Collins the Shots: A College Sports Romance

by McKinley May

  Before he can answer, I decide to put an end to the verbal sparring. I grab Mari’s wrist, give the gang a wave goodbye, and quickly drag her away.

  “He’s an asshole, that’s who he is,” I explain as soon as we're out of earshot of the group. “Even Parker thinks so, and he isn’t one to cause unnecessary beef with teammates.”

  “He was extremely rude.” Mariana frowns, glancing back over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. “What’s his problem?”

  “Who knows?” I make a W-shape with both arms and shrug. “Some people just suck.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” she says as we come to a stop in front of her adorable yellow Slug Bug. Fishing her keys from her bag, she unlocks the car and tosses her water bottle in the passenger seat with a huff. “I hope I never run into the jerk again!”

  And with that final declaration, she gives me a hug, hops inside the cute vehicle, and drives home to hit the books.

  Vaughn pulls up in front of me a moment later, tires squealing as he rolls down the tinted window. He’s got his cell pressed to his ear, one hand loosely gripping the wheel.

  “Get in, loser,” he calls out before honking his horn twice. “We’re going to the Treehouse.”

  I laugh as I hop into the front seat. “Did you seriously just quote Mean Girls to me?”

  He groans and scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, is that what that’s from? Rayne and Lexie have been watching chick flicks nonstop. Every time I go over there, I get suckered into suffering through another one. Swear I’ve been quoting these damn movies in my sleep.”

  Suddenly, I hear multiple muffled voices coming through his cell speaker. He motions for me to buckle my seat belt before turning his attention back to the phone convo.

  "Yeah. Okay. I dunno." He lifts his foot off the brake and scratches his chin. "Beer stock's fine, but I think we're out of all the liquor. Like every last bottle. Thursday night cleaned us out. Get tequila, whiskey...maybe vodka?"

  I grab my own phone, casually scrolling through Instagram as my bro talks beer and booze with his unidentified friends.

  "Smirnoff, I think? I don't fucking know. I don't drink that shit, but someone obviously does. It's always at our place and it always disapp—shit!"

  The car jolts to an abrupt stop as some idiot swerves out right in front of us.

  "Be careful!" I yelp, using my free hand to brace myself against the dash.

  "Jesus Christ." Vaughn shakes his head and shoots the reckless driver the bird. Another vehicle starts beeping incessantly and he sighs into his cell. "The parking lot is like a freakin' war zone. You guys were smart to get out of here early."

  "Give me your phone." I grab his forearm and try to pry the device from his ear. "You need to concentrate on the road, Vaughn; both hands on the wheel! Let me talk to them. I'll put it on speaker so you can hear."

  "Fine," he surrenders. "Here—talk to my sister so I don't total my damn car."

  I take his cell and stare him down, waiting until he puts his hands at 10 and 2 before hitting the speaker button.

  "Hello?"

  I hear Weston's charming timbre first. "Hey, Sister Steel."

  "Hi, Weston. Who are you with?"

  "Cameron. Just lost him, though. Shit, Saturday is not the night to be here. This place is fucking packed." As if to prove his point, the buzz of noisy customers in the background gets louder. "Wait—there he is. Cam! Hold the fuck up!"

  "Where are y'all?"

  "Liquor store, Baby Blue." Cameron's familiar voice sounds far away, but I'm able to make out his words clearly. "A magical place you won't see the inside of for a few years. Legally, at least."

  "Magical?" I release a loud laugh. "I don't think I believe that."

  I've been in a liquor store by myself on one occasion—buying some booze for a friend's Sweet 16 party—and magical is probably the last word I'd use to describe the place. Dirty, grimy, a cesspool for disease...those are much more accurate.

  But this particular store was well-known for accepting all forms of fake identification, no matter how unbelievable. And mine? It was certainly unbelievable. Worse than McLovin's. It said I was forty-five, blonde, and 4'8''.

  Most ridiculous part was the name on the fake license. I almost lost it when the cashier waved goodbye with an enthusiastic "Have a good day, Miss Ima Hoare!".

  "You'll see in a couple years," Cam continues. "Unicorns and dragons and shit all around. Crazy stuff."

