My loose sweatpants feel too tight. This no-girl thing is killing me. What I need to do is convince her to climb back in bed with me so that we can fuck each other out of our systems. So my body doesn’t immediately react every time she comes within sniffing distance.
Her dad already knows we’re seeing each other, and I’m still the starter for tomorrow’s game. Tomorrow night, after we win, I’m going to borrow a few of Zane’s power-thrusting moves and fuck Bryant senseless.
“You bet your sweet ass, you will,” I mutter.
Bryant’s mouth curves up. “Can’t wait.”
I watch that juicy butt as she walks out, and when I notice Ty watching, too, an involuntarily growl rumbles in my throat. He throws a smirk in my direction before heading to his own locker.
I tear my eyes away to frown at the floor. Did I just growl at my teammate like an animal over a girl I don’t even really want? And what about the way I acted with Kent the other day? I was irritated that he wanted in her pants. Ty eying Bryant, Kent wanting to be her man—none of this should bother me. But it all does. I chalk it up to unfinished business. She’s an itch I need to scratch. I get in bed with her, screw her, repeat my no-relationships speech, and then we’re done. Over. Finito.
Bryant stops at the doorway and turns slightly, her voice carrying so that the entire roster of a hundred or so guys can hear her. “Zane’s right, boys. It’s all in the glutes.”
I’m effing doomed.
7
Bryant
Like superstitions, pre-game rituals are as important as anything. They don’t exist merely because players believe a certain set of events need to happen to secure a win. Instead, it’s sort of a mental muscle memory. Practicing the same thing a hundred times a day, a thousand times a week, ensures that the ball is snapped at the exact moment or thrown to the precise spot just as the receiver arrives. Similarly, high-fiving a sign or rubbing the pig’s belly or, as is our case, slapping the behind of an iron horse as the team runs down the tunnel, puts our boys in the winning frame of mind.
The day starts out with a team breakfast, followed by a team meeting wherein the captains talk about how the team is like a military unit. They lose together, and they win together. Everything is done together. Secretly, I think if they shit, showered, and shaved together, Daddy’d be for that, too.
After the captains’ speeches, the team breaks up into its smaller components. The quarterbacks and skill positions, such as the running backs, wide receivers and tight ends, meet together to go over the scripted first fifteen plays. The defensive squads huddle together to be reminded of their assignments.
Once the meetings wrap up, the players collect in the locker room and are given time to settle their nerves. Most choose to sit in front of their lockers with their Beats headphones and their preferred musical selections blaring in their ears. Some will cruise Twitter or Instagram or Snapchat. The trainer’ll come in and make sure everyone’s got every pad, sock, cup, and glove that they need. They gear up. Outside in the stadium, the fans are gathering. The band’s marching off the field. The cheerleaders are getting into formation.
About twenty minutes before the opening whistle, Daddy enters the locker room to extol the virtues of perfection. Every college team that wins a championship must strive for perfection. Nothing else is acceptable, because in college, one loss can mean the end of your season. The goal from the spring workouts through summer camps and pre-season scrimmages is to prep the team to win a championship.
Lots of teams schedule a weak opponent for the first game so that their boys can get a taste of the field before the real competition starts. Not Daddy. We start off with a big-name opponent because the Renegades aren’t afraid of nobody. That and because winning against only weak teams has prevented more than one team from being deemed worthy of one of the precious four playoff spots. Playing strong non-conference teams can also serve as a hedge against a loss, God forbid, knock-on-wood, throw the salt over the shoulder, should we suffer one.
I stand halfway down the cavernous cement tunnel next to the assistant Athletic Director. Sally’s a wiry woman with ash blonde hair that looks gray in certain lights. She adamantly refuses to color her hair, saying that the coaches should know how much they stress her out. Her thin fingers are wrapped around a clipboard that has about five thousand things on it, only ten of which are of any importance.
“We going to win today?” she says. Sally’s from Michigan and kinda talks like Ace—abrupt and to the point.
