When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys 2)

Shit.

The invisible weight pressed harder. The last thing I wanted to do was slog through a team dinner of self-congratulatory bullshit and then Homecoming, where I’d be expected to dance with Violet in front of the entire school.

Most guys would kill to have these problems.

I smiled, waved, and pretended I wasn’t searching the crowd for silver hair and an outfit better suited to a GQ photo spread than the bleachers at a high school football game. Pretended that Violet’s delicate, feminine beauty was enough for me. Pretended that my body didn’t want someone virile and potent and powerful to unleash itself on instead.

But pretending failed. The truth was staring me straight in the face, no longer dodging just out of sight whenever I tried to look at it straight on.

I wasn’t most guys.

And neither was the one I was searching for.

When the parade ended and the crowds dispersed, I helped Violet off the back of the convertible.

“So I have this team dinner I can’t get out of,” I told her. “I don’t know how long it’s going to last, but I think it’ll cut pretty close to the dance. Is it tacky to ask that we meet there?”

Violet grinned. “My parents will be bummed to miss out on the photo op, but I think they’ll survive.”

I smiled. Violet was a cool girl. Smart. Easy-going. Beautiful. And yet my thoughts kept straying to the fact that I’d had Holden Parish’s phone number burning a hole in my letterman jacket pocket.

She joined Evelyn Gonzalez and some other friends while I jogged to the players’ bench where Coach, Donte, and a few men wearing khakis and polo shirts stood talking. My dad was with them. As I approached, Donte shook hands with them all and jogged to the locker room.

“Your turn,” he said, beaming his mega-watt smile.

“Hey there, champ!” Dad said, patting me on the shoulder pads. “Great game! Incredible. I think that’s one for the record books, isn’t it, Frank?”

Coach Kimball laughed and nodded. “Yes, sir. Come on over here, River. I’d like you to meet these gentlemen.”

Dutifully, I shook hands with the scouts and endured their complimentary review of the game. The three of them took turns talking up their schools, ribbing each other good-naturedly, while Dad and Coach looked on, wearing identical proud expressions.

“We think you’ve got something special, River,” the guy from Auburn said. “Must’ve gotten it from your dad, e

h? Weren’t you pro, Mr. Whitmore?”

I winced.

“Almost,” Dad said with a frozen smile. “There was talk of a great draft prospect, but then an entire defensive line landed on my knee.”

“It’s a damn shame,” said Coach. “But River here is going to carry on his legacy. Isn’t that right, son?”

I nodded, feeling all eyes on me. Feeling the weight of the word—legacy—adding to the weight pressing between my shoulder blades. “I’ll do my best.”

“And then some,” Dad said. “River has more talent in his right hand than I did in my entire body.”

“Dad…”

“It’s true! They all saw it, didn’t you?”

This sent the scouts into another round of compliments that made my skin itch. Finally, the meeting broke up, and they left to chat with Coach privately.

Dad turned to me. “How about that? Your pick of the litter.”

“Yeah, great. Amelia didn’t come?”

His expression tightened. “She said she wasn’t feeling up to it. I didn’t want to push her.”

Or she might break. Because we’re already falling apart.