"You ever miss it?" I ask. Brody looks at me, confused, and I add, "The life you had before Alicia. I mean... you and me used to tear it up."
A fond grin crosses his face and he leans over the counter. "You were one hell of a wingman. And I wasn't so bad myself."
No, he wasn't. More often than not, we'd both get laid by whoever we were going after. A pretty sorority girl for him--that used to be his type, anyway--and a rough-looking jock for me.
It was a good time all around. Then he met this quiet, sort of nerdy girl in his English Lit class, and suddenly he wasn't interested in hitting the club anymore.
I resented him a little at first. I'm not proud of it, but it felt like I was losing one of the two things Brody and I really bonded over. These days, Alicia and I are cool, and I'm just happy he's found somebody.
But I never thought I'd want the same thing. Now I can't stop thinking I should.
"So, you miss it?" I ask again.
Brody takes a long drink from the bottle, but there's nothing desperate in it. It's not like my own need to muddy my thoughts. I can see in his eyes he's already certain about whatever he's going to say.
"I miss hanging with you, but the rest of it?" He makes a ‘psh’ sound from between his teeth. "Trying to get with some girl I didn't even know, forgetting about her as soon as I was done getting off? Nah, man. I don't miss it."
His gaze settles on me, blue eyes searching so hard I almost want to look away. The last thing I need is him somehow figuring out all the stupid shit that's been going around my head.
"Why? Having second thoughts about the perma-bachelor life?"
I snort at that, and I can feel my face contorting into some version of the smug asshole I usually play. "Hell no. What you've got with Alicia is great, but I like being able to kick a guy out of bed before shit gets heavy."
Except it's not a choice. I take whatever they'll give me, and it usually just amounts to me letting them have my mouth or ass and hurrying to finish myself off before they nut and start acting weird.
There's nothing mutual about it. I always make sure of that. The only guys I've hooked up with since high school are guys I don't have to expect anything from.
Guys who can't disappoint me. Guys who can't hurt me.
That realization slams into me, and I fight it back with the rest of my beer, then a few more for good measure. When that doesn't slow me down, Brody pulls out the tequila and we do so many shots I can hardly see straight by the time I stumble on home.
As soon as I reach the C dorms, I know I should've just crashed at Brody's place. I didn't want him to see me like this--past the happy buzz stage and full on into the swaying, slurring, “what the fuck have I done with my life” stage.
But I sure as hell don't want Owen to see me like this, either, and of course he's already in bed like a good little schoolboy by the time I clatter into our room.
I make a fuck ton of noise before I realize I'm doing it on purpose; that I'm trying to wake him up. The door bangs shut, my bag gets tossed across the room, and I trip over the edge of his bed and swear up a storm. It's the last that wakes him, and he bolts up on his elbows. Shirt off, hair a mess, lips pursed in confusion. He looks crazy fuckable right now.
Worse than that, he looks kissable.
"Think you could make any more noise?"
I plop down on the edge of my bed and face him while I try to figure out the difficult task of pulling my sneakers off. "Yep."
Owen's nose scrunches as he looks at me. "Smells like you bathed in a distillery."
"Just about."
I manage to get one shoe off, then the other. Undoing my belt is a hell of a lot harder, though, and I end up just tugging on the clasp, trying to get the little piece of metal to go through the hole. It won't budge, and I'm pretty sure I'm just making it tighter, so I give up and fall back on the bed, clothes still on.
"...You okay?"
Owen's voice is soft, and there's just enough to it that it sounds like he might actually give a shit. As much as I tried to forget his words, even my drunk brain manages to pull them to the front again, and I'm hit by a rush of helpless anger.
"What does it matter to you, Collins?"
Fabric rustles, his bed squeaks, and my heart pounds as I imagine him coming over to me. I don't know what I expect from him. A snide look? A big smirk as he stares at my pathetic ass? It's probably what I would have done.
But when I force my eyes open, he's just standing there, looking concerned.
