False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2)

by Alison Hendricks

  But then I remember the locker room, and that weird feeling from earlier comes back, tangling in my gut. It feels like somebody killed the AC in here, and I let out a breath, trying for air. Erickson’s totally oblivious as he takes his shot, and I’m not even watching him play.

  Instead, I take a step back, swallowing hard.

  Once I’m not so close to him, I feel… mostly normal. A little more buzzed than I should be, and in a bit of a daze.

  “I figured out what I want when I win,” Erickson announces triumphantly.

  I snap out of it long enough to see he’s sunk another ball. But not before my brain starts thinking about the locker room again.

  Fuck.

  What the hell, brain?

  “Yeah?”

  I practically choke on the word. Not as hard as Erickson chokes on his next shot, but still.

  “Teach me some of your moves.”

  My brain betrays me again, but I quickly pull myself back to reality. He means my football moves. Not… any other moves I might have.

  “You know I’m gonna whoop your ass, right?”

  He just smiles at me, and a light glints in his blue eyes. “We’ll see.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m watching Erickson showboat with the damn 8 ball.

  He has a clear shot, no bullshit required. But he seems to really like bullshit at the moment. He sizes up the angle, tries to calculate it, moves around the table and stops just shy of actually hitting the cue ball.

  “If you don’t hit that thing, I’m going to throw it at the jukebox and tell Ben you launched it.”

  Two birds with one cue ball, really, since the jukebox is playing a really corny country song. Erickson just laughs, gives a showy bow, and then sinks the ball with a smooth shot, the cue sliding seamlessly through his fingers.

  “That’s game,” he says, and he’s smiling like a kid who’s just come downstairs for Christmas.

  “Yeah, yeah. Nice shooting, Thor.”

  He winks at me, and I roll my eyes. Even as another flush of heat spreads through my gut.

  “Lucky for you, I’m a benevolent god. You don’t have to pay up right away.”

  I scoff at him. “No shit, you haven’t even told me what move you want me to teach you yet.”

  “All in good time,” he says with a mischievous grin.

  We fish the balls out of the pockets and get them back into a perfect triangle for the next players. While we’re finishing up, I can see the crowd in the main bar has died down. I pull out my phone, and suddenly understand why. It’s a quarter ‘til closing time.

  Shit. It didn’t seem like we’d spent that long playing.

  I can’t help but smile. The last time I really had a night to just forget about all the shit in my life was back when Hawk was still QB at Eastshore.

  Of course, I know it can’t last. The dorm fucked up my assignments this year, and they told me it’d be another week before they were able to assign me a room. That was three weeks ago, but I guess since I’m local they figure they can keep screwing me.

  Sometimes, I just crash at a teammate’s house. But I haven’t made arrangements for that yet, and the guys that are left are fall-down drunk.

  As if he’s able to read my mind, Erickson speaks up. “I’ve got a car, if you need a ride to your dorm or something.”

  I should just tell him I’ll walk. My neighborhood isn’t that far from here, and nobody messes with a 6’3’’ black guy walking down the street at 2 AM. But something in me shrinks away from the idea. If I go home, my mom’s going to want to make a fuss over me. She’s going to spend money she doesn’t have on feeding me and spoiling me, and when I leave again, things are just going to get worse for her.

  So instead, I find myself telling him the truth. “My RA fucked up the room list, so I’m out a dorm for a little while longer.”

  “Shit, are you serious?”

  “Nah, I’m totally fucking with you about being homeless,” I say, though there’s no malice in my voice.

  Even still, Erickson starts to look a little… I don’t know how to describe it. Off-center. Even though we’ve racked the balls, he focuses on them again, making sure they’re perfectly lined up and just touching. He doesn’t look at me for a long time, and I almost consider just leaving without him and accepting my fate.

  “I’ve got a place that’s only about a 10-minute drive from here. It’s pretty small, but there’s a couch for you if you want it. Or a bed. I mean, I’ll sleep on the couch and you can sleep on the bed. I didn’t mean—”

  I laugh softly. Seeing a guy like this get flustered is a treat, but my exhaustion is catching up with me and I can’t really gather the mental energy to tease him about it. Not when I’m trying to summon all my good sense and tell him thanks, but no thanks.

  Crashing with Erickson is just a bad idea. Sure, he seems like a cool guy. Cooler than I thought he was when we first met. The fact that he still wants to hang with me even after my shit is proof of that. But the guy did get drinks for everybody like it was nothing. Even if I paid off my own tab, I don’t really want to owe him for something else.

  It’s not like I need the God of Thunder to come riding in to save me from my life.

  Though it might be nice to just crash on someone else’s couch. Just for tonight. I’ll go home tomorrow, when Mom’s at work.

  The lure of that tugs at me. Hard. My fingers curl around the edge of the pool table as if by holding onto it, I can keep myself grounded; remind myself that Erickson and I are cut from different cloth. Remind myself that I feel a little weird around him, and it’s probably not a great idea to figure out what that feeling is.

  “I’m pretty fucking tired,” I admit, clinging to that as a cover. It is true. It’s just not the whole truth. “Guess I wouldn’t say no to a couch.”

