by Lily Cahill
He makes the last word sound like an insult. “What’s wrong with caring?”
“I don’t need you to care, I need you to play football!” Coach Prescott paces away, then quickly back. “I don’t want your pity or your worries or your concerns or all the tender bullshit that is tearing you up inside. I want your muscle! I want your bones and blood and guts!”
“I’m giving you all I’ve got!”
“Then prove it!” He jumps back up on the tackling dummy. “Prove it!”
I look up at him, trying to summon even one reason to push myself. Lilah hates football players. Something about that makes me hate myself.
“Fuck this,” I say, yanking off my helmet. “I need a break.”
“You put that fucking helmet back on, son,” Prescott said, his voice dangerously low.
“I don’t need this shit,” I say, turning to go.
“You walk away now, Riley … you can’t come back. It’s all over for you.”
The use of my real name snags at something in me, and I stop. I can’t imagine my life without football. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
A life with football means a life without Lilah. And as mad as I was at her for being illogical and prejudiced, I’m twice as mad at myself for caring this much about a woman who doesn’t want me.
“Put your helmet on, Lotto,” Prescott says. “Whatever it is you are feeling, take it out on this sled.”
After a moment, I pull my helmet back on. In its familiar cage, I can only see in one direction—toward Coach Prescott. I think about Lilah and the Mustangs and my future and let the pressure simmer inside me. Then, lodging my shoulder against the sled, I let that pressure blow.
“Good!” Coach Prescott shouts as the dummy begins to move. “Great! You’re doing great, Lotto!”
I drive forward, telling myself I’m leaving Lilah behind with every step. This is my life. It’s always been my life, always will be my life, and if she can’t deal with me playing football, then fuck her.
By the time I finally collapse, I’ve driven the sled thirty yards.
“There you go, Lotto. I knew you had it in you.”
I tug off my helmet and nod at the coach, too exhausted to speak.
“Now that I know you have that kind of intensity, I expect to see it at every practice.”
He claps me on the shoulder before jogging off to another part of the field where Weston is struggling to perfect his spiral.
“What do you think of this guy?” Reggie asks, coming up behind me and tapping me on the shoulder with a bottle of water.
I pour the water down my throat, dumping the last few ounces over my head. The late afternoon Colorado sun is brutal. When I have the energy to speak, I say, “He’s got balls, that’s for sure.”
“He’s no MoFo,” Reggie says, idly stretching his hamstring.
I don’t answer. MoFo was, hands down, one of the best coaches in college football. His eye for talent and creativity on the field was unmatched. There are still plenty of people who want him back at MSU, despite what he did. And I won’t deny that there was a certain comfort in knowing that MoFo had the experience and expertise to win football games.
Prescott, on the other hand, is an unknown. He was with a small college for a few years, and turned their football program from a joke into a competitor. I’ve heard he played college ball himself, until he blew out his knee and had to quit. A lot of people think he’s an odd choice to coach on this level, and he’s been taking flak for months.
But Coach Prescott just made me dig deeper, pull out more dedication, than I had in a long time. He saw my weakness and convinced me to turn it into strength. Which is exactly what a good coach is supposed to do.
“I like him,” I say finally, “but I think it’s up to us more than him. Some of these new guys out here, I don’t know anything about them. Last year’s team was like a well-oiled machine, and this year we’re just a bunch of spare parts.”
“You’re not wrong about that, man. And some of these guys—like Duke Dickwad over there,” he says, sparing a glare for the Brit rugby player, Ben Mayhew, “they take themselves way too seriously.”
I cast a look at Reggie. I’ve heard about the recent shit Reggie has pulled in their shared kitchenette. “Is he still mad because you super-glued all his silverware together?”
“Yeah,” Reggie says with a huff. “I got him some replacements, but he refuses to use them. He called me a tosser, and I don’t need to speak British to figure out what it means. But, I mean, what sort of dude is too good to use plastic forks?”
I raise an eyebrow but decide to move on. “Anyway, we ought to have some sort of bonding exercise where we can all get to know each other better. Like go rafting or camping or some shit.” I say it casually, but I want to bond with my new team. Just not in a way that they’ll give me shit about.
“Yeah, we could do that,” Reggie says slowly, before his face lights up. “Or we could throw a big fucking party tonight.”
I start to argue, but when I really think about it, a party sounds like exactly what I need. A few drinks, some good times with guys who accept me. Maybe I can hook up with one of the hotties who always seem to appear at these parties. That would be a good way to clear Lilah out of my system … and prepare me for the fact that I will see her in class on Monday.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, that’s a great idea, Reggie.”
My cell phone rings just as I’m stepping out of my post-practice shower. I hit the speaker to answer. “Hey, Dad.”
“Riley. I didn’t expect to catch you.”
“Coach let us out of practice a little early today.”
Dad’s silence speaks volumes. Finally, he says, “I thought MoFo usually kept you boys until five.”
“It was close to a hundred degrees today, Dad. And we’ve got weights tomorrow morning then practice in the afternoon.”
“Well, all right. I just hope this guy Prescott knows what he’s doing. It’s gonna be hot tomorrow—is he gonna let you off early then too?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, already knowing how my dad is going to react. “We’re actually going to be in the pool tomorrow, doing water training.”
