Steamroller

Matt walked beside me, arm draped across my shoulders, and explained that he was working full-time, and with both of us doing that, we could move into a bigger apartment easily after Christmas.

“What if you find another squeeze?” I asked snidely.

He smacked me on the back of the head.

“Fuck, Matt!”

“I’m not allowed one mistake? You’re so fuckin’ perfect?”

I groaned loudly as he shoved me away from him at the same time his head swiveled around as a pretty girl passed us.

“I can see you’re grieving deeply for your relationship with Barb.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, grieving.”

Jerk.

“I knew you were gonna forgive him,” Tracie, the only woman in the group, threw back.

“Why?”

“’Cause you guys are family.” She beamed at me over her shoulder. “You’re like brothers. You have to forgive your brother.”

And she was right.

At the diner I liked where they served the cinnamon roll French toast, they seated us outside on the patio, which was nice because it overlooked an old cobblestone street that had rows of small shops on one side and the grassy quad on the other. The street had been closed off from automobile traffic years ago, so now there were only pedestrians and bicycles. Even scooters were banned. It was nice; it was like looking down at a block party every day. The shops were lovely too, small hole-in-the-wall places: rare books, candles, flowers, campus hangouts like the diner we were eating at, the place three doors down where you could shoot pool and drink, assorted consignment stores, an exchange, and a really good Chinese place where they made excellent spicy Mongolian beef.

“Oh man, I love sitting out on the deck,” I admitted with a sigh, inhaling the crisp, smoky-smelling December air, loving the look of the barren trees and appreciating that the sky was a beautiful slate gray.

Sitting there, waiting for our waitress, I looked out across the street at the lawn in front of the science building and saw him—my—the hot football player from the night before. Same hat, same sunglasses, but at least they both made sense first thing in the morning. It looked like he was playing a friendly game of catch, but there were more people watching than there should have been. That made no—

“Ohmygod, that’s Cress,” Jeff gasped.

“Where?” Tracie asked excitedly.

He was wearing a practice jersey out there on the lawn; he hadn’t been wearing one the night before.

“Right there,” Rick told her, pointing. “Oh shit.”

It was more like holy shit.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I was so dead.

“Wow, that was fast.” Pete caught his breath. “Those throws look way slower on TV than they do in real life.”

His number, five, was emblazoned on the back of his jersey. His name wasn’t there; this was only a practice shirt, after all. The thing was, his name, Cress, didn’t need to be there. Everyone knew who he was.

Everyone.

Everyone except me, apparently. I had not known him. A baseball cap and sunglasses had confused me just like glasses has thrown Lois Lane off her game.

“Oh crap,” I groaned loudly, leaning my head forward into the tent of the menu.

“Vince?”

Of all the times for me to climb up on my snarky high horse—

“Are you okay?”

—I had to pick the one time when it could actually bite me in the ass.

“Oh look,” Matt said jovially. “He’s signing autographs now.”

Fuck. Me.

“You know they expect him to go pro after this junior year. I mean, if you lead your team to a playoff game your first year in the driver’s seat, a bowl game win the second year, and another chance at a bowl game win the third year—”

“He’s totally getting drafted,” Pete interrupted.

“I read somewhere that he was going to stay and get his degree.”

“And pass up, like, twenty-two million over four years? Are you high?”

“Where did you come up with that craptastic number?” Rick grilled Pete.

“I’m just saying that’s what those guys get.”

Dear God.

“His stats are amazing,” Jeff gushed.

“His body is amazing,” Tracie replied and made a noise I had never heard her make before.

“What the hell, Trace?” Jeff had gone from starstruck to offended in seconds.

“I—what?”

“Caught ya drooling,” Matt announced with a cackle.

“Wade.” Pete sounded concerned. “You all right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you sure? You look kinda green.”

Oh God, I was so dead.

“Maybe you should eat, like, a lot,” Matt suggested. “Christ, I can’t believe how much weight you’ve lost.”

What I had lost in weight I had gained back in muscle, but I didn’t expect him to notice that.

“It’s the Fiesta Bowl we’re going to, isn’t it?” Jeff asked.

The royal we that everyone used, it was funny. I didn’t get why people did that.

“Vince?”

I was pretty certain it was in fact the Fiesta Bowl. Cute that he thought I really knew or cared. The only part that did concern me was if the man went to see my boss on Monday. When you were as big as Carson Cress was—ready to go into orbit, world at your feet….