CHAPTER ONE
DEAN
What am I going to do? I slouch over the bar, my hands tightly gripping my third pint of cheap beer. I fucked up. I know it, my team knows it, and everyone watching the game knows it.
Today was supposed to be my big chance to show the whole damned world what I can do. Instead, they witnessed the “hottest college wide receiver to come along in a decade” crack under pressure.
The TV cameras and cheering fans got to my head. Even after Coach warned me!
Why, Dean? What the fuck? You’ve caught the damned ball thousands of times. And the one time it counts, you miss?
In reality, I missed five times. Every pass thrown my way. But the humiliation du jour was the final play.
There were five seconds on the clock. I was wide open on the third yard line when our quarterback threw a pass with a slow easy arc, the ball mocking the other team for allowing me to sail through their defenses unnoticed. I ran to catch the ball, the point of interception two feet inside the touchdown zone. I raised my hands to snatch our easy victory from the air.
And then I looked away.
For one split second.
And I missed.
A kindergartner could have caught it! That touchdown would have won us the game. It would have changed my life—the team’s lives. My little brother’s life.
Now how am I going to take care of him? Where the hell do I go from here? I’m the guy who’s fought for every opportunity. The guy who came from shit—shit school, shit neighborhood, shit family—the worst this world has to offer. And after all the late nights studying (because I suck at school) and all the overtime at practice (because I was never the best player, just the hardest working), I managed a miracle: to get a shot at a better life. Full scholarship, too.
No, I didn’t go Ivy, but O State offered a full ride, and it’s only a few hours’ drive to Flip, my little brother, who’s currently in rehab. Again.
He’s a total fuckup with a heart of gold, which is why I refuse to give up on him like everyone else has.
But make no mistake, I had my pick of colleges, and that small taste of success had me shoving my head so far up my ass that it was a miracle I could still breathe.
And then there was the infamous seven-minute segment on ESPN two weeks ago that put me on the map. How they dug up so much private information, including Flip’s trouble with drugs and the law, I don’t know, but they made me out to be a saint. “The brother who made it against all odds. With the face of a GQ model.” After that, I went viral. I’m talking fan clubs—mostly women—and every major sports agency trying to sign me. I had it all right in my hands!
With a groan, I hang my head. I’m a grade A asshole.
“Hey there,” says a soft voice. “You look like you’re having a rough night.”
I lift my head to find a blonde in a red dress who’s taken the barstool next to me. She’s a little older, maybe in her mid-thirties, and she’s easily the prettiest woman in this shit-kicker Texas bar despite her puffy eyes. I can tell she’s been crying. I’d be right there with her if I didn’t consider crying a mortal sin. Where I come from, you cry, you get your ass kicked. They’ll give you a reason to pray for death, too. Some rough shit.
“Yeah, very rough,” I reply glumly.
“Me too.” She pauses for a long, long while. I almost forget she’s there. “My husband just told me he wants a divorce. Her name is Brittney. She’s only twenty.”
I grab my beer, chug half, and set it on the counter. “It’s the rule. Husbands only leave their wives for younger women with peppy names ending in vowel sounds. Chrissy, Jenny, Katie.”
She chuckles, and two dimples pucker at the sides of her mouth. “So how do you explain Megan, Crystal, or Michelle? Those names could belong to husband thieves.”
“Ah.” I take another gulp of beer, the cold bubbles tingling down my throat. “Well, the answer is simple: those names are the exception. But we all know the classic husband-robbers, the ones to really be afraid of, are the Es and Is. Stacy, Tracy, and—”
“Brittney.” She bobs her head at the counter, a hint of a smile on her red lips.
I like her smile. It holds a certain maturity or wisdom, like she isn’t shocked by the cruelty of life despite being wounded by it.
She’s definitely older than me. Not that I care. She seems like just the distraction I need tonight.
“So what are you drinking?” I ask. “No. Wait. Let me guess.” I look her over, forcing myself not to stare too long at her ample cleavage. She has nice, high breasts. Probably real. Definitely no kids.