I was about to close my eyes again when something clicked. I stared at the shadow in my doorway and then leaned on my elbow.

“Sky?”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. I recognized his silhouette. He lingered for a half second longer, then closed the door. I rolled my eyes and fluffed my pillow. Those two were ridiculous. I kicked Max.

“Your boyfriend is home. Get outta here,” I grumbled.

“Mmmhmm.”

I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head when he swatted my hand away. Whatever. Not my problem. I didn’t want any part of their drama. I had better things to think about.

4

Every quarterback had his favorite receiver. There might be two or three who played their position well and could be relied on consistently, but there was usually one who stood out. Carson Gonzalez was my go-to guy. We’d been a dynamic duo on the field for the past three years at Chilton. He could read my body language and eye and hand signals and get a feel for which play I’d call before I said it aloud. It was an interesting phenomenon since he barely spoke to me on the field. Then again, maybe that was what I liked about him. I appreciated the art of silent communication after listening to Max and Sky alternately fighting and fucking all day Sunday.

I went to the library and the gym to give them privacy, figuring it was a good way to keep occupied so I wouldn’t drive myself crazy thinking about Rory and our closet BJ. I could almost believe I’d imagined the whole thing. Even if it turned out to be fake news, the idea alone had provided serious fantasy material. And my roommates’ nonstop sexathon didn’t help. I came home to a chorus of “Fuck me, fuck me! Pound me, baby! Harder!” from behind their bedroom door and immediately jumped into the shower and jerked off to visions of Rory above me and behind me. It was almost too much.

For the first time in ages, I didn’t mind the weekly Sunday night dinner at my parents’ house. My dad’s constant harping about my grades, the law school application, and the importance of timeliness got old after the first hour, but he reminded me of what I didn’t want, which I supposed was helpful in a way he hadn’t intended. With all the excess static in my head, it was a wonder I could still throw a football.

Nah…it actually made perfect sense. The game was my ultimate stress relief. One hundred yards of green marked neatly at ten-yard intervals with a goal post on either end was my personal happy space. When I felt overwhelmed by expectations to achieve more, be more, it was nice to have one thing I could count on. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do without it, I thought as I glanced sideways at Gonzalez.

He ran down the field and made a sharp left at the forty-yard line before continuing along the side. I pulled my right arm back and unleashed the football. It spun in a beautiful spiral, arcing high at the midpoint before falling gracefully into Gonzalez’s