“Not like I get off on seeing you struggle, Nate.”
Bullshit. I snort at that and go for my belt again. The fucking clasp finally gets undone—just by dumb luck, I think—and I slip the leather free, tossing it at him.
“Sure you do,” I slur. “It’s a competition, right? You get inside my head, I drink a loooooot of tequila, and you win.”
“What are you talking about? How did I get inside your head?”
Like he doesn’t know. Asshole probably did it on purpose just to make me squirm.
“All that bullshit about what I ‘deserve,’” I answer, making uncoordinated air quotes.
His brow furrows, and he sits down on the edge of my bed. Feeling his weight beside me is weirdly comforting, and it bothers me to even think that.
“I wasn’t saying that to fuck with you, man. I meant it.”
That sincere tone is back, joined by this look in his eyes that just draws me in. There’s a softness there that I desperately want to feel directed at me. A tenderness I’ve never seen before, and sure as hell have never felt.
My heart aches with sudden need, loneliness cutting deeper than it ever has. Looking up at Owen, I just feel this sharp sense of want. Not just for his body, but for all of him. For all the things I’ve never gotten a chance to know, and all the things I’m just now finding out.
And it fucking terrifies me.
I don’t need to catch feelings for somebody. Especially not him. So I fight against them, and I go for what feels natural and easy; what I always do when I need a pick-me-up.
I push myself into a sitting position and slide my hand over Owen’s thigh, making my way to his dick. My fingers barely brush his crotch before he bolts to his feet.
“Nate… What the hell?”
“Come on, Collins. I’m giving you free reign. No lube. No condom. Ram my ass as hard as you want.” A wolfish grin tugs at my lips. “You can’t tell me you don’t wanna get up in there.”
“Not like this,” he murmurs, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re drunk.”
I roll my eyes theatrically. “Don’t give me some shit about taking advantage. You want my consent? You got it. Whip out your phone, I’ll say it on camera if you want.”
“Nate…”
Why does he have to make this so fucking difficult? I need this, and now is when he wants to stand on some principle?
Whatever. Once I get my lips around his dick, he’ll change his tune. It’s not like he’s going to turn down the chance to fuck me. They never do.
Reaching for the band of Owen’s shorts, I start to tug them down.
“Jesus, Nate.” He grabs my wrist and pushes me away, brows drawn up in more fucking pity.
“What, you’re too fucking good for me now?”
God dammit. My eyes are stinging. Why the fuck are my eyes stinging?
“No, I’m just not going to do this while you’re drunk. Things are… weird enough between us. I don’t need you to hate me tomorrow.”
He pulls up his shorts, and I expect him to just leave or something; let me deal with his rejection on my own. But no, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he leans down and grabs my legs.
“Come on. You need rest.”
“Don’t touch me,” I grumble, even as my whole body lights up in response.
He stops right away, and I scoot and shimmy enough to get both my legs onto the bed. Eventually. Owen reaches on the other side of me, grabs the edge of my blanket, and tucks me in like I’m a ch
ild.
My chest tightens and my eyes sting again. God damn him.
“Wouldn’t have changed anything,” I say. “I already fucking hate you.”
Such a lie, and turning into more of one every day.
Owen arranges the pillow behind my head. “Yeah, well. Join the club.”
I don’t know what he means, and my drunk brain can’t figure it out fast enough to compete with my sudden need to give up this fight to stay conscious.
My eyes close, and as I drift off, I get the feeling he’s still watching me; making sure I’m okay. And I feel safer than I have in a long, long time.
13
Nate
"Nate."
I can hear my name being called, and my half-asleep brain fills in an image to go with it. Owen lying in bed next to me, his skin against mine as he presses against my side.
Warm breath tickles my ear as he says my name again, and a smile works its way onto my face. I'm not even really sure which way is up right now, but his warmth against me is soothing and the gentle sound of his voice is enough to lull me deeper into a comfortable sleep.
