Wrecked (Love Edy Book Three)

by Shewanda Pugh

  Lawrence put his palms out as if staving off some attack. “Listen, it doesn’t have to mean anything. It could all be coincidence.”

  “What could?”

  “I think the party was Wyatt’s. At least, a guy named Wyatt from Boston threw the party. He’s off campus and…”

  Hassan heard nothing else. This was the guy she’d danced with, disappeared into the bedroom with, and rode off on a motorcycle with. Wyatt. The two of them had made a fool of Hassan for the last time.

  “You okay?” Lawrence said.

  A knock sounded at the door. Hassan swore to Lord Shiva. If it was one of his teammates here to tell him more about Edy, the next one that mentioned her name caught a fist to the mouth automatically. He meant it.

  He threw open the door to find Edy on the other side.

  ***

  He was all dressed up, Edy realized. It was a sharp contrast to the clinging t-shirt and track pants she wore. In dismay, she looked down and saw a splash of puke on her hem. God, what was happening to her?

  “Yeah?” Hassan said harshly.

  Edy nearly looked behind her to see who he was talking to. But his eyes bore into her with such unbridled anger that there could be no mistaking his target.

  “Hi Edy, excuse me.” Lawrence disappeared for a moment, returned with a backpack, and exited the room. “I’ll be at Freight’s if you need me,” he said to Hassan.

  Why would Hassan need him?

  Edy looked past Hassan’s shoulder into the room, realizing he’d yet to invite her in. So he’d heard. He’d heard and he was pissed.

  “Can I come in so we can talk?”

  His eyes went flat and hard and, for a moment, she thought he might say no. Then he stepped aside and she swept in, quick before he changed his mind.

  He folded his arms and leaned against the door. He looked at the floor; he looked at the wall; he stared at everything but her.

  “Hassan, I—”

  “Wyatt?” he said. “It’s been Wyatt this whole time, hasn’t it?”

  Her brows crinkled in confusion. “What?”

  “I’m not stupid, Edy!” he exploded and swept past her in a huff. “All that time you two used to spend together? Him here all of a sudden?”

  Edy froze. Swallowed. So he did know Wyatt was here. But his presence wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t invited him. Hell, this was America. People went where they wanted. “What do you want from me, Hassan? If you insist on being insecure—”

  “You make me insecure! You dance on tables and take tips in the G-string by the sound of it!”

  “What?” She hissed the word in a threatening whisper, moving in on him as she did.

  “You heard me!” Hassan said. “You dance on tables and take ti—”

  His head snapped to the side with the crack of Edy’s slap. He stared at her, green eyes wide in disbelief.

  Edy’s chest rose and fell in convulsing heaps. “If you ever talk to me like that again, we are through.”

  He watched her for one long, endless minute. “I’ve got news for you. We are through now.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Edy cried. She barely noticed when the tears flooded her eyes.

  “You know what it means. Everything we were, are, and were ever meant to be is done, Edy. I’ve had about all I’m gonna take of this. Edy, Hassan and Wyatt, everywhere you look. He trails and you welcome it. I used to think you just didn’t get it. But maybe you like the attention. Like the drama of two guys fighting over you. How about I find some girl to always hang around, trying to replace you?”

  Edy clamped a hand over her mouth, desperate to stop the whimpering, the uncontrollable sobbing desperate to break free. She waited until she found some measure of control before she spoke again. “Maybe you already did,” she said.

  “What?” Hassan said.

  “You heard me,” she stood up straighter, and looked his clothes over. “Where were you tonight, Hassan?”

  He looked at her in surprise. But his hesitation told her plenty.

  “Tell me!” she cried.

  He looked away. “I met with Mala and her dad. We went to dinner.”

  Mala was there? In Louisiana? How long had he known this?

  And he’d gone out to dinner with them? It didn’t take a dinner to tell them he wasn’t interested in what they were offering. Edy could only think of one reason why he’d endure that much of their company.

  And she didn’t like it.