“’Course we are.”
“You’d say that if we were playing a professional team.”
“There’s nothing wrong in believing the glass is half full, Sally.” I believe in Daddy’s team so, yeah, if our boys were running down the tunnel to meet the Tennessee Titans, our local NFL franchise, I’d still tell everyone we were going to win. That’s my mental muscle memory.
“There are two scouts here. One from Denver and the other from Dallas.” She taps the board impatiently against her chest.
“I know. Daddy told me. I’ve got it all under control.” Alum, boosters, scouts, anyone that needs a little special handling falls under my purview. I keep a file on every visitor that walks through the stadium doors. My dossiers on these scouts are probably better than their notes of our boys.
“Good. Good,” she sighs with relief. Sally’s an assistant AD because she prefers to deal with numbers, papers, and computer screens. People are not her forte. A rumble down the hallway signals that the speech about striving for perfection is ending. She shoots me an apprehensive look. I think athletes might scare her.
“I’ve got everything under control,” I assure her.
“Great.” She gives me a sickly grin. “Call me if you need anything.”
I wave my fingers. “Go on, Miss Sally. Mr. Conrad probably needs you.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” She doesn’t waste another second before scurrying off.
Me? I press my back against the cinder block wall and close my eyes, feeling the thunder of a couple hundred feet bursting out the double doors of the locker room and stomping down the halls.
Ty, Carter, and Travarius link arms at the front. Their teammates line behind them like barely contained animals, pawing at the ground, steam blowing from their nostrils. Ace is directly behind the captains. To his right is the skittish Julio. To his left, our gentle giant Samson. The stream of players seems endless from my viewpoint—a veritable sea of crimson and black.
These are crusaders of a different ilk, conquerors of the turf. The deep beats of the Southern U drumline pound down the tunnel. A wave of sound starts at the front and rolls toward the back, flipping over itself again and again until the space is one giant roar of excitement. My daddy grins at me before sprinting out into the adoring crowd. The team runs by, leaving my heart in my throat and a pair of ears ringing with the team’s anticipatory cries victory.
There’s nothing like opening day. Nothing.
After the last of the staff makes its way onto the field, I follow sedately behind. By the time I get to the field, the band has dispersed and the cheerleaders are taking their places in front of the student section. Ty and the other captains are at midfield for the coin toss.
My heart does a little flip when I locate Ace standing with his toes close to the white paint marking the sidelines. He looks good in those tight, black pants. Some girls don’t like sports, but I figure that if they had a chance to stand this close to so many fine male behinds, they’d become fans real quick.
No one is even within a shoulder pad’s distance of him. I noticed when I first came into the locker room yesterday that he was alone as well, struggling to connect with Julio, the one guy who wanted a piece of his time. It’s hard to be a loner on a team, particularly one like Daddy’s where he subscribes to the theory that you’re loyal to your teammate above all else. Like, if you had to choose between saving Daddy and your teammate, Daddy would expect you to save your teammate.
Du
ring the pre-season, I noticed Ace holding himself aloof. I attributed to it him being new, but it hasn’t changed, not after all these months. That’s going to be a problem if it continues.
If he keeps isolating himself from the team, not only will the locker room become colder than a northern wind, but his on-field performance will be dismal. And if he falters on the field, he’s going to become one of those self-hating assholes that turns to the only area that he’s successful in—ruining women’s lives.
Dramatic? Perhaps, but entirely truthful. Each encounter with Ace drives home the universe’s message that I need to save him from himself and thereby save my sisters—the girls that are still alive, that is, because I was too late to save the one lying in the Angel’s Wings cemetery.
A little ways down the sidelines, one of my marks stands with his head buried in his notepad. I amble his way, swiping a bottle of carbonated mango and apricot juice I had made up for him. “I thought y’all went digital last year, Mr. Khukhrain.”
The portly man’s head jerks up. A small smile spreads across his face when he sees me. “I hate those tablets, Bryant. And I told you to call me Mo that last time I was here,” he chides softly.
