Ryder
Earth and rain, the scent of our victory, engulfs the small dorm room. I brought my cleats with me, wanting to clean off the caked-in mud better than the half-assed job I did after the game. We nearly got washed out, but we played hard and brought it home before the weather turned to shit. Looking them over, I consider having the boosters pitch in, but I don’t mind the small things. The things I can do for myself.
After I toss my shoes on the plastic sheet I have laid out at the bottom of my closet, I rub the gritty dirt between my fingers, my mind drifting to the last play of the game. Just a couple of weeks ago I was almost positive I knew what I was doing. I finally felt solid in my choice to go pro. I belonged.
That sure feeling fled nearly as quickly as it came.
I peel my T-shirt off, my skin still damp from my shower, and flip through the shirts hanging in my closet. I must stand here too long, lost in thought, because Gavin tosses a Nerf football at my head. I grit my teeth on impact.
“No jeans, bro,” he says simply, like I’m supposed to take wardrobe advice from a guy who wears fucking muscle tees everywhere. Like he’s one of those stereotypical jocks from the 80s.
“This party was supposed to be your thing,” I say, pulling a gray thermal from a hanger. “Why you’d make it about me?”
Gavin groans. “Because you’re always so uptight, man. You need to relax. Have you heard anything from that one dude…?” He trails off as he thinks. “That scout we met at that dinner thing?”
This is not the conversation I want to have right now. After Ari left with her parents the night of the charity banquet, I was approached by this weasel of a scout, Jerry Dugan. I’d heard some shit about him, like how he could get you a Beamer at your request. Which is now frowned upon. But he’s still one of the lowlife scouts who’ll try to buy you out. Most guys stay clear of him, but Gavin—and I can say this because the guy’s my closest friend—is just the type to get hooked by those games.
“Nah,” I say, and fall back on my bed, tucking my hands behind my head. “He’s not worth it, dude. We need to wait it out. Coach said Mathis would be coming around next week.” It would be cool if Gavin and I got picked up by the same scout, got vetted for the same team. But that’s highly unlikely. And besides, neither of us will even utter the team’s name we hope to be picked by. That’s like tempting fate.
Gavin doesn’t respond, and I let it go. I’m too tired and restless to talk about anything serious concerning my future. Ever since the blow up with Ari—that I still cannot figure out what the hell happened—I’ve steered clear of any heavy thoughts on my prospects.
I didn’t know how badly I wanted something different until she blew into my life. Like a fucking hurricane. And now she’s all I can think about. I’ve tried to imagine just being friends with her, or hell, even just acquaintances. What it would feel like to pass her in the hallway, overhearing her announce an upcoming engagement—a party her father’s throwing her at the Ritz,
or wherever the wealthy celebrate. Imagining her marrying some rich douchebag.
For a girl I met not all that long ago, there should be no sting whatsoever. I should be able to shrug it off, or maybe even vent a little, telling myself it’s her loss. Good luck to her. It’s what I’d do with any other girl. But just the thought of her being bound this early to some guy…my whole body locks up, and then I’m raging mad. Fired up, and huffing like the pissed off, dumb jock that she wants me to be.
But what’s the alternative?
I can’t believe I put all that shit out there the other day. Told her I’d give up football if she’d stand up to her dad. What’s more, I’m not sure who I said it for; her or me—like I was only seeking an excuse to quit.
What an ass.
At least I’m being truthful, though. I should have all my shit figured out before I say another word to her. Which is going to be hard, considering the party tonight.
“Are you ready yet, you girl?” Gavin’s standing at the door, staring at me. “You’re so fucking out of it lately. Come on.”
I roll off the bed, feeling like my body is dead weight I have to lug around all night. Games usually don’t wear me down this badly, but there’s zero winning buzz to override my bruised ribs, my racked muscles. My beaten willpower.
Slipping on my leather jacket, I consider the very real possibility that Ari won’t even be there. This was all for her friend. I decide that’s fine by me as I follow Gavin into the hallway. We need more time too cool down after the heated words we exchanged. And that’s just it—neither one of us needs anything intense to fire us up for a good while. I’ll figure out what to do, how to proceed with her, after I blow off some steam.
As I make my way toward my Jeep, the sounds of elated Bobcats echo through the parking lot.
* * *
Only the town’s adored Bobcats could manage shutting down a whole beach bar to host a private party. I shake my head as Gavin and I enter, the cranked, bass-filled music hitting my chest with a rattling boom. Flashing LED lights decorate the ceiling, dripping from the rafters. Little blue lights are woven between sheer material being used to section off private seating areas.
“How the hell did you pull this off?” I shout over the music.
Gavin chuckles, a beer already in his hand. “Dude, I’m the shit.”
I have no other choice but to accept this as fact. Because I’m actually impressed.
Looking around for the boosters, all I note is the team. A bunch of dudes. No girls. And I know at least half of these guys have girlfriends, or at least their current hookups. I quirk an eyebrow in Gavin’s direction.
“Don’t worry, man. This won’t be a sausage fest.” He takes off toward the bar top to talk to the bartender.
I pull up a seat next to Jeremy and nod my head toward a bottle of water when he asks what I’m drinking. None of the guys ever mention it, but they know the reason I don’t drink. That I stay far away from the shit that turns my brother into a monster.