  “Edy…”

  “You talk about me,” she said quietly, “when I’ve put up with you being engaged the whole fucking time. Now I’m supposed to sit aside while you have dinner with your fiancée?”

  “She’s not—”

  “She is as long as you acknowledge the engagement! Not once, not once, have you ever said that you weren’t engaged to her.” Edy trembled under the weight of this truth. “So, tell me, Hassan. If Mala Bathlar’s your fiancée, what does that make me?”

  He opened his mouth and let it hang there for a while.

  “Oh, go to hell,” Edy spat. And he’d had the gall to break up with her? “Go and have a nice life with your new family. Make your mother proud.”

  With that, she stormed out of his room and down the stairs, making it as far as the street before her insides heaved, tears and vomit making a violently awful mess of the sidewalk.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  For the next few weeks, Hassan thought of nothing but football and classes, desperate to put Edy out of his mind. He worked out like a maniac in the gym, scrutinized play after play in their book, and studied without seeing half the time.

  He played brutal football. Mississippi State. Missouri. Auburn. Week after week, he barely saw his opponents or the danger as he powered through blocks, savaged expectations, and ran rough, rude, and ruthless at each and every turn.

  His teammates loved it. The fans loved it. He had bruises on his bruises and parts that never stopped aching, but no one cared about that, least of all him. Hassan ached when he walked and grunted just to sit, but he found it easy, so easy, to not care about himself.

  He only had love for football just now.

  She’d called him a handful of times. When she did, he stared at the phone, but never answered. He nearly called her back every day.

  He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  He saw Edy at the games and sometimes watched her without meaning to. She moved like a goddess and weakened him impossibly. But she wasn’t for him, not anymore. Anytime she turned as if she might look in his direction when he was on the bench or otherwise had a spare moment, he made sure to look as far and fast in the other direction as he could manage.

  He wasn’t over Edy Phelps, but he was working on it.

  At the same time, the competition between Hassan and Paul, the second string running back, seemed to be getting worse. He wasn’t taking riding the bench for a freshman well at all. To aggravate matters more, Hassan’s always-pissed-off attitude had a tendency to eek into every interaction they had. He provoked him, as sure as he did players on whatever team they happened to be facing. Paul couldn’t handle the pressure. It was part of the reason he rode the bench. The other half, Hassan told him, was because he was supposed to. Coach used him as a battering ram to pick up inches and yards when Hassan needed a breather, but the guy played like he had no hips, running headlong into every goddamned block. Now, with Clemson in Death Valley, he was pulling the same shit.

  When LSU’s players started down the sideline, pulling off their helmets as they headed for the locker room, Hassan rushed to catch up with Paul.

  “You gonna get any yards tonight?” he demanded.

  Paul shot him a look. “I’ve got this, newbie,” he said.

  “You won’t beat them with strength,” Hassan said firmly. “The line’s stacked. You’ve gotta move quick. Three, four seconds tops. Hitting the hole before it closes is the only way.”

  Paul gave him a look of disgust. “One good game an
d you think you’re on staff, freshman,” he said. “Why don’t you go pour me some water already?”

  Hassan laughed harshly. “I was good enough to take your job. Coach sticks with me now. Have you noticed? Oh, I bet you have. But don’t worry. He’ll keep you around to get my water, I suppose.”

  He didn’t hear what Paul said next as the marching band milled onto the field, Lady Tigers leading the way. A tall, dark-haired girl led the pack, followed by pairs of girls, the first of which were a blonde and Edy.

  Around Hassan, players continued to stream by, pulling their helmets off, wiping their brows, and shouting appreciation at the girls. Lawrence, Cash and a few of the staff brought up the rear of the football pack.

  The band streamed into formation, girls up front. Lawrence gave Hassan a shove and a nudge towards the locker room. He moved, but not because he should. He realized he’d have a better view of the performance from the entrance to the tunnel.

  Once there, he stopped again, Lawrence on one side, Cash on the other, a few guys behind them.

  The first note hit hard and the girls jumped to position. They moved again, shifting to a new pose with each note, diving in leaps of beauty.

