Part 1
Here comes the big bang
Chapter 1
Tate
“H
ow’s that ankle holding up, man?” Bucky asks, before heading out for the night. His name’s Travis, but the team calls him Bucky, short for Buckeye because he’s from Ohio.
“It’s holding. I’m just happy as fuck that I don’t need that damn boot anymore.” I’m even more fucking happy that I didn’t need surgery and that coach didn’t pull me from the team. We’ve managed to hide my injury from the press. I was out partying last week with my fraternity brothers, got wasted, and let some dumb shits talk me into a game of flag football at three am. I had no business playing. I knew what was on the line, but I’m the King—Tate King, star quarterback for the Trojans. I couldn’t say no. I have a reputation to uphold. My image is part of the package, off and on the field. I have to maintain my status without screwing up either. My fraternity brothers think I’m a legend of sorts for getting laid so much and for nearly crushing the school records.
Coach however…he expects me to keep a squeaky-clean image. Recruiters won’t touch a player who doesn’t hold to their values.
Playing for the NFL is all I have ever dreamed of and one drunken night almost cost me everything I’ve been working for my whole life. It’s enough to scare my ass straight.
“Coach wants to see you in about an hour,” he informs me. He grins like he’s in on a joke that I’m not privy to.
“Do you know what it’s about?” I start sweating, feeling anxious that maybe he’s decided to cut me from the team after all.
He shrugs and grabs his keys. “Not a clue, I just left his office, told me to let you know. I just came back to change. I gotta jet.”
“Thanks, man.”
“I wouldn’t keep him waiting,” he warns with a hint of that shit eating grin again.
I wave Bucky off and pull up my schedule. Classes start next week. I already have a shit ton of work to do. Fuck, this semester will be brutal. I’m a year away from my BA in Sports Medicine. Between studying and practices, I don’t get much time for a social life. I could nail about any chick at this school that I want, and I have for the most part. I’m careful not to get involved. I don’t want any attachments dragging me down. I want the whole family life until after I’ve made it to the NFL and secured my spot. My father has always driven home the importance of being able to support myself before taking on anyone else.
He always told me that when I found the person I was going to spend the rest of my life with, it would hit me, I would instantly know. It’s what I keep hoping for, but I’ve not found it yet. Some days, I feel like I hang around the wrong areas. All the girls I meet are just looking to latch onto a football player. I swear, every single girl in this college is only here to become a gold digger. They see a guy like me who’s going places and want a meal ticket.
Fuck. I better head over to Coach’s office. I pull my team hoodie back over my head and place my ball cap over my greasy hair, I need a shower but there’s not enough time. Webb Tower isn’t far from the JMC, the John McKay Center. You don’t keep Coach Clay waiting. I could’ve moved off campus or lived at the fraternity house, but I like being close to my classes. I’ve got my eyes on the prize, being drafted to the NFL. I was matched with Bucky freshmen year and we’ve roomed together ever since. He shares a room with Big Tex. I drew the longest straw, so I got the single room, which happens to be smaller, but at least I can jack-off in private.
My hand is the most action I’ve seen in weeks, since I came back from summer camp and since I fucked up my ankle during fall camp. It’s not from lack of women trying. They are always willing. I’m just not feeling any of them. I grin as a few freshmen giggle when I walk through the lobby of my building. They treat me like I’m a prime piece of meat. I used to eat the attention up, but now it just annoys me. I make my way out the door and get ready to take whatever comes my way.
I rush down the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass. No time for stopping and shooting the shit right now. I make it to coaches’ office in record time.
Knocking on his door before opening it, I call out, “You wanted to see me?”
He nods. “Sit, we need to talk about something.”
I nervously sit in the vinyl seat in front of his desk and wait. I look around the room taking in the photos of the men who have played before me, and I hope I still have the chance to prove that I’m just as good, if not better. I’m damn good. Recruiters were watching me when I was in middle school playing on the high school JV team. My love of the game drives me.
“How’s the ankle?”
“It’s good.”
?
??About time you got that boot off. People were wondering why you were staying holed up in the dorm. I planted a few stories that you had a reaction to local anesthesia after a root canal and needed a few days.”
He shuffles things around on his desk and hands me a piece of paper.
I look at it and frown. “What’s this?” I turn the paper over studying it with a grimace. It’s some sort of dance practice schedule.