“Oh, I know, but I can’t do that. Momma would pinch me purple if she heard me disrespecting one of my elders. Not that you look much older than any of those boys with the pads on. You thirsty?” I thrust the bottle toward him. “No liquor, of course. Just fruit and a little Sprite.”
He takes the plastic container with a happy grin. “You always treat me right down here.”
“So where’s your fancy tablet that I saw you with last year?”
“That thing doesn’t work. It’s made for those twenty and under.”
“Is that what it says on the box?” I tease.
“Yes. No matter what the NFL says, I do better with paper and pen anyway. Besides, if I had a tablet, I’d probably be forced to watch video instead of talking to you. How is everything?”
“Everything’s real good. How’s your daughter? She still playing the piano?” Mo Khukhrain’s daughter enjoys piano, ballet, and softball—in that order.
His eyes light up. “She’s amazing, Bryant. You should see her.”
“You got video?”
With a slight flush on his cheeks, Mo drags his phone out of his back pocket and expertly swipes to a short two-minute clip of his twelve-year-old daughter playing a beautiful and, mercifully short, number. “Don’t tell my boss I know how to use any electronics.”
“This is just between you and me and the turf, Mr. Khukhrain. She sounds amazing. I bet she goes to Juilliard someday.”
“Maybe,” he says, but his chest is puffed out with pride. Stuffing his phone away, he tilts his head toward the field. “Anyone in particular I should be watching?”
“Besides Ty Masters?” Everyone has eyes on Ty, but Dallas didn’t send a scout to the first game of our season to just take Ty’s measure. Mo’s here to find new talent, and, maybe, to see what Ace has to offer.
I don’t lead with Ace, though. I start out with the younger guys. “Julio, our redshirt freshman wide receiver has hands like glue and feet with jets attached. He’s so fast you won’t believe your eyes. Carter is one of those rare birds that flies high but is still one of our best locker room leaders.”
“And your new quarterback?” Mo asks, taking the bait perfectly. When he thinks back on this conversation, he’ll remember bringing Ace up himself.
“Mr. Anderson will surprise you. He’s got amazing instincts. He knows where everyone is on the field at all times. His passes are sharp, and his release is quick. You should keep your eye on him all season long.”
“He doesn’t have much range.”
“Not every quarterback in the NFL needs to be able to chuck the leather seventy yards. Ace is smart. He knows how to make the most of what a defense offers. A team only needs a few yards each down to march into the end zone. And all touchdowns are scored with six points, no matter if it’s a fifty-yard bomb or a two-yard rush.”
Mo jots something in his notebook, hopefully Ace’s name. “Your dad is lucky to have you.” He tips his bottle up in a mock salute. “And so are these boys.”
“I’m lucky to have them. I’ll see you at halftime Mr. Khukhrain. Enjoy the game.” I pat his arm before moving down to charm the scout from Denver, who, unlike Mr. Khukhrain, drinks a dark IPA during the games.
By halftime, the team’s up by four touchdowns. And Ace, despite his coolness with his teammates, is connecting with all his receivers, even the nervous Julio.
I cheer loud and proud and by the third quarter I’m so hoarse I barely have enough voice to brag about the players to Mr. Khukhrain, who’s making furious notes on his pad.
Daddy takes Ace out in the fourth quarter. Disappointment spreads across his gorgeous face, but he puts on a headset and pays attention, which wins points with Daddy. Ace is a decent man. I know he is. He just needs a little more confidence in himself so he doesn’t have to find it in women.
8
Ace
Renegades 1-0
Everyone is riding the high of victory and adulation that comes with winning our season opener. Me, I’m just relieved. We scored six touchdowns tonight—two running scores, and four through the air, courtesy of me. I wasn’t expecting us to win by such a huge margin.