“Water training? You mean like aerobics? Like the little old ladies down at the YMCA? Dammit, Riley. I’m gonna get in touch with the school board. This new guy is driving your team into the ground.”
“It’s actually really hard,” I protest, rubbing the towel over my hair before tying it around my hips. “We did it last week. You have to tread water the whole time and control your body in the water. It was a good workout.”
“Well, sure, if you’re going to be a synchronized swimmer!” My dad’s voice echoes around the empty shower stall. “But you’re going to be a football player, Riley. You should be practicing football.”
“I am.” I hate how defensive I sound. “My shoulder’s sore from pushing a sled all afternoon, okay? I’m getting plenty of football practice.”
“I don’t know, Riley, I just don’t know. What if this guy is the reason you don’t make the NFL?”
I pick up my shower caddy and turn off the speaker, bringing the phone up to my ear as I leave the bathroom. “We talked about this. You said you wanted me to stay on the Mustangs.”
“I know, I know. But sometimes I wonder if we made the wrong choice.”
We? Technically, it was my choice. “Dad, if I don’t make the NFL it will be my fault, not Coach Prescott’s.”
I could almost hear my dad glowering. “We’ve worked so hard to get here. I’ve never been prouder than when the Mustangs won the Pac-12 Championship last year. And to have it all taken away from you over something you didn’t even do—”
“Yeah, Dad, I know.”
“I just want you to have the best possible chance in life, son. I came close to making the NFL, but you—you’ve got a real chance. You know we’re all counting on you, right, son?”
In my room, I collapse onto the narrow bed. T
he springs squeak under my weight. “Yeah, I know, Dad.”
“If you were to get drafted … hell, the town would probably throw a parade in your honor. You know we’re all watching you this year. This is your year.”
I’m sure my dad means to bolster my spirit, but he’s just making me miserable. “Look, Dad, I’ve got to go. We’re throwing a party in the dorm tonight.”
My father’s tone instantly brightens. “A kegger, huh? That’s just what you need. Hell, I remember your uncles and I had a couple of great parties at Taylor Hall back in my day.”
“I know, Dad.” Everything I’ve done is like a reboot of my dad’s and uncle’s time here. I even live in the same football dorm they all did. It’s exhausting, sometimes, always being expected to be the bigger, better version of their generation.
“But don’t drink too much, all right? If you’ve got two practices tomorrow, you need to be ready to show your best. I know you’re young, and you think hangovers don’t affect you—”
“Okay, Dad. Look, I gotta go, okay?”
“All right, son. Remember—stay focused. We’ve got a goal, and we’re going to achieve it.”
“Thanks, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you too, son. And love from your mother.”
I click the phone off and let it drop to the bed beside me. Talking to my father is exhausting.
Reggie doesn’t bother to knock before coming into room. “Dude, Hawaiian theme. Get your ass up and help me decorate.”
“I just remembered, I hate parties,” I say with my eyes closed.
Through closed eyes, I hear Reggie rifling through some things on my shelf. I crack one eye open just as he’s plucking one of the wooden figurines from the back of the shelf. “Is this what I’m missing in art class?”
“It’s nothing.”
Reggie frowns, staring at the piece. “Did you make this?”
“Yeah, but it’s not big deal. I just whittle to keep my hands busy, you know?”
Reggie peers at the figurine. It’s one of my more detailed pieces—a football cleat with the laces untied. “Can I have this?”
“Huh? Uh, yeah, I guess.” I can always make another.
“Cool. Reminds me of my lucky shoes,” he says, pocketing the figurine. “Anyway. Dude. Hawaiian theme. You know what that means? Bikinis. Lots of girls in bikinis.”
My mind wonders how Lilah would look in a swim suit—all those gorgeous curves spilling out of stretchy fabric—and I have to sit up to hide my burgeoning erection. Shit. Even after hours of exercise and a determined effort to banish my attraction to her, she is still the first woman who comes to my mind.
I won’t have anything to do with a football player.
Maybe girls in bikinis will be a sufficient distraction. “It’s summer, Reg. Where are you going to find girls in bikinis?”
Reggie smirks. “Oh, they’ll come. Don’t you worry.”
I can’t argue with that. If anyone knows how to throw a party, it’s Reggie. “All right, all right. But keep it tame, okay? Coach wants us in the weight room tomorrow at nine.”
“Yeah, yeah. Now get dressed,” he says, throwing a plastic object at me.
“What’s this?”
“Hawaiian theme, bro,” he says as he goes to rouse the rest of the dorm.
Chapter Nine
Lilah
I DRESS WITHOUT MY USUAL flair. It’s hard to get fresh when you know you’re going to eat crow. I need to talk to Riley, and I need to do it now—before I lose my nerve, and definitely before class on Monday.
I owe him an explanation for my behavior. I should never have let our encounter after class verge into personal territory. I’ll just explain to him that, for various reasons, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to pursue a relationship.
Pedaling back to campus, I practice my little speech. I will be very mature. Very adult. And then we can just go back to being teacher and student, like none of this ever happened.