  Erickson smiles, and somehow it makes his eyes even brighter. The dimples are, as always, a nice touch. I can’t help but smile back. It’s like he wrestles the damn expression from me.

  “Not for nothing, though,” I say suddenly.

  His smile slips a little. “I’m not gonna let you pay me to crash on my couch, man.”

  “You got eggs in your fridge?”

  He stares at me, straightening from the pool table. His head tilts just a little bit as if he’s considering whether or not I’m messing with him.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Used to make omelets for the guys I roomed with,” I say, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.

  Something about waking up at Erickson’s place and making him breakfast is… different than just doing it in a dorm on a rusty-ass hotplate.

  The corner of Erickson’s lips tug upward, and he extends his hand. “Deal.”

  I shake it, and that weird flutter rushes through me again. Stupid fucking brain. One accidental boner—not even my accidental boner—and I can’t stop thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

  It’s just a little awkwardness; something that’s set off some weird natural chemistry. No big deal. My brain will get over it, and I’ll move on.

  But even as I think that, I know I’ve seen tons of guys bare-ass naked and never felt all mixed up like this before. I don’t know what this is, but I get the feeling spending the night at Erickson’s place isn’t going to make it better.

  Even still, I find myself leaving the bar with Erickson, getting in his nice, new ride, and signing myself over to more awkwardness.

  12

  Dante

  Erickson was being honest about the drive—it really does take less than ten minutes to get to his place.

  What he didn’t disclose was the fact that his place is a fucking townhouse. When he pulls into the driveway, the headlights shine on fancy brickwork, doors that look like they were either replaced or refinished recently, and a nice little front lawn.

  I knew these places were back here. They’re a throwback to a time when everything was built around Main Street, and your house needed to be… I
don’t know, less than a brisk carriage ride from the theatre or some shit. Some of these places even have carriage houses, though thankfully Erickson’s doesn’t.

  I have no idea what these homes cost, but I’m sure it’s well out of the price range of a normal student, and I’m not positive he’s renting. In fact, I’m pretty sure he isn’t.

  This place here? This is where the wealthy once lived, and where they still live today.

  I don’t belong here.

  My gut churns as Erickson shuts off the car. I consider just bailing; making up some excuse. Oh, I forgot I have to get home for this thing. In the middle of the night. Dogs to walk. Plants to water. That kind of shit.

  But I can just hear what my mom would say about that.

  Don’t you dare. You don’t let anyone tell you where you do or don’t belong—including yourself.

  I hate that even now, she’s still right.

  “Shit, it’s dark out here. There’s supposed to be a light out front but I guess I must have turned it off.”

  Erickson stumbles out of the car and up to the front door. I finally manage to make it outside and take a look around me. There’s a street lamp not too far down the road, so it’s enough to see by. The night is quiet, but not in that ominous sort of way.

  It’s just quiet here because nothing’s happening. Everybody else is asleep.

  He opens up the door and I follow him inside. Light floods the entryway—shit, they probably call it a foyer in these houses—and I squint against the brightness. My sneakers make a solid thud against wood floors. The narrow hallway is papered with cream and some decorative pattern in green. The baseboards look dirt and dust free. Family pictures are matted and framed.

  It’s a stark reminder of who and what Erickson is as I walk through his home. I half expect to be greeted by a butler or some shit, and when the hall lets into the living room, I definitely expect some huge entertainment system complete with a giant ass TV, multiple gaming consoles, and leather furniture.

  It’s the kind of shit I’d buy if I had the money to get everybody’s drinks, at least.

  But Erickson’s living room is… pretty modest, actually. The couch looks like something he picked up from a Craigslist ad. The recliner is a little nicer, but it’s still not what I’d imagine a rich guy sitting his ass in. The TV is smaller than some of the TVs I’ve seen in other guys’ dorms, and it looks like there’s only a PS4 hooked up to it, along with a cable DVR box.

  “The couch is more comfortable than it looks, but the bed’s still yours if you want it.”

  “Nah, man. Couch is fine.”

  I pad over on the soft carpeting he’s got in this room and sit down. It’s definitely not fancy, but he’s right. It gives just the right amount of support and leeway, like the bucket seat in his car.

  “Let me grab you a pillow. You want a blanket, too?”

  Outside, it’s hot and sticky. There isn’t a breeze to be found. Typical Florida summer, where you end up covered in sweat as you’re walking from your car to your front door.

  But once Erickson messes with the thermostat in here, I can feel a rush of cool air.

  “Thin blanket would be good if you’ve got an extra.”

  He nods, then heads down into what must be his bedroom. I hear the slide of a closet door opening, and he comes back with a blanket and pillow before I can even think about checking out his TV. The blanket is just a throw, but it’s the softest damn thing I’ve ever felt. Like crushed velvet or whatever the hell fancy fabric is made out of.

  Erickson seems to notice me petting it, and he gives me a sheepish grin, his hand at the back of his neck. “Soft, isn’t it? It’s one of the blankets I’ve had since I was a kid.”

  “What the hell do you wash it with? Kittens?”

  He laughs. “Something like that.”

