by Alley Ciz
“That’s ’cause Grayson’s been keeping her a secret.” He points to me.
I roll my eyes. This guy gives off an entitled, douchey vibe that grates on my nerves.
“I didn’t know Grant had a girlfriend,” one of them states.
“I’m not his girlfriend. I’m his best friend.”
“Yeah.” Adam chuckles to himself like he’s the funniest man alive, and I curl my hand into a fist in an effort not to punch him. “Grayson probably didn’t want anyone to know he wasn’t dating a sista.”
He did not just say that.
“Oh my god!” Em gasps.
I look down at my empty plastic cup, wishing I hadn’t finished my beer so I’d have something to throw in this dick’s face.
“God you’re a racist asshole,” Q says, appalled.
“You know his mom is white, right?” I toss the fact out there even though it shouldn’t fucking matter.
Adam looks over at G. “No way. He’s way too dark to be mixed.”
A collective groan sounds through our group. “Oh my god.” I feel a massive headache forming. “You’re so ignorant, I can’t even.”
I never thought I would say this, but thank god Mason chooses that moment to make his way over. He must have read the tension amongst the group, because he bends down to say, “Everything all right?”
His lips graze the shell of my ear, and I shiver at the contact. It takes me a moment to regain my bearings, his touch and my anger a volatile combination, and by the time I’m able to formulate a response, he has pulled back and is looking at me with concern in his light eyes.
“Sure…just learning how some of your brothers suck at life.”
His laughter rumbles through me, easing some of the tension knotting my muscles.
“Do you need me to handle it?”
I give my head a shake. We don’t need the drama that would bring.
He studies me a moment longer before saying, “The guys said the third quarter started.”
“Oh crap. Thanks.”
See? Why does he have to be thoughtful, too?
#Chapter18
Seeing two of my fellow fraternity brothers talking to Kay and her friends isn’t my favorite way to spend a Thursday night, but if I go over there and interrupt for no reason, I would probably face death by eye roll.
I look away to check the text from Trav saying the third quarter started, and when I look back at the girls, my brow furrows at Kay’s unhappy expression. Even when she’s giving me a hard time, there’s always a hint of a smile on her face; it’s absence now is telling.
I stalk over to the group, the angle of my body projecting Back off, she’s mine vibes, and I lean close, speaking for only her to hear.
With our bodies almost touching, I don’t miss how she shivers when my lips graze her ear.
I haven’t had many chances to be this close to her, and I catch a whiff of peppermint. Inhaling deeper, I realize it must be from her shampoo or something, and I’ve never wanted to suck on a candy cane the way I want to suck on her body.
She’s slow to answer, her throat working with a swallow. I keep my eyes locked on hers, noting the thick black outer circles. I could stare into them all day.
No, no, no. Her eyes? Really? I thought we were making progress!
The way she doesn’t pull any punches, telling me how some of my fraternity brothers suck at life is a major turn-on.
Oh my god! *throws whistle* I give up.
“Do you need me to handle it?” I offer. I want her to know I’ll have her back, even with my own fraternity brothers.
When she shakes her head, I tell her about the game being back on.
“You guys coming?” she asks Em and Q.
A look of disgust crosses Em’s face as she looks at Adam. “Yeah. It’s gotten a little crowded here.”
When we make it back to the den, the seating in front of the TV is almost entirely filled with my teammates who are members of the fraternity. I’m able to claim my original spot but, much to my disappointment, Kay and her crew hang back by the open pool table.
I bullshit with the guys while the game’s on commercial.
“I can see why Grayson’s mom wants him to ask her out. She’s hot.” Kevin nods in Kay’s direction.
A murmur of agreement sounds throughout the group.
“She’s got a quick wit, too. She doesn’t fall for any of Nova’s shit.” Trav laughs over his beer at my expense, puckering his lips to blow kisses at me when I flip him off.
“Wow.” Noah leans forward. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a girl not falling for the Nova charm.”
Thanks for the reminder.
“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up, assholes.”
The game comes back and there’s still a grouping of trainers surrounding a player down on the field. The injury must be bad if they haven’t cleared it by now.
A hush falls over the group as Kay walks closer, her eyes trained on what’s happening on the TV.
“Who’s hurt?” Her voice wobbles around the question.
“Dennings,” Noah answers.
“Matthews nailed him with a late hit,” Alex, one of the team’s running backs, explains.
“It was dirty, too. They ejected him from the game,” Trav adds.
“Damn,” she whispers under her breath. She looks so concerned, and it’s cute.
Again with this cute bullshit.
The network replays the hit. Dennings is one of the biggest tight ends in the league, and seeing his large body get crushed beneath players even has me wincing. After they show the hit in real time, they show it in slow motion from a few different angles, and none of them are good.
I suck in a harsh breath at one particular angle. It was dirty. If the fact that he’s still down wasn’t a clue of a potential head injury, the way he impacted the ground would definitely be cause for concern.
Everyone else has their attention focused on what’s happening, but my eyes remain locked on Kay. Grayson comes up behind her, and she sags into him.