But when I get to Taylor Hall, I hesitate. It’s the dorm in the center of campus where all the football players live. And while the rest of the campus is quiet and empty, Taylor Hall is practically pulsing. The front door is propped open, and music pours out of the open windows. Laughter and conversation seem to be coming from all three floors, and both men and women streaming in and out of the dorm are clutching red plastic cups.
I can guess, from the inflatable palm tree and kiddie pool in the front yard, that they’re going for a tropical theme. As I stand there, unable to move, a group of giggling girls in bikinis and sarongs teeter up to the door.
I don’t know why I’m surprised to have stumbled into a party here. I’ve been to my fair share of campus ragers—in fact, I’ve been to parties in this very dorm, usually with Natalie. But somehow, I thought these sort of parties, with too much booze and too little oversight, would have stopped after the scandal last year. It was just this sort of party where Natalie met the guys who would rape her.
Can I do this? Just waltz into the very place where Natalie started that long, horrible descent? All to reason with some guy? A girl wading in the kiddie pool slips, and her friends just laugh as she falls ass-first into the water.
I want to run up to them and make sure they’ll be safe: buddy up, don’t drink the punch, never leave a friend behind. I want to remind them about Natalie and all the thousands of girls like her who are sexually assaulted every year. Do they understand how much danger they are in? Horrible things happen when girls don’t look out for each other.
Before I do anything, they haul her up and disappear into the dorm. This is such a mistake to be here. I’ll should come back tomorrow. Or maybe Sunday. Any time other than a beach-themed party. Between my black skinny jeans and gray tunic studded with metal grommets, I stick out like a black cloud. I will talk to Riley, apologize … but later.
I unlock my bike and am swinging a leg over the seat when Riley comes running out the door.
“Lilah, wait up,” he says, kicking his way through a plastic grass skirt. “I thought that was you. We need to talk.”
Time seems to slow down as Riley jogs closer. He’s wearing nothing but that grass skirt and a pair of snug boxer briefs. A couple of flowered leis bounce against his chest. That hard, broad, heavily-muscled chest flexes with every movement. Oh, lord. I’m going faint just looking at him.
I’ve spent all these weeks in class admiring the way his muscles move under his T-shirt. Now I realize my fantasies are nowhere close to reality. As he jogs toward me, his abs flex, his pecs clench, his biceps pulse. Below that, the strips of green plastic cling to his powerful thighs, getting trapped around the heavy bulge in his shorts.
God, this boy is built! Saliva pools in my mouth, and my hands fairly itch with the need to touch all that masculine perfection.
“Hey,” he says when he gets close. “I saw you from the window. Are you here for me?”
It takes all of my concentration to nod. I can’t stop looking at him. His angled collarbone … the trail of hair running down from his navel … his thick forearms, corded with muscle.
“Thank god,” he says with a grin. “I forgot how much I hate parties. And since I agreed to this one because I was mad at you, it’s your duty to get me out of here.”
I’m still poleaxed from the sight of his body. And now he’s close enough for me to catch his shower-fresh scent, which makes me want to bury my face in his skin. It takes a minute for the words to penetrate. “You’re mad at me?”
“I was mad at you. Still am, I guess. But I’d rather talk to you than be all resentful and weird.”
“You don’t want to stay at this party?”
“God, no.”
“You live here. All your friends are here. There are a hundred girls in tiny outfits in there.”
“Yeah,” he says, “it’s funny. For some reason, not one of those half-naked girls interests me as much as you do.”
I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. “Riley ….”
I stare at him for a moment. “You really aren’t what I expected.”
His smile widens. “I’m enjoying destroying your prejudices. Do you know the diner over on Third?”
“Duke’s?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. I could go for some hash browns.” He smiles at me as if there is nothing impossible between us.
For a moment, I want desperately to believe it’s true. “Okay,” I say. “But you should probably put on some clothes.”
He looks down at himself, as if he’s forgotten that ninety percent of his glorious body is on display. “I guess I should,” he says. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay? Don’t leave.”
I should leave. But the sight of his muscular ass as he jogs back across the lawn strikes me dumb.
“It’s fine,” I say to myself. “We’ll go get something to eat, and I’ll explain. It’ll be fine. It’ll be over.”
Which is what I want. Right?
By the time we get to the diner, I feel more solid. He is wearing a shirt, for one thing. Also, he orders milk to drink, which is so silly that it puts me at ease.
Of course, he is still obscenely sexy, sitting across from me in a vinyl booth. But I can handle it. I can control this conversation.
“Riley, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what happened this morning.”
A flicker of surprise runs over his face. “You don’t want to make meaningless small talk before you reject me?”
I feel my lips twitch into a smile. “No, I think it’s better if we just dive right in.”
“Okay,” he says, sitting back in the booth. “Dive.”
“It was enjoyable, but it shouldn’t have happened,” I say, my practiced speech coming out in a rush. “I am your teacher, and it’s unprofessional. Additionally, I’m not interested in pursuing a relationship with you, so I shouldn’t have …,” kissed you senseless, I think. “It would be better if we forgot about it and moved on.”
He stares at me for a moment. “Yeah … that’s not going to work for me.”