  I set up the pillow—which is also soft and comfortable, and seems to be made out of memory foam—on the armrest of the couch and kick my shoes off before swinging my legs up onto the couch. I don’t normally wear a shirt to bed, or even pants, but I’m not going to sleep in my boxers on Erickson’s couch.

  Something tells me that’s just a bad idea.

  “I’m not all that tired yet, so I’m probably just going to watch SportsCenter on my phone or something. If you need anything, just holler,” Erickson says.

  “Well shit, if you aren’t tired, you might as well watch it out here. I don’t think I can sleep yet, either.”

  Even though it’s late, my brain is still awake. My body’s still breaking down all the carbs in the beer I drank, and my mind is trying to figure out what this place is and why I’m not at home.

  So yeah, SportsCenter would be a good thing.

  “You sure?”

  I nod, and Erickson grabs the remote, flicking the TV on before he takes a seat in the recliner. I almost offer him the couch, but he seems comfortable there. I’d guess that’s probably where he sits normally, since it has the best view of the TV.

  But this gives me a chance to lie down and watch. I’ll eventually get sleepy, and this little diversion will have its intended effect.

  The TV comes to life, and I smirk at the fact that it’s already on ESPN. It’s actually not time for SportsCenter yet, but they’re doing an update on the basketball games that were played tonight, and I watch highlights from another train wreck of a game, wincing all the while.

  “Think they’ll have our game on here?” Erickson asks.

  “Probably as a recap, yeah. Might get some highlights. But you can put in on channel 45 and see if they’re doing post-coverage. They cover all the local sports.”

  He switches channels, and while they aren’t covering it yet, the guide says there’s going to be an update program in a few minutes. Until then, we watch the tail end of a minor league baseball game. Erickson and I sit in companionable silence, and I’m reminded of my time spent chilling with Jason.

  He was one of the few people who knew about my dad dying and the toll it took on my family. It was nice to have somebody to talk to about all of that shit. It’s not like I want to go up to a podium and confess everything to a room full of strangers, but one person I can be real with is probably a good minimum standard.

  It’s not like I can’t give Jason a call. I could probably ask him to come hang out and he would. But he and Derek are engaged now, and they both have great jobs. I’m sure the last thing they want to do is come back here.

  I glance at Erickson, whose attention is focused on the screen. His features don’t look as sharp in the glow of the television. His blue eyes watch intently, but the muscles in his face are mostly slack.

  Who knows. Maybe Erickson can end up being that person. If he wants to be, that is.

  “You were right, looks like they’re going to cover it.”

  I turn my attention back to the TV in time for the Eastshore sports roundup. Our football game is the highlight of the evening, and they show a pretty nice reel; more extensive than what ESPN would show.

  When they get to the fourth quarter, I grin. The play Erickson and I made was definitely one for the books, and it’s featured in its entirety, in all the glory of HD, with commentary spoken over top.

  “Holy shit,” Erickson says, and I find myself watching him again.

  He looks starstruck, only the “star” he’s looking at is himself. I laugh, but I totally get him. It’s not really egotistical. I mean it is, in a way. But there’s something about seeing yourself on TV; seeing yourself make a play you remember feeling when it happened.

  “That was one hell of a play.”

  I’m not ashamed to admit that play wouldn’t have happened if Erickson hadn’t backed me up. We didn’t really plan it, it just sort of happened that way; like we were in sync with each other. He read my route and mirrored it, getting the attention of the QB first. If it’d been the other way around, he would’ve made the tackle and stripped the ball.

  “Yeah, it was. I thought I was going to go deaf when the
ref said it was our ball.”

  “Never played in a big stadium before?”

  Some high schools have their big games in their city’s stadium instead of just playing on their high school field. Eastshore High School does that, and that’s why I played at San Hernando Stadium before I ever got recruited by the Tigers.

  Erickson shakes his head, though, and I start to wonder about his past career. I guess I could’ve just kept looking on Google; I probably would’ve found a ton of shit. But I’m not really into finding out about a person by his status online. I’d rather get to know him face to face.

  “I played in a junior league, so we didn’t have our own field half the time.”

  My brow furrows at that. “Junior league? Like pee wees?”

  “Next step up from it. It’s kinda like… I guess what you’d do once your school’s football season was over. We played during winter and early spring.”

  “Oh, yeah. The rec center has one of those. So you just played year round?”

  Erickson frowns, and his attention pulls away from the TV. He looks at me as if trying to decide how he wants to answer; what all he wants to share. I didn’t expect that question would be the one that made him feel that way, but okay.

  “The uh… high school I went to didn’t offer football. It was a private school focused only on academics.”

  Well, shit. Fancy. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s proof positive that Erickson isn’t just the upper middle class version of loaded, where his parents put everything on credit cards. He’s loaded with a capital L.

  “So you must’ve just applied to Eastshore, right? Guessing you didn’t get scouted in a youth league.”

  He smiles at that. “Actually, our championship game was televised. Just on a local channel, but I guess one of the Eastshore recruiters was passing through New England and caught the game in his hotel room. He wanted to meet with me and talk about where I was going to play ball once I aged out of the league.”

  “That is some serendipitous shit,” I say.