Until it isn't.
"Nate. Come on, man. Get your ass up."
This time there's nothing gentle about it. He's not whispering sweet nothings in my ear. He's barking at me, pulling me out of what I'm now starting to realize is just a really vivid dream. Fuck.
I force my eyes open--they're sticking together a little, which is just great--and squint against the light. Owen definitely isn't naked beside me. He's fully dressed and standing over me, a rough hand shaking my shoulder.
"Dude, come on. You'll miss the bus." The bus? The fuck is this, junior high? I slowly look around, trying to keep the room from spinning.
Still my dorm at ESC. I haven't managed to roll back the clock that far, thank fuck.
"Time is it?" I mumble, my mouth tasting like plastic for some weird reason.
"Eight. The bus'll be here in an hour."
My stomach lurches and my head pounds as I pull myself up to sit. Jesus fuck, I drank too much last night. I don't even remember it, but I know I must have. Nothing else leaves me feeling this way.
"Here." Owen presses a hot styrofoam cup into my hands. "Chug this. It'll help."
My brain's still not really able to process what's going on, but I do as he says. The bitter taste of coffee coats my tongue, and I can't really decide if it's better or worse than the plastic taste. Kind of a toss-up right now.
"Take my water, too."
A bottle is thrown my way, and I just barely manage to catch it in time, the water sloshing inside the container. With some effort, I unscrew the cap and take a big drink.
"I think I've got some Tylenol or something somewhere," Owen says, rummaging around in a drawer.
Feels like I'm living at home again and my mom is fussing over me while still trying to get my lazy ass up to make the bus on time. But again, my brain's aware enough to figure out I'm not a kid anymore, and it's not too much of a leap to understand the bus I need to drag myself onto is for a game.
Somewhere down in Tampa, I think. I swore that was tomorrow, though. Jesus. Why did I decide to get plastered the night before an away game?
Looking up, I see the answer staring down at me with a mix of concern and irritation. Right. Owen. Somehow it always comes back to Owen.
Dragging myself to the edge of the bed, I try to stand only to get hit by stomach-churning nausea. Owen's there immediately, one hand on my arm, the other on my back as he braces me.
My first thought is that it feels... nice. It stirs something inside of me, makes my chest clench a little. But that good feeling ends up kicking right into my 'fuck this' switch as I remember exactly why I got so wasted.
"Fuck off," I growl. "I've got a hangover. I'm not dying."
"Excuse me for trying to help."
Owen lets go of me, and I immediately feel the absence. That sense of cold that comes over me pisses me off all the more. I shouldn't fucking need him around to feel halfway decent. I shouldn't need anybody.
But he got under my skin and messed up my brain and now I can't seem to turn this shit off.
"Help, huh? Were you trying to help when you told me I deserve better?"
He blinks at me, like he doesn't even remember that, because of course he doesn't. It's stuck with me since the moment the words left his mouth, but they were nothing to him.
"All this is your fault," I tell him, gesturing to myself. "Everything was fine before."
Before I wanted to be treated as something other than a collection of fuckable holes. Before I wanted to be seen and accepted for what I am.
Before I started crushing on Owen Fucking Collins, of all people.
"Okay, look. Whatever this is, we can deal with it after the game. Coach wants everybody out there by 8:45."
Shit. He's right. This is our first away game of the season, and it's against Hillsborough, the guys with the best ranking in the state right now. Scouts will almost definitely be sniffing around, which means I have to figure my shit out quick.
Or at least bury it long enough to put in a good showing.
I take the world's quickest shower and throw together a bag, slamming the rest of the coffee and a granola bar right before making a mad dash to the curb out in front of the gym. A charter bus is waiting, along with the rest of my team.
I see Owen there, watching me. He has this expression on his face like he's trying to figure me out.
Good luck with that, buddy. If you get anywhere, let me know.
Stowing my bag in the bus compartment, I climb up and find a seat next to Eli.
