always open if you need to talk or unload some baked goods, you hear?”
I feel my head move up and down, but it’s hard to pull out of the jumbled tailspin. By the time I manage to recover, there’s only one thought left in my tired brain.
Oh Jesus. Not again.
3
Bryant
Ace comes storming into the diner at ten-thirty. It’s amazing to me that after summer camp and then four weeks of pre-season, he hasn’t learned that my father operates under the ol’ if you’re on-time, you’re late proverb, but since he’s performed admirably in other ways, I guess he’ll figure it out soon enough.
Downed (Gridiron #3) Page 2