“Wait, I think I remember this. It was right before the playoffs and Eastwood had to forfeit. They said everyone had the stomach flu.”
“That was a lie. We were literally all being interrogated about the whereabouts of this chick.”
“That’s wild.”
“I know. Fucking crazy. No one’s ever let Patrick forget it. Although I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten all about her considering he’s fallen in love at least sixty-five times since then. But yeah, as our punishment, we weren’t allowed to use our phones on the bus for the rest of the season, which is stupid because it wasn’t our phones’ faults that Patrick is a moron. But suddenly we didn’t have phones to entertain us, so we started asking these questions like would you rather, or what would you do if, and it sort of became a thing we do now before games. Once a superstition sticks, it’s there forever.” I narrow my eyes as something occurs to me. “I just realized—both our superstitions have to do with goddamn Patrick. Kid’s a menace.”
“What’s the other superstition?”
“One time he accidentally texted ‘I’m aching for you’ to our group chat.” I snort. “So that’s a thing now too.”
“Wait, that’s what I always see you guys texting before a game?” Colson’s jaw drops as he glares at me. “This is why we keep losing! Because the whole team isn’t doing it.”
I’m not at all surprised to learn he’s as superstitious as the rest of us.
“We did win one,” I point out.
“Yeah. And then lost the rest.” He stubbornly sticks out his chin. “I don’t acknowledge the ties. A tie is a loss.”
“Agreed. I hate it when people say otherwise.” I let out a breath. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll do a new group chat, then.”
Words I never thought I’d hear exiting my mouth because I hate both chatting and groups.
“Well, we have to try now,” Case insists. “We can’t keep losing.”
I agree with that too.
He tends to the fire again. Pale orange embers dance and float away in the darkness.
Then he says, “I’m not usually such a dick.”
“Oh.” I pause. “I usually am.”
He snickers. “I figured that. But…me…not so much. It’s just been tough lately. I went through a breakup.”
A thread of discomfort travels through me. “We’re going to talk about women now?”
He checks at watch. “Well, it’s eleven o’clock and I’m not ready yet to get mauled by a bear while I sleep, so…yes, I guess we are.”
“You and Graham, huh?” I keep my tone casual.
“Yeah. We were together since the start of freshman year. Broke up this past June.” He bites his lip. “It’s really messed with my head.”
“What happened? She dump you or the other way around?” I’m selfishly eager to gain some insight into the breakup. I’d never ask Gigi, but Case is fair game.
“She dumped me,” he says flatly. “A week after she told me she loved me, no less.”
I wrinkle my forehead. I’ll admit, I’m not super adept at navigating the I-love-you landscape, but it seems odd that neither of them expressed that sentiment until more than a year into the relationship. Maybe that’s normal, though? I’ve never uttered those three words to a woman. For all I know, it takes a while for people to say it.
“I screwed up. And I honestly thought we’d be able to get past it, but she doesn’t trust me anymore, and it fucking kills, you know?”
I feel sympathy for the guy. Because there’s genuine pain in his voice.
Then I feel like a total ass. Because he has no idea my dick was inside her last night.
“I threw it all away,” he says in a sad, faraway voice. “Fuckin’ idiot.”
“You cheated on her?” I ask. I’m not the man who plays around with subtext.
He drops his head in his hands, groaning into his palms.
“Whatever. Yes. I cheated. And I don’t think she’s ever going to forgive me.” Another groan. “I don’t know what to do anymore. What am I supposed to do? I think she’s the one.”
If she were the one, he wouldn’t think it. He would know it.
And if she were the one, he wouldn’t have messed around with somebody else.
But I keep the thoughts to myself. I’m an asshole most of the time, but even I can’t kick a man when he’s down.
“So, yeah. I’ve been a prick lately,” he admits. “I don’t know how to let out all this frustration, you know? She’s pulling away from me. And I miss her. I’m constantly wondering where she is and what she’s doing.”
She’s fucking me, bro.
I keep that to myself too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RYDER
Butterfly mating habits
THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE ALL THE GUYS ARE FRESH AND ALERT after sleeping in their own beds—or a sorority girl’s bed, in Beckett’s case—Colson and I look like we just got stateside from a survival show. After the bus picked us up, I managed to sleep for two hours at home before catching a ride with Shane for our lifting session. I was too tired to drive.
At Eastwood, we could lift based on our own schedules, but Briar requires a training regimen where we lift together as a team. Everyone is already in the weight room when I walk in.
“He lives,” Beckett says, grinning when he spots me. He must have come here directly from the sorority house. “I was expecting to see you walk in wearing a squirrel-skin hat or something.”
“We almost did kill a cheetah,” Case says, smacking my arm good-naturedly.
More than a few sets of eyebrows soar at that.
“Double Cs,” Trager says, wandering over to fist-bump Case. “You good, bro?” He shoots me a wary look.
Colson notices and sighs. “All right, everyone. Listen up.” He claps his hands.
Guys stop what they’re doing, sitting up on their weight benches, to focus on Colson. Demaine, who was spotting Joe Kurth, returns the barbell to its position. Near the back mirror, Rand and Mason set down the dumbbells they were deadlifting.
“We wanted to apologize for what happened during the game last night,” Colson starts. “Brown shouldn’t have scored that goal. The penalty was on us, and it wasn’t captain behavior.” He glances at me, and I nod my agreement. “Going forward, we need to be a team. A real team.” His face becomes pained. “As much as I hate Nance and Sheldon, I think they have a point about this communication stuff.”
Several skeptical looks are exchanged.
“So, I’ll start.” His gaze lands on Shane. “Lindley. Your slapshots are beautiful, man. I’ve never seen that kind of power.”
Shane is startled. “Oh. Thanks.”
Case tips his head at me.
I lock my gaze on Trager because he seems like one of the better options to try to win over. “Trager. You nailed that penalty kill yesterday.”
He narrows his eyes at me. Then, noticing Case watching him, he gives a brisk nod.
Colson crosses his arms over his chest. “All right. Somebody else go. We’re going to shower each other with fucking compliments until we’re all swimming in goddamn dopamine.”