The Freshman (College Years 1)

“Ow!” I duck away from her, sitting up, smoothing my hair down as I glare at the cat. She curls up beside Tony and sends me a smug look.

Yes, a cat can look smug. This one sure does, at least.

“Sorry about that. She’s a little weird sometimes,” he says, sitting up as well. His lips are swollen and his eyes are heavy lidded. He looks very pleased with himself.

And very, very tempting. Meaning, I need to leave, before I do something stupid.

Like get naked and fuck this guy when I told him I would never do that.

I rise to my feet. “I need to head out.”

“Don’t let Millicent drive you away,” he says with a laugh.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” I lean in and drop a quick kiss on his lips, then exit his bedroom. I practically sprint down the stairs, calling out a quick goodbye to the guys before I exit the apartment.

I flee like a criminal leaving the scene of the crime, finally taking a deep, calming breath when I’m sitting in my car and starting the engine. No one chased after me. Not Tony, and not any of his friends, though I didn’t expect them to.

Laughter bubbles up inside my chest and I let it free, shaking my head, my hands landing on the steering wheel. I have no idea what Tony and I are doing right now, but I have to admit.

It’s fun.

Eleven

Tony

Game day. Bullshit, as usual. Sitting on the sidelines. Silently begging for a chance to play. This is a different scene compared to high school. Bigger crowds. Bigger stakes. Bigger everything. It’s intimidating. Some of the guys that are new on the team already thrive on this shit. Eli Bennett for one. He loves attention, and this atmosphere feeds his soul. He can’t wait to be top dog on campus. He’s already making plans for senior year, while I can barely wrap my head around the fact that we’re actually here.

I’ve gotten more serious, though. I give it my all every single practice. I ask questions when we go over plays because I want them to know I’m paying attention. I want to prove it to the coaches that I want to be here.

That I deserve to be here.

We’re halfway through the third quarter when our star tight end gets injured. Like carry him off on a stretcher while he grimaces in pain, injured.

Second string is out thanks to a recent knee surgery.

“Sorrento!”

I glance up to find the offensive line coach marching toward me, his jaw moving a mile a minute as he chews on a wad of pink gum.

“Yeah?” I ask him weakly, unsure of his approach.

“Grab your helme

t and get out there.” He jerks his thumb toward the field. “Your time is now.”

Oh. Shit. I jump to my feet and shove my helmet over my head. “My time is now for what?”

“To prove yourself to me once and for all. Get out there. Show ‘em what you got!”

I jog out onto the field, wincing as I hear my name announced as the replacement. There are a few boos, accompanied by some weak applause. I don’t think the boos are toward me. No one knows who the hell I am. I think the fans are just pissed and sad one of our best players just got injured.

Our quarterback Ash Davis calls a huddle and I head into it, my heart rattling around in my chest like it wants to leave my body. He says a few things about the next play, then specifically says my name.

“Yeah?”

“You good, bro? You’re as white as a ghost,” Davis says.

Swallowing hard, I nod. “I’m good.”