  "Wow. Who would've known?" I play along. "I guess I have a lot to look forward to."

  "Get to the point, Syd," Vaughn insists.

  I obey his wishes, asking the pair what else they need.

  "Ask your brother if he likes Maker's Mark or Jack Daniels," Weston instructs. "And what kind of tequila do we usually get? Jose Cuervo or Patrón? I always forget."

  I relay the info, and Vaughn fires off a quick 'both' followed by yet another 'both'. As we slowly inch out of the crowded parking lot, I act as the middle man for the liquor restock discussion.

  After five minutes of back-and-forth conversation, I'm pretty positive the boys are planning on running the place dry when Weston asks one final question.

  "And what about you, Sydney? What do you want us to get? Pick your poison."

  "Oh, I mean, you don't have to get me anyth—"

  "She likes Malibu Rum."

  Cameron's response is steadfast and certain, so much so that Vaughn casts a suspicious look my way.

  "How does he know your favorite drink? You guys have talked like twice."

  Twice...rightttt.

  More like every freaking day since we first agreed to our deal. We'd talked about drinks a few days ago, my unrelenting insistence that nothing tastes better than Malibu a source of playful conflict in our texts.

  But as innocent as our chats have been, I can't tell my brother about them.

  I hate hate hate lying to Vaughn, but I know it's for the best. I don't want anything coming between us or between him and his best friend.

  "Syd?" Vaughn raises a brow as he awaits my answer.

  "Uh, well..."

  "Lucky guess." Cameron's voice is suddenly louder, and I'm assuming he snatched the phone from Weston to make sure he amends the blunder. "She's a chick fresh out of high school; shitty coconut rum's the obvious choice."

  "Exactly," I add as I mentally wipe the sweat off my brow. "It's the quintessential teenage girl drink. Duh, Vaughn."

  "Whatever." He shrugs off the suspicion. "You guys got all the info you need?"

  Weston's voice takes over. "Yeah. Liquor is so goddamn expensive—holy hell."

  "What about food?" Vaughn calls out. "What do we have at the house?"

  "Parker ordered pizza."

  "How many?"

  "I dunno, dude, ten? Hey...what the fuck?!" A sudden commotion penetrates the line, a few angry grunts and testosterone-fueled words exchanged. "Some baseball assholes are trying to grab the last bottle of Fireball. Gotta go!"

  The line goes dead as Vaughn shakes his head.

  "Ten pizzas? Fitz is a dumbass. That's not nearly enough."

  "Ten isn't enough?" I ask in disbelief.

  "Not even close. There's a handful of guys already at the Main House; that pizza won't last five minutes." He points at the traffic ahead. "No way we're gonna get a slice."

  "I think we'll be fine." I laugh at the thought, stretching my legs under the dash and sinking into the comfy seat. "I know you guys are insatiable pigs, but ten is plenty."

  13

  Bad news: Vaughn was right about the pizza situation. By the time we show up, all that’s left are grease-stained boxes filled with empty parmesan containers and chewed-on crusts.

  Good news: Ellie’s been around these guys and their monstrous appetites for so long she knew back-up snacks were a necessity. She brought all the party-food essentials: crackers and cheese, pizza rolls, miniature quiches…you name it, she supplied it.

  “Thank you, Ellie,” I mumble as I stuff a warm pu
ff pastry into my pie hole. No one else is in the kitchen, so I take the opportunity to pile seven more on my paper plate along with three giant chocolate chip cookies.

  I just ran up and down a field for ninety minutes straight—cut me some slack.

  As I continue scouring the tempting assortment, a bowl of green grapes catches my eye. I should probably refuel with some healthy crap, too. Some actual nutrients to offset my carb and cookie intake.

  I pluck a few from the vine, the smooth fruit settling in my closed palm. I toss one in the air, say “ahhh” as I open my mouth so wide my dentist would be proud, and try to catch it on my tongue.

  Is there any other way to eat grapes?

  Unfortunately, my aim is pathetic. The grape somehow misses my wide open trap, jabbing me straight in the eye instead.

  “Oww!”

  With a groan, I rub my irritated cornea and hit the floor in search of the offending object.

