SNAPPED (The Slate Brothers 1)

It doesn’t, though. When the Berkfield team runs onto the field, Sebastian and Conor at the forefront, my heart pounds and my core heats up at the thought of knowing what lies under the uniform— and how it feels against me.

“There’s your lover,” Maddy whispers scandalously, then erupts into a fit of giggles.

“Is he really? Like, lover, I mean? Have you…” Emily says slowly, trying and failing to hide the wicked smile on her face.

I shake my head, but I’m blushing. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Who said anything about kissing?” Maddy snorted, and we all laugh. “Well, we’re going to get the details from you sooner or later, right? Because I’ve heard he has an enormous dick, and I want that verified from someone’s who’s experienced it first-hand.”

“You have had way too much cider,” I say, laughing.

“What? I heard Conor Baker’s is huge too. A girl in my civics class slept with him and said it was exciting, but also hurt like a bitch.”

“He must have not been careful, then,” I answer immediately.

My roommate’s eyes widen in delight. “So you do have first-hand experience! And he’s the careful type?” Becca says, scandalized.

I’m about to launch into what I hope will be a spectacular avoidance of the question when Maddy points to the field. Something has happened in the last few plays— a player on the other team is lying on his back; Sebastian and Conor are hanging out nearby, talking to a referee and a Berkfield coach. Medical team guys and those girls who always have six packs of PowerAde in baskets are hovering over the injured player, who is lying flat on his back. The marching bands at either end of the field go quiet— it must be a fairly serious injury. We look up at the big screen by the scoreboard, which is replaying what happened.

The ball pops up, players move, their bodies pixelated for the screen’s size. The ball is in Sebastian’s hands, he moves to throw to Conor; it makes it out of his hands seconds before the other team’s player reaches him. Sebastian could step aside, could rush forward, but instead he ducks down; the player ricochets over his back and lands flat on the ground, hard. Sebastian doesn’t turn around— though from the camera, it’s hard to tell if this is out of cruel disregard or if he simply didn’t realize how hard the guy fell.

“Wow. Intense,” someone nearby says.

“Football, baby. Don’t play if you aren’t ready to get hit,” someone answers. The player does appear injured, but manages to walk off the field with the help of the coaches; the stadium applauds him, the Berkfield side included. Sebastian and Conor are already heading back to their positions for the snap, hyping one another, unpunished and unapologetic about what just happened.

“He’s just showing off, playing hard like that,” Maddy says— I think she means it as reassurance.

“For what?” I ask, shaking my head.

“The pros— the NFL draft is in April, and Sebastian is a senior. The more attention he gets, the better. They like guys who hit hard and mean there,” Maddy answers.

“Said the English major,” Emily teases.

“I could always go sports writing! Especially since now I have an in with Sebastian Slate’s hot little piece,” she adds, elbowing me playfully. I laugh, but my emotional well is about overflowing at this point. Now that Sebastian has started playing just this side of dirty, the other team fires back in kind; it’s amazing no one else gets seriously hurt over the course of the game. At half time, I respond to the texts Sebastian sent me this morning.

Ashlynn Sawyer: Be careful out there.

Sebastian Slate: So you haven’t blocked my number!

Ashlynn Sawyer: -_- I was busy all morning. Stop playing like your bones are made of titanium.

Sebastian Slate: Mom called this morning, dad had another bad day. It’s been rough. Wish we could have talked this morning.

I grimace at my phone, which I’m hiding in my lap. I thought he was calling for a hookup, but he was calling to vent to me about his father’s mental state. I can’t believe I ignored him. I swallow as much of my guilt as I can stomach, and press on.

Ashlynn Sawyer: Im really sorry. Are you okay?

Sebastian Slate: I’m fine its him I’m worried about

Sebastian Slate: Lawyer bill set him off. Need that NFL contract more than ever now just to pay the legal fees.

He doesn’t say anything after that— I imagine because they’re nearly finished with the break, as a few moments later the bands finish up and the teams run back out. I slide my phone into my back pocket and cheer as Berkfield goes on to win the game by three touchdowns. Sebastian always plays well, of course, but today he— and, consequently, Conor— looks like he’s had a fire lit beneath him. Everyone else is playing a college football game; Sebastian and Conor are in the Super Bowl.