  He’d never seen Edy strut like that. And her hair. What the hell? It was jet-black and sleek, bone straight as it flung like a whip, slave to its master. God, he liked it.

  She didn’t so much move as throb, merciless to the music. Each step sharp and biting, no matter how quick the music flowed, no matter how demanding. Edy didn’t just keep up, she overpowered. He understood why she was out in the front. When her hips thrust, his gaze dropped, when she kicked, his head snapped to follow. He might as well have been her puppy on a chain. He couldn’t look away. He didn’t dare look away. They dropped to their knees, sliding on turf. When they leaned back he caught a flash of abdomen and felt himself throb. Without knowing when, he’d begun chewing on his lip, breath held.

  “God damn,” came Freight’s voice from behind.

  Hassan had been thinking exactly the same.

  “Boys! Lockers!” shouted the assistant coach. Reluctantly, they hustled indoors.

  Once inside, Hassan pulled the offensive coordinator aside and said to him what he’d told Paul.

  “And you think you can make the pocket in four seconds, five tops?”

  Hassan nodded. “Why not?”

  The coordinator grinned and promised to give him a go.

  That he did. And Hassan had plenty of ammunition for the game, thinking back to Wyatt following him and Edy south, back to breaking up with her, back to her saying he had always said he was engaged to Mala.

  They lined up in a Wildcat Formation with blood pumping in his ears. Cash sat the play out, with Paul taking his place in the quarterback’s position. That left Hassan with a spot on the far left, one end of an unbalanced line. At the hike, Hassan shot right with all the fury he could muster, punishing his own body from the second Paul slipped the ball into his hand. He hurdled right, then left, cavorting at a merciless pace, slamming into then through two blockers, before hauling ass at a slant faster than even he expected.

  He was angry. Desperate. Plowing at top speed. This wasn’t supposed to be his life. This wasn’t supposed to be how it went. Him and Edy together and fighting, then not even together… he couldn’t stand that thought. An upperclassman running back who’d sooner kill him than help him. And his mother: his mother was too convoluted to think about, too painful to try and understand.

  Top speed. Faster. Faintly, Hassan registered the roar of Death Valley in his ears, a swarm of white jerseys on his ass. Closing in on the side was a free safety, fast, faster than expected. Curious, Hassan looked and regretted the motion, giving him enough hesitation to catch up. He had to rely on one ruthless stiff arm, but even with that, the other guy grabbed and held. So, Hassan dragged him and together they tumbled into the end zone.

  The crowd exploded, but for him they barely registered. Teammates crowded around, yanking him onto his feet. He was slapped on the head, on his back, on his ass even, as the blare of stadium lights blinded him.

  They were screaming his name in Death Valley.

  But Hassan couldn’t help but glance at the scoreboard.

  He’d have to pull that off a few more times, thanks to Paul, unless the other guys stepped real quick.

  Hassan glanced over at the stands, eyes trained to look for the dance girls, then winced. Had he just made eye contact with Edy? He was being stupid, he knew. But he was no one’s chump and he wouldn’t be dogged or cheated on. She’d had the ability to hurt him deeper than anyone on the planet and she’d done just that.

  He refused to let her think she could pull it off again.

  Hassan made up his mind to put his head back in the game. After all, they were in need of all the help they could get.

  At the close of the third, Tennessee caught a pass from Cash that took them in deep and home for a touchdown. In the fourth, Hassan found the end zone again and looked up, like an idiot, to see if Edy was cheering from her place in the stands. She was screaming like crazy and refused to think of why that might be. He turned his attention to Clemson. They were so resilient that the entire stadium must’ve been on their feet by the time Hassan found himself behind the line of scrimmage again, down by one with less than a minute on the clock. He could do this. This was his moment. Clemson would expect them to go for the run, whittling away the minutes and hoping to close it out.

  And that was exactly what they’d do.

  The center hiked and Cash slipped it to Hassan. He started strong side, faked it, and ran weak, buying himself but a moment. His line was breaking. He saw Freight, his back and lineman atop him. It was his only choice. He took off in a fury, using Freight and the lineman as stairs, bought an opening and took it. A cornerback spied him and charged in, head low enough for Hassan to put a foot in his back and leap over.