“That’s what you’ll be doing for the next few weeks. You’re a great player, my best on the team, but your footwork is a little sloppy. Dancing will help with that. Good conditioning and all that. Gotta get you back in top form, this injury could have really set your ass back…” he trails off and waves his hand.
“This is a joke, right? You want me in dance?” I have to swallow my laughter when he gives me the eye, the no bullshit stare down.
Such shit. How am I going to fit this in on top of everything else?
He sits up straight and glares at me, removing his hat, revealing his shiny bald spot. His brow is crinkled with the lines of the wisdom he’s about to lay on me. “You don’t do dance—you don’t get to play. I’ll bench you, but you need to be in shape for our opening game. And I don’t need to remind you that the draft is coming up, it’ll be here before you know it. If they get wind of that ankle, don’t think they won’t hesitate to pass you over. You know the scouts will be lining up to see you play.”
“This is bullshit,” I mutter, jaw clenching. I toss the paper back on his desk. There’s no way I’m prancing around like a pansy.
“When I was in the NFL, I had to do the same thing. Most players took dance to help them on the field. Just like with Hockey, most of the greats had to take figure skating.”
Shit.
“Any of the other guys have to do this too?” I ask him, praying he’ll say I’m not the only one.
He nods. “Three others on the team already are in dance class. Have been for years.” This information shocks me, I wonder why no one said anything? Oh, I know, because it’s embarrassing as fuck. “You, Bucky, and Adams will all be doing this for the rest of the semester. I’ve already assigned everyone with the appropriate dance partner, and you will report there first thing tomorrow to meet her. The sooner you start the better.” His voice doesn’t waver. It’s full of authority. He has me by the balls and he knows it. He shoves the paper in my direction, and I know I have no choice but to accept it.
I stand up, clenching the paper in my fist, and head out. When my parents find out about this they’ll be making fun of me for years. I’ll never be able to live this down. Most people assume being the star gets me special treatment, if anything it gets me anything but. Coach rides my ass, but I know he wants me to succeed. It doesn’t mean I have to like his method.
I trudge back to my dorm, crumpled paper in hand. Bucky probably knew coach was pulling this shit. Asshole could’ve warned me. I take the stairs two at a time. I fit in exercise wherever I can. My body is a damn temple. I play hard and work even harder. I have to keep my stamina up. I can’t afford to slack off, ever. The ache in my ankle serves as a reminder.
Back in my dorm, Big Tex is stretched out on the couch playing Fallout 4. That dude looks like he could eat a damn bear. He makes up two of me. I don’t know how he sleeps in that tiny ass bed. His shoulders are like big ass boulders.
He’s always got some artery clogging food in his hand. “Where you been?” He takes a bite of his pizza. His green eyes widen at my angry scowl.
“Had a meeting with coach.” I debate showing him the embarrassing piece of paper I’m clutching, but I am saved from deciding when my phone rings.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet the number one woman in my life, the only woman, walking to the solace of my room. I toss my cap on my desk and hold my phone from my ear while I shrug my hoodie off. She’s always checking up on me. I’m not in the mood for talking so I make up an excuse to get her off the phone. “I’m walking into Coach’s office. I’ll have to call you back.”
“Okay, call me later. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
I sigh, feeling bad for lying, but I got this dance shit boiling my blood.
Ending the call, I grab my laptop. Peering out my door, I see Big Tex is still engrossed in his game and oblivious to my presence. I uncrinkle the paper, seeing the chick’s name at the top, and search for Amaya Maxwell in our school directory.
Her face pops up. She’s pretty, and I feel like I should recognize her. I hope I haven’t slept with her. I study her face trying to place where I know her from and then it hits me. Ugh, shit. I knew the name and that heart-shaped face was familiar but couldn’t place either. She dated that piece of shit, Keith. Apparently, they’d dated since our freshman year, but hell, no one knew he even had a girlfriend. Not until she showed up at our end of semester party last year and found Keith doing what he does best. Fucking freshman.
He’s such a loser. I’m surprised he’s still on the team. Dude never sees the game from anywhere other than the bench. After that party, Keith would just bitch about her. Said she was a dead fish in bed, and he needed more than that, or how she was such a stuck-up bitch. I remember Adams asking him why he bothered keeping her and he just said something about it made it him look good to his parents.
Not a surprise. If what Keith said about her is true, anyone with high class snotty bitch mothers would adore her.
Just what I need, a chick I don’t want to bone. Although, that’s probably the best thing to happen, so I don’t piss off Coach.
Chapter 2
Amaya
“A