“I have a full course load too. Six classes. Plus my job.” And running home whenever the diner needs help, I think but don’t say aloud. There’s always something wrong at Abby’s Place and it’s never my mother who can fix it.
“There’s nothing I can offer to convince you?”
“Nope.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Everyone has a price.”
“Everyone but me, apparently.” I check my phone and curse softly at the time. I need to hustle to get to my shift on time. “Sorry, I need to go.”
“I’ll figure it out,” he calls when I’m almost up the next hill.
I look over my shoulder at him. He has a smile on his face, but there’s something else in his eyes. A challenge. I’m suddenly aware of one very important fact: he’s an athlete. And athletes don’t quit.
“Oh yeah?”
“Whatever your price is,” he says, taking a deliberate stride forward, “I’ll figure it out, Bex.”
I try to swallow, but my throat is as dry as a desert. Some small, traitorous part of me wants to ask if that’s a promise.
“I doubt that. See you around, Callahan,” I manage to say, turning back on my heel.
I feel his gaze all the way to work, burning straight through me.
8
JAMES
I secure the football in my hands and step back, scanning the field up ahead. Even though this is just a scrimmage, the boys are playing hard; the defenders on the other side fighting to get past my blockers. I only have another second or two before someone breaks through and I’m sacked.
Twenty yards ahead, Darryl breaks free of his defender, hand raised. I fire in his direction. It’s a little high, so I expect it to go over his head, but at the last minute he snags it and hauls it close to his chest. He runs with it tucked under his arm, diagonal to hustle away from the defense, and out of bounds. Coach Gomez blows the whistle to end the play.
I jog over to where the offensive line has grouped together, wiping the sweat away from my face with the hem of my practice jersey. Darryl walks over to our huddle slowly.
Since that party, I’ve seen Darryl entirely too much and Bex entirely too little. Despite us clearing up the kiss situation, it’s never been more obvious that a guy hates my guts. On the field, he plays his hardest, but in the huddle, on the sideline, and in the locker room, he acts like I don’t exist. After our win against West Virginia this past Saturday, in which he caught two of my touchdowns, I thought he’d chill out, but nope. You’d think he caught us fucking on top of the pool table, not kissing once when it was clear I didn’t even know who she was.
I’m convinced he can read my mind and knows I can’t stop thinking about her. I managed to get her number last class, and we’ve been texting, but no matter what I offer her in exchange for tutoring, she turns me down. Doesn’t mean she’s not on my mind all the fucking time. I was almost late to practice this morning because I got caught up jerking off in the shower to the thought of how her soft curves would feel against the hard planes of my chest.
“Great catch,” I say when Darryl finally reaches us.
He chews on his mouth guard. “Thanks.”
Okay then.
“Let’s all come around, gentlemen,” Coach Gomez says. He spits, hands on his hips, as we form a circle. He reaches out to slap Darryl on the back, and a genuine smile crosses the guy’s face. “Good catch, buddy. So, boys. I think we’re beating out some of that sloppy play that slowed us down last week.”
We nod in agreement. Last week was a win, which is all that matters at the end of the day, but there were times where we could have taken a commanding lead of the game and didn’t.
“We keep playing this crisp and we’ll walk out of the home opener with a win. I want you all back bright and early tomorrow to go over film. Their new left tackle is a big fucker and we need to shut him down if we have any hope of getting to Notre Dame’s QB.”
From across the huddle, Darryl gives me a look. I meet it stone-cold, but inside, I’m rolling my eyes. I don’t care if he hates me as long as he leaves Bex alone, but that doesn’t mean it’s not annoying.
Most of the team heads back into the showers, but I stay put. So does Darryl.
“You got something to say to me?” I ask. I cross my arms over my chest. Fuck, I’m sweaty as hell and want nothing more than to take a shower before heading home, but I’m tired of this shit. We’re teammates, which means we’re brothers, and if I have to tell him to his face that I’m not going to make a move on Bex, I guess that’s what I’ll do.
Even if saying that will hurt. Sitting next to her in class, even though it’s only twice a week, is a special form of torture. Yesterday she wore a sundress and I nearly got hard looking at the way she crossed one tan leg over the other.
Darryl digs at the grass with the toe of his cleat. “Heard you’ve been talking to her.”
“Says who?”
“Is it true?”
“I don’t see how it’s your business.”
“She’s my girl.”
“Was your girl. And she can text whomever she wants, especially when it’s about a class she’s taking with someone.”
He takes a slow step forward. “But you want her.”
“Hey,” Coach Gomez barks. “What’re you still doing out here?”
I reply without taking my gaze off Darryl. “Just talking strategy, Coach.”
“I need to talk to you, Callahan.” Coach glances between us, as if he can literally see the tension sparking in the air. “Lemieux, go on in and shower before Ramirez uses up all the hot water.”
Darryl keeps up the stare for a long moment before leaving.
“Is there a problem I ought to know about?”
I haven’t known Coach Gomez very long, but I figured out quick that he likes to know about personnel problems on his team. He’s serious, too, still nearly as fit as when he was a player and a straight talker. The silvery strands in his otherwise dark hair glint in the late afternoon light as he waits for my response.
“No. There was a little miscommunication, but I’m handling it.”
He nods. “What kind of miscommunication?”
Dammnit, I’d been hoping to leave it at that. He’ll smell bullshit for sure if I try to lie.
“A girl.” Embarrassment burns my throat at the admission. For half a second, I’m back with Coach Zimmerman, trying to explain why the administration had called to tell him to bench me because I was on academic probation. A girl.
Coach curses. “Callahan—”
“It’s handled.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
He gives me a look that feels like an x-ray. “When we agreed to bring you here, we spoke about distractions. You remember that?”
“Of course.”
He leans in, knocking his fist against my chest twice. “Son, you’re going to be a star in the league. And I want to help you get there. But remember—save the off-field distractions for after you’ve signed your first big contract. Once your future is set, you can start to think about who will be in it.”
“Yes sir,” I say with a nod.