  “Aha!” I spot the grape and snatch it up. “Gotcha! That seriously hurt, you know? An apology would be the right move here, Mr. Grape. Go on. I'm waiting.”

  I realize this must be quite the sight: me, scuffling around the kitchen on all fours like a beagle tracking down a scent, scolding an innocent piece of fruit.

  Good thing no one’s around to see th—

  “Should I even ask, Baby Blue?”

  Busted.

  I dip my head back, looking up into Cameron’s amused gaze.

  “What are you doing down there?”

  “Nothing!” I immediately jump to my feet—sore quads screaming at the abrupt movement—and hold out the fruit. “Just being a respectful guest and picking up this grape I dropped.”

  “Dropped, huh? Is that what happened?”

  “Yep!”

  “Alright. Sure.” He winks, a half-grin lifting one side of his mouth and letting me know he witnessed exactly what went down.

  Oops.

  He sets four brown paper sacks on the island, each one stuffed to capacity.

  "Need a hand unloading?"

  I point towards the liquor purchases and he nods.

  “That’d be great. Paine should be the one helping out, but he always pulls a disappearing act when it’s time to put shit away. Or clean house. Or do anything that requires some semblance of organizational skills.”

  “Oh, Weston.” I shake my head. “And I bet he’s front and center when it’s time to eat, drink, or make a mess.”

  “Nailed it.”

  We start pulling out the bottles one by one, cautiously setting the breakable items on the marble until the bags are empty.

  “So.” Cameron breaks the silence as he opens a cabinet above the fridge, the barren space usually stocked with alcohol. “Is this the kind of party-goer you are? The type who hides out in the kitchen? Has conversations with the fruit and veg instead of the guests?”

  “I was not talking to the food!” I insist as color floods my cheeks.

  He gives me a knowing smirk and motions for a drink. I hand him the honey-colored Fireball whiskey.

  Looks like the baseball boys lost the battle of the booze.

  “For your information,” I begin as I place another bottle in his grasp, “I’m the kind of party pooper who scopes out the place for the pets. None of y’all have any, though, so demolishing the snack bar was the next best option.”

  “Won’t argue with that.”

  I cock my head to the side. “It’s strange that no one has an animal. A dog, a cat, a singing cockatoo…The Treehouse needs a mascot!”

  “I think a monkey would be the most fitting for this jungle oasis,” Cam says with a laugh. “But most of these guys can barely take care of themselves, let alone a stubborn kitten or hyperactive puppy.”

  I grin. “Good point.”

  “Also, the lease doesn’t allow it.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “A couple of years ago, one of the seniors bought a pet ferret for the house. He named him Mr. Slinky and spoiled that damn thing rotten. Let him have free roam over the entire property, prepared him organic meals, built him a fancy dollhouse type of thing to sleep in…he really went all out for the snake-rat. Mr. Slinky was a real chick magnet at parties, but he had a shiny item fetish. All of our shit was constantly going missing. Car keys, watches, even our cell phones would disappear. Dunno how he managed to drag those off, but he did. We looked fucking everywhere, but we couldn’t track down his stash of expensive stolen goods. It was actually starting to become a financial burden.”

  Cameron opens the freezer, stuffing a large bottle of vodka inside as he continues. “It all came to a head when this one defender who lived in the Redhouse was going to propose to his long-time girlfriend. Being a broke-ass college student, it took him an entire year to save up for the perfect ring.”

  “Oh no.” I grimace, aware of where this story is headed.

  “Oh yes,” Cam confirms. “The day of the planned proposal, the ring disappeared. Vanished into thin air. Mr. Slinky strikes again.”

  “Mr. Slinky strikes again,” I repeat in disbelief. “Y’all never found it?”

  “Nope. The stash is still here somewhere. Maybe some Warriors will find the infamous pile of shine in a decade or two.”

  “So what did he do? Cancel the proposal?”

  “Nah. Poor guy had to go to Walmart and buy a cheap replacement. He promised his girl he’d get her a nicer one before the wedding, but she was really chill about the whole thing.”

  “Dang. That’s wild. But you have to admit it—ferrets are so adorable.”

  “Adorable? No way. Ferrets are so evil,” he amends my statement before shaking his head. “Anyway, after that little fiasco, the ‘no pets’ addendum was added to the end of the lease.”

