The Senior (College Years 4)

My coaches’ glares on the sidelines were the only thing keeping me from falling completely apart. That and they didn’t turn it into a touchdown. Just a field goal, but still. They’re up by ten, and I hope t

o God we can pull out the win.

“Yeah, I know,” I say to Tony, my voice clipped. Truth hurts and all that. “I need to focus.”

“Focus on the game. Don’t let your Ava issues distract you.” Tony slaps the back of my helmet as we make our way to the bench, both of us collapsing onto it, sitting right next to each other.

He has no clue what’s really going on. Ava and I are in a good place—I think. We should be, considering how much we were all over each other last night and this morning. When she’d given me the blow job after I got off the phone, damn. She was sexy as fuck, turning those big eyes up to me with her mouth full of my dick.

A shudder moves through me and I force it away. I can’t get distracted. I need to focus, like Tony said.

“What’s your problem?” Diego comes out of nowhere, standing in front of me with his index finger doing that aggressive pointing thing that’s usually my schtick. “You’re playing for shit.”

“Diego,” Tony starts, but Diego whirls on him, his expression fierce.

“What? You know it’s true. He’s distracted or some shit. I thought halftime would help clear his head. That little speech was a rouser.” Diego sends me a disgusted look.

Coach Harris went off on us during halftime in the locker room, and while I agreed with everything he said and wanted to get back out here in full ass-kicking mode, I still couldn’t manage to score a touchdown, thanks to my terrible accuracy.

“I’m trying,” I tell him. “And I don’t need your shit coming at me right now. You’re not what I would call motivating.”

“And you’re not what I would call NFL material, but I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Diego retorts.

I leap to my feet and shove at his chest, blind anger taking over me. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

He thrusts his face in mine, his dark eyes blazing with anger. “Touch me again and I’ll fucking kick your ass.”

“I’d love to see you try,” I throw back at him, our faces so close I can actually feel his breath.

“Guys, come on. Knock this shit off,” Tony says, glancing over his shoulder.

I look in the same direction Tony is, realizing the coaching staff is watching me. Us. Coach Harris marches right up to me, his expression fierce. “You’re benched.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “For the rest of the quarter.”

I gape at him. “What the hell? Are you serious?”

“Deadly serious. And if you keep arguing with me, I’m benching you for the rest of the game. I’ll let Marshall prove to us what he’s got.” Coach strides away, not even waiting for me to answer.

I flop back into the space I vacated, not even a few minutes ago, my mouth tight, my thoughts turbulent. Fucking Diego.

I’m to blame just as much as he is, though he is the prick who started it.

I’m tempted to say something, about to go in search of Coach when Tony grabs my sleeve, keeping me from leaving. “Don’t bother.”

“Don’t bother what?”

“Doing whatever you’re thinking of doing. Don’t go defend yourself or cause more shit with Diego. He’s under enormous pressure right now, just like you are.”

I didn’t even think of that. He’s actually under just as much pressure as I am. Maybe even more because he’s got a family to take care of and nothing to fall back on. Me? At least I have fairly wealthy parents who can bail me out of pretty much any situation.

Diego doesn’t have that luxury.

“Whatever.” I slump against the bench, my legs spread, my shoulders hunched—as much as they can be hunched in all the pads and protective gear. “This is some bullshit.”

“Give yourself a break,” Tony says. “Use the rest of the quarter to clear your thoughts and focus on the game. The only person you’re damaging right now is you.”

“And the rest of the team,” I remind him.

“We’re good, bro. Marshall Hatfield is going out there and he’s going to annihilate them. I can almost guarantee it. That kid is fierce.” Tony shakes his head. “But don’t worry. He doesn’t have your polish and expertise. He’s a little messy still. But he can get us through the third quarter.”