21 to 7.
I decide to stay under the water until I feel calmer. Until my brain is focused again. I can’t keep on being distracted by thoughts of Julianna. Thoughts of Ethan.
The locker room is pretty deserted by the time I get out of the shower. That’s fine with me. Just the way I fucking want it.
I walk past rows of deserted lockers heading towards mine. Towels, jock straps, socks, helmets, all line the floor. All waiting for the maintenance folks the team hires to come clean up.
I don’t know why, but I make a turn to go the longer way, seeing if anyone is around.
And that’s where I run into him.
Ethan fucking Blake.
I have my towel on but he’s still naked, putting on deodorant.
Fuck. The fucking sight of his naked fucking back - muscled and chiseled - makes my cock twitch. What the fuck! I know I’m not gay, but what the fuck is it about this motherfucker that’s getting me fucking hard.
Hearing movement, Ethan turns towards me.
Our eyes lock. I stop walking past him and turn towards him.
“Ethan…” I manage to croak.
Don’t you fucking get caught up at laughing at me, bro. You know I fucking hate that motherfucker.
You cannot fucking forget that. I want you to burn that into your brain.
But the normal Colt Stackford is gone. Instead, my heart is fucking beating a mile a minute.
Ethan brings his eyes down, not meeting my gaze, “Sorry about the game tonight, Colt…” he begins.
“It’s okay, man,” I say, not knowing where all this is fu
cking coming from. I should be skewering his fucking ass right now.
But I don’t.
“No,” Ethan says with a deep sigh. “No, it’s not alright.”
I’m silent as a troubled look goes through his face. “It was my fault. I saw you play and I saw how exhausted you got by the end of the game,” Ethan say. “I couldn’t hold them back. I couldn’t shut them down.”
Ethan’s shoulders slump.
My nemesis since I’ve been six years old is defeated. The one kid who was able to always stand up to me when we played peewee football in our small Texas town is broken. The one kid who didn’t care that his father worked for mine on the ranch is now giving me a vacant fucking stare. The one guy in high school who I had to share the MVP award with on our football team. The only other person in the history of our high school who had their jersey retired. The one guy who was good enough for Delta Sigma Rho - the most prestigious secret society at Ole Miss to offer two spots and not one to someone from the football team. The one guy who was drafted with me. Who has played across from me. Who was used with me in tandem by the Dallas Devils to take us to victory time after time after time.
He’s standing before me now.
Defeated.
“I’m so sorry, man,” Ethan says and I can’t bear to see him like this.
I don’t know why I do what I do and what the fuck I’m doing but I take a couple steps over to him.
“It’s like my head isn’t in the fucking game,” he says more to himself than to me. “I can’t stop thinking about…”
He stops himself and I know at that moment that the same thoughts going through in my head - those same thoughts that are distracting me during my game - are wreaking all holy hell in his head also. Except with defense, loss of concentration can destroy a team from its underbelly.
I know Ethan well enough by now to know that he’s thinking and kicking himself about what we did. He’s not like me. Anything goes with me. But not him. He had a crazy ass dad that fucked up his brain. I gotta bring the motherfucker back before he loses himself in despair.