  He looks over his shoulder in the direction of the front yard. “New dude seems like the type to break that rule. He probably has a fucking boa constrictor or a tarantula crawling around his room."

  “A pair of hissing cockroaches is my guess,” I add with a shudder.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.” Cameron points at the final bottle on the counter. “Give me that last one.”

  My eyes bounce to the familiar white container—Malibu Rum.

  Or, as I like to call it, Malibu Yum.

  So delicious. So tropical.

  So misleadingly deadly.

  I start to hand it over, but just before Cam’s fingers brush the glass, I yank it back.

  “You know what? I think I’ll hold onto this one for the night.” I cradle the bottle in my arms, tucking it away from view. “Do y’all have a giant straw I can use?"

  He grunts at my words. “You think you get that entire thing to yourself, Baby Blue?"

  “Of course. You did get it for me, did you not? I’ll consider it my prize for scoring the game winner."

  “It was a good goal, but…” He steps forward, one brow raised high. “I dunno if it’s worthy of the whole bottle."

  “What? Are you saying you would’ve saved my shot?” I click my tongue playfully. “Doubtful."

  “It’s cute you think that.” With a cocksure smile, he reaches out, those long fingers wrapping around the base of the drink. “I definitely would have blocked it."

  “Maybe. Maybe not."

  “You know I can read you like a book, Sydney. You wouldn’t stand a chance against me."

  He steps even closer, that cocky demeanor emanating off of him in waves. His brilliant gray eyes latch onto mine, a challenge swimming in their depths.

  “Just wait," I say with a sly grin. "I’ll crack the code to schooling you soon enough."

  He gently pulls the bottle, I pull back, our flirtatious game of tug-o’-war brought to a halt when someone clears their throat behind us.

  Immediately, we jerk away from one another, both of us releasing our grip on the alcoholic beverage. Bottle meets floor in an explosive shatter, the kitchen tile quickly covered in a mess of glass shards and sticky, island-scented liquid.

  “P
arty foul!” someone shouts from the next room.

  “Dammit. My bad."

  “I’m so sorry! Shit."

  Our words mesh together in a chorus of expletives and apologies.

  “It’s my fault.” Parker, the sneaky throat-clearer, rubs the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to startle y’all. I just wanted to let you know we’re about to put in the movie. Diego’s demanding everyone’s presence in the living room for the show."

  “Okay, cool. Can’t wait!” I exclaim with slightly too much enthusiasm. I sound guilty as hell, but I’m not sure why.

  It’s not like he caught me and Cameron doing anything wrong.

  Parker opens the fridge, head cocked at the two of us. “What are y’all doing in here, anyway?"

  I let calm and collected Cam take the reins on this one.

  “Just restocking the liquor supply. You want anything?"

  “Sticking with H2O tonight, but thanks for the offer."

  He cracks open his bottle of water and gives us one final perplexed look before exiting the kitchen.

  Cameron pulls open a drawer, grabs a washcloth, and holds it under the running tap. I start to tear off a chunk of paper towels to help, but he shakes his head.

  “I’ll clean it up."

  “Are you sure?"

  “Yeah.” He tips his chin towards the door. “Go watch the movie. I think I’ll survive missing the first few minutes."

  I join the crowd of soccer players and girlfriends in the living room. Most of them are gathered around Rayne and Vaughn as they play some dumb game on the Xbox, so I snatch prime seating while I have the chance. The small loveseat is the comfiest couch at the Treehouse—a fact I learned when I crashed here a few weeks ago. I plant my butt on its cloud-like cushions before anyone else can claim the spot.

  The couch fits two, and I get the strong urge to stretch my legs across the entire thing and save the additional spot for Cameron.

  A myriad of conflicting thoughts fly through my mind.

  Would it be overkill to wave him over and offer him the seat?

  Am I sending the wrong message if I do that?

  Is he gonna think I’m being a clingy weirdo?

  Shit…would he even want to sit by me?

  I don’t know why I’m freaking out over something so trivial, but the good thing is it doesn’t last long. Victor, a Warrior player with an impressive man-bun, kicks the empty space beside me.