  Thirty.

  Twenty.

  Ten.

  Home.

  His teammates screamed as Death Valley rocked on its heels. They were so hysterical, team and fans alike, that Hassan would’ve thought a trophy ceremony came next. Somewhere in the crowd, a Pradhan chant started, and spread in an instant.

  Hassan yanked off his helmet, and a reporter pulled him aside.

  “Hassan!” A pale and rosy-lipped blonde shouted above the roar of the crowd. “What an amazing game! Three touchdowns and one hundred thirty-five rushing yards in a single half. What motivated your performance tonight?” She thrust the microphone nearly into his mouth.

  “Losing,” he said simply. “That’s what we were doing.”

  One corner of the woman’s mouth turned up as if wanting to laugh.

  “Coming in, Clemson was favored because of a high-powered defense aimed at stifling the run. How were you able to overcome that?”

  Hassan shrugged. “Words don’t intimidate me. It’s your job to say they can stop me, else no one would tune in. It’s my job to prove you wrong.”

  She grinned now. “And what do you make of Coach’s decision to bench you till the second half?”

  He was rolling his eyes now. “How about you tell me what you think of that decision. Run my stats by me again?”

  She hesitated, clearly bemused. “Three touchdowns tonight. One hundred thirty-five rushing yards.”

  “Right. And what do you have for Paul? Or did you even bother paying attention to him?”

  Just then, Hassan was jostled by a handful of teammates, and instinctively grabbed Lawrence as he tumbled in the excitement of fellow players. “Why are we even talking about that train wreck? This is the man you want! First touchdown of the night! Lawrence Dyson, son of NFL All-Pro Receiver Steve Dyson!” Hassan hoisted a grinning Lawrence to his feet and shoved him before the camera.

  “Lawrence, coming in tonight, most thought you’d have your work cut out for you with the Clemson defense, however you came out tonight looking a bit like your father. What can we expect from you and the LSU
offense as you square off against Ole Miss?”

  Lawrence beamed with the reference to his dad.

  “Listen,” Hassan interjected, “I’ve been playing with this guy for years. Put him up against any team. Put us—LSU—up against any team and we come out on top. Virginia Tech. Florida. Alabama. Auburn. You pick. You keep talking about Clemson’s defense, but who are you standing here talking to?” He was warming to the old, high school version of himself that talked smack and hyped the team up in the process. “Our coach was a mad scientist when he put this team together, you understand? Now deal with the monster.”

  Lawrence let out a hoot of approval, quickly followed by the hollers of Freight, Cash, Tennessee and more as they tumbled straight into the interview.

  “But Hassan, you didn’t answer the question. Have you any final predictions for the game against Ole Miss?”

  He thought he’d answered her just fine before, but he had no problem being blatantly clear. Hassan untangled from the pack enough to grab the mic and laughed. He was past on a roll now; he was showing his ass. “Ole Miss would better serve as our prom dates than opponents. Look for us in a championship game against Oklahoma.” How’d she like that for a prediction?

  His teammates liked it, judging by the hollers and catcalls he got in response.

  Five minutes later—or maybe ten—Coach paced the width of the locker room three times over, his strides wide before he halted in front of Hassan.

  “Of all the ignorant, stupid—” He picked up his walk once again. “Didn’t you tell me your daddy was a professor up at Harvard?” Eyes on Hassan.

  Hassan cringed. “Soooooo, you didn’t like the interview?”

  Coach tossed him one helluva evil eye, before he picked up the pace, eyes slitted, jaw tense.

  “And Steve,” he said, coming to a stop before Lawrence. “Hell, I know enough about Steve to know he’d never—”

  He turned on Freight, Cash, and Tennessee. “And you three. Upperclassmen! How the hell don’t you know any better?”

  Cash dropped his head, thoroughly reprimanded. Freight shot Hassan a grin over their coach’s head.