I was worried I might choke out there. Let down my new teammates and my coach. I was afraid that if we lost, the team would write me off, decide I wasn’t worth their time, blame me for screwing up their season. Luckily, that didn’t happen. Or, at least, nobody’s writing me off when it comes to football. In terms of friendship…yeah, I don’t think we’re on the same page.
“You know what the opposite of social is?” Carter wanders over to where I’m sitting. The after party is at the Sigma frat house, which is packed. There are so many people here that it’s standing room only. Since I’m the quarterback and therefore a god at this college, I snagged a seat on one of the couches in the corner. I’ve been nursing a beer here for the past hour.
“Antisocial?” I offer.
“No, the opposite of social is you, dude.” Carter rolls his eyes. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? We’re supposed to be celebrating.”
I grunt. “I am. This is how I celebrate.”
“By hiding in the corner? No wonder Western State was so eager to get rid of you,” he cracks. “You’re the no-fun police.”
He laughs to himself and wanders off, leaving me bristling. Fuck that. I threw two perfect spirals into that asshole’s hands tonight and he’s talking shit about me? I suck in an angry breath, but I don’t know if I’m actually pissed at Carter, or if I’m pissed at myself for alienating my team again.
So far, Carter’s the only one who’s even approached me. Despite my stellar performance tonight, my teammates didn’t offer more than awkwardly slap my back and say “good game.” Once we got to the party, they all spread out in different directions and forgot about my existence.
The guys are enjoying the hell out of themselves. Travarius and some of the other d-backs are gathered at one side of the room, cheering some freshman on while he does a keg stand. Zane is groping a pretty brunette in a shadowy corner. Her red nails scrape down the back of his T-shirt as he practically dry-humps her in front of everyone. Carter is flexing in front a group of adoring girls who keep trying to squeeze his biceps.
Last year, I would’ve been the one lapping up the attention. I would’ve found a sexy, willing woman and sweet-talked her upstairs, where I would proceed to fuck her brains out. After we were done, she’d take off and I’d give myself an hour or so to recover, and then I’d probably go back to the party and find myself another hot ass to tap. Screwing two chicks in one night was a common occurrence for me.
My dick twitches at the memory. Christ, I wouldn’t mind getting laid tonight. Jerking off to thoughts of Bryant is fun and all, but it doesn’t compare to the feeling of sliding my cock into a tight, warm pussy an
d—
No other girls. That’s my only rule.
Frustration rises in my chest as Bryant’s soft-spoken warning floats into my head. Seriously. This is fucked. I’m not dating this woman. She’s not my girlfriend. If I want to screw someone else, I can damn well do that.
“Hey, stud,” a silky voice coos. “Someone as gorgeous as you shouldn’t be frowning so hard.”
I look up to find a pretty redhead sauntering over to me. She’s holding a red Solo cup in one hand and a shiny gold purse in the other. Her little black dress is superglued to her slender frame. She’s got small tits, but she makes up for that by not wearing a bra, so I can see her nipples poking against the front of her dress.
Here we go—a chick I can get naked with. Her fuck-me expression reveals she’d do me right here, right now if I so much as crooked my finger at her.
“I mean, we won tonight, didn’t we?” she goes on. She grins. “Or did I dream it?”
I manage a half-smile. It feels almost alien on my face. I haven’t smiled much since I transferred to Southern U. Well, except with Bryant. She made me smile a lot, even while completely aggravating me. “No, we won,” I confirm, trying to shove Bryant out of my head.
“Then there’s no reason for you to be frowning,” she chirps. “So how ’bout I join you and show you how we celebrate here in the South?”
She’s about to lower her fine ass on the cushion beside me when Ty Masters appears out of nowhere. He easily intercepts the redhead’s arm.
“Chloe,” Masters says gruffly. “Come have a drink with me.”
She pouts and thrusts up her cup. “Already got one, Ty.”
He holds up his hands. “Well, I don’t. C’mon.”
I watch, wide-eyed and annoyed, as Masters ushers my potential hookup away. He glances over his shoulder to frown deeply at me.
Downed (Gridiron #3) Page 6