The punch of jealousy I feel at the easy way he holds her to him is foolish and hits me out of nowhere.
Not wanting to lend fuel to the suspicious fire burning inside me, I drag my gaze away from where the two of them are whispering, Grayson’s head bent low so Kay can talk in his ear, and I focus on where the trainers are now helping Dennings up.
The announcers drone on, saying he will be taken back for evaluation and musing on a potential concussion and dislocated shoulder.
When I can no longer resist the urge, I shift to find Kay again, only to see she’s gone—again.
#Chapter19
Twelve hours later and I still haven’t been able to get Kay’s abrupt departure out of my mind, or rid myself of the overwhelming disappointment I’ve felt since I noticed.
Where did she go?
Why did she leave?
Is everything okay?
Shit, man. Are you growing a vagina or something? Why are you so hung up on this chick?
None of the mental chastising does anything to curb my thoughts.
Today is a travel day for the team, and I plan on using the two-hour flight to Ohio to internet-stalk the shit out of Skittles. I have so many questions, and I need answers.
Jesus Christ, is it too late to draft a new player? Asking for a friend. Shit, Nova. You’re killing me here. A girl? A motherfucking girl? That’s what you’re going to use your time on? It’s not like Ohio State is one of the toughest matches we’ll face from the Big Ten or anything. Nah, let’s not focus on football. It definitely isn’t our whole future or anything. You’re right, investing in hard-to-get pussy when the sure-thing variety is thrown at you from everywhere else is a much better use of our time.
I ignore the sarcasm of my inner voice and lean back in my seat on the team’s custom Boeing 747. When you have to travel around the country for half your games, what better way than to do it than on a plane with two levels of fully reclining seating po
ds, individual televisions, and U of J logos everywhere.
Once in the air, we are cleared to turn our electronics back on, and I waste no time pulling out my phone, connecting to the plane’s wifi, and getting to work.
Work? Pfft. Work would be pulling out the playbook, talking to the other captains about the best strategy to beat the Buckeyes. Hell, at this point I’d even settle for you looking up the Buckeyes’ social media accounts. No—you, sir, are not working. You are internet-stalking pussy. The worst part? You aren’t even good at it.
My inner coach is right, and that pisses me off. Except for the rare picture of Kay on Grayson’s and Em’s Instagrams, she has zero social media footprint. Why can’t I find her accounts? Haven’t these people heard of tagging?
Anything that has held potential for connecting the dots has only led to dead ends thanks to privacy settings.
Why can’t I stop thinking about her?
Is my inner coach right? Is it the fact that she doesn’t fall for my Casanova charm that makes me want her?
I’m back to Grayson’s Instagram, pulling up one of his more recent posts from when they all went to the Empire/Crabs game last weekend.
TheGreatestGrayson37: Best buds for life even if she doesn’t respect my brilliant choice of football team. *football emoji* #GottaRepresent #FootballSunday #BFFL #ThisIsOurEmpire #SomeoneGetThisGirlAnEmpireJersey
*picture of Em, CK, and Grayson with Kay caught mid-laugh pulling on Grayson’s Empire jersey*
If I only want Kay because I actually have to pursue her, why does seeing her smiling face in this picture make me want to make sure she always smiles like that?
It doesn’t make any sense. Women are good for one thing and one thing only—release. And before you get your panties in a twist, that release is always mutual. I may not be a gentleman, but I am Casanova. I’m fucking amazing—pun intended.
“You okay, bro?” Trav leans over to not be overheard by the others.
“Yeah, dude.”
“You sure?” His eyes flit down to my phone. “You haven’t been acting like yourself lately.”
I force myself not to react. I’m pretty sure I know where he’s going with this, but I feel him out anyway.
“Whatever, bruh. I’m just as much of a stud as I’ve always been.”
“That’s what I mean.” His blue eyes narrow as he studies me. “I haven’t seen you go off with a chick since school started.”
Well damn. I guess there is one downside to someone knowing you as well as you know yourself.
He looks down at my phone again, screen still lit from my thumb hovering over Grayson’s open Insta.
“Actually…the only chick you’ve even remotely flirted with is Kay.”
I press my lips together in an effort to stay silent. No need to give myself away when denial works.
“I like her, ya know.” He nods at my phone.
I whip my head around to face him.
Best friend or not, Skittles is mine, not his.
Er—time out. Mine? Did I really just think that? What the fuck is happening to me?
The sparkling gleam in Trav’s eyes tells me my mask has slipped.
“Relax. I just meant she’s a cool chick. This isn’t Tina/Chrissy 2.0.”
They say when you lose a limb, you sometimes experience phantom pain, and the mention of the girl who almost blew up our friendship always makes my hasn’t-been-let-out-again heart bleed inside my chest.
“How can you—” I start but can’t even finish the question, too scared of the answer.
“How can I what?” Trav knows me well enough to know what I was attempting to say, but I voice it anyway.
“How can you tell it’s not going to be…a 2.0 situation, as you put it?”
The flight attendants come around offering refreshments, but we decline.
“For one, as much as people would accuse you of being a dumb jock, you aren’t.”