"You look like shit, dude. You okay?"
Not even a little bit. And now I'm wondering if Brody’s going to pump me for details about why I was such a mess last night. It's a four hour ride down a boring ass highway, and the last thing I want to do is talk about my weird reaction to Owen.
I pull out my earbuds and decide to be rude as fuck instead. "Didn't get a lot of sleep. Wake me when we get there, all right?"
With that dickish move out of the way, I put my earbuds in, close my eyes, and pretend to sleep.
I actually do manage to catch a couple hours on the bus somehow, and by the time we're piling into the locker room, I've got my head on straight, my mind laser-focused on the game.
The Hawks are known for running a rock solid defense. Their line is built up like a fucking wall, and most of their games are won just by stopping their opponents' drives and grinding them through four grueling quarters until they just can't take anymore.
It's a rough spot for our offense to be in, and Coach Marlowe, the offensive coordinator, pulls us aside to go over some of the strategies and plays we've been working on all week.
Once I hit the field, I'm dialed in on football, and everything's right with the world. I get caught up in the elaborate dance I have to do with the defensive backs, and the game of cat and mouse I need to play with the corners who are covering me. It's slow going as I learn, and every one of our drives comes up short through the first and second quarters, but eventually I hit some sort of crazy tactical flow state where I can anticipate everybody's movements before they even make them. Not just the defense, but Brody’s too.
I run every route, cut every screen, snatch the ball up out of the air at the perfect moment, and eventually make it into the end zone, putting us up 6-0 in the third quarter. The kick's good and now, when they come off the punt, the Hawks have to make something happen a lot earlier than they usually do.
And that's where I get to see Owen shine.
Maybe he's entered the same flow state as me because, more often than not, he's right there with the ball carrier, matching them stride for stride, bringing them down before they can get enough yardage. Long, powerful legs propel him up into the air to bat the ball away. I can practically hear the sound of his labored breathing as he puts on a burst of speed to catch up to a receiver who's broken away from everybody else, only to fly at them
in a leaping tackle that knocks the ball free.
It's fucking beautiful, and I sit there on the sidelines completely transfixed. It's no wonder scouts were all over this guy back in high school. He knows how to play the game, and he goes hard for it.
Late in the fourth quarter, the score's still 7-0 but the Hawks mount one hell of a comeback drive. They push and push, scraping by with first downs until they get to our 20. One good pass will get it in the end zone, and I'm on my feet as their QB calls an audible.
My gaze flies to Owen, and I see him react, shifting behind the line of scrimmage to cover the receiver who's now in position to go deep. That motherfucker is small and fast, but Owen somehow keeps pace with him.
The QB chucks a lofty spiral that's meant to sail over Owen's head and into the receiver's waiting arms, but it doesn't work out that way. Right as the ball starts arcing down, Owen pushes off and leaps into the air like he's Michael Fucking Jordan. His fingers just barely brush the underside of the ball and I hold my breath as it spins end over end.
Right before he catches it.
That motherfucker pulls the ball out of the sky, tucks it close to his body, and starts running with it before the other team even knows what's going on. I yell until my voice is hoarse, jumping up and down on the sidelines with my teammates as we watch him run it all the way back for a TD.
We win the game 14-0, bumping Hillsborough to take over the number one spot in the state.
All the guys put in a good show, but it's Owen who gets the game ball, and for the first time, I can actually see why.
He's not just some spoiled kid whose daddy got him a free pass. He's worked hard for the Mavs, and it shows in everything he does. So much so that I find myself stupidly proud of him, even though I've spent all these weeks giving him shit.
The worst part of it is, seeing him this way only makes the feelings I've been having stronger, and when he catches my eye during our team dinner, I'm pretty sure he can see the longing in my eyes. Not just longing to be fucked, as good as I know he is at dicking me out, but longing for something more; something I can't really explain.
Unnecessary Roughness (ESC Mavericks Book 2) Page 8