“Feeling the love, bro.” I get a smacking kiss in response. Asshole.
I’m wiping the slobber from my cheek when he continues. “And for two”—he levels me with a look, waiting for me to interrupt again, but I don’t—“I think we both learned enough from that disaster to never let it happen again.”
The engines whir along with my mind as we settle into our cruising altitude. I wait out a pocket of turbulence before voicing my biggest concern.
“Why can’t I find her anywhere online? It’s like she’s a ghost.”
Trav tugs at his ear the way he always does when he’s thinking hard about something. The sounds of our teammates around us fade into white noise.
“Okay…yeah…that’s a little weird, but look”—he touches the picture still on the screen—“she’s real. And…she’s connected to our friend.”
This is true. Plus, another difference is she didn’t pursue me. Pretty much every time we’ve spent time together has been because I went seeking her out. I brought her coffee. I crashed her lunch table. Me, me, me, not Kay looking to use my social status or my football pedigree to get ahead.
“She doesn’t make a big deal about us playing football.”
“Nope,” Trav agrees, making me realize I said that last part out loud. “Most of the time I think it’s actually a negative in her mind.”
Correct again.
Don’t even ask me how much time I’ve spent trying to figure out that one with how much she loves the Crabs.
“You might be right.” I click the home button, getting rid of the picture. I can’t look at it any longer. Besides, I’m no closer to finding Kay online than I was an hour ago.
“You know…” I hit the button to recline my seat into a bed, spinning my hat forward. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I like that she doesn’t see us as stars of the gridiron.”
“I feel that.” Trav does the same with his seat, getting comfortable. “So…”
I lift the brim from where it shields my eyes.
“You gonna make a move or what?”
Isn’t that the million-dollar question.
#Chapter20
Getting E to rest is a full-time job. I never thought I’d say this, but he’s damn lucky he’s recovering from a concussion or there is a very real possibility I would have smacked him already. He is the worst patient ever.
I’ve already had to banish him to his bedroom because he refused to stay seated while watching college football.
“I can’t believe you’re making me watch football on this tiny-ass TV.” E thrusts an arm out at the sixty-inch flat-screen hanging on the wall when I walk into the master suite.
“Yeah, sooo tiny, E.” I roll my eyes. Yes, the one downstairs is a massive eighty-inch screen, but it’s not like he’s being forced to watch it on his phone.
“You’re a mean nurse.”
“Yeah, well, if you could work on regaining consciousness faster, I wouldn’t have to be here.” I scoot Herkie over and join E on the bed.
“You act like that’s something I can control.”
“Still…if you could not scare me like that again, that would be great.” I say this in my best Office Space impression.
Herkie shifts, resettling himself with his head on my lap. We got him as a puppy the year before Dad died, and I probably miss him more than anyone when I’m away at school.
“You know…” E looks to where I’m scratching Herkie behind the ears. “If you lived at home instead of the dorms, you’d be able to keep him with you.”
I sigh. I would love nothing more.
“It wouldn’t be fair. I’m barely home as it is between school and the gym.”
“If you say so.”
I’ve never understood E’s preference for me to live at home. It’s not like we can’t afford the room and board. Bette suspects it stems from him feeling like he can’t protect me when I’m at school. I like to think he’s overreacting, but there is that doubt that hovers in the back of my mind.
“Oh.” I remember the text I recei
ved while getting our snacks downstairs. “I have a message for you.”
Pulling up the text thread, I hold my phone out so he can see the last message I received from Naples, aka Mike Napolitano, a tight end for New England. It’s a GIF of him in his football jersey, tapping his chest twice then pointing at the camera, the words ‘I got you’ displayed above his head.
“What a fucker.” E laughs, groaning as it jostles his recently reset shoulder.
“Well someone has to score my team some points with you on the disabled list.” The trash talk that happens from the players I’ve met through E sometimes gives me the impression they are five-year-olds and not grown men.
“I don’t know if I love or hate that you have me on your fantasy team.” Not the first time he’s said this. “I swear you are more demanding than Coach.”
I love this comment so much.
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“Plus, it could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could be on your wife’s team.”
And now I’m deaf. I knuckle my ear, trying to rid it of the ringing his sudden bark of laughter left me with.
Thankfully, before I have to remind him again he’s supposed to be resting, the U of J/Ohio State game kicks off and the two of us settle in to watch. Even playing professionally hasn’t diminished E’s love for watching the game, and college football is his favorite. He says he needs to keep an eye on the future competition.
The camera pans to show Mason and Travis laughing on the sidelines, and I can’t help but notice how hot he looks in his white and red away jersey, the sleeves tucked underneath the ends of his shoulder pads, highlighting the obsidian ink swirling down his left arm.
“Stupid lunch-crashing football players,” I mutter under my breath.
“Umm…excuse me.” E holds a finger up like a student waiting to be called on. “Did you just say something about having lunch with football players?” His sarcasm is strong.
“Not by choice.”
“Explain.” There’s a hardening to his tone. Why does my brother have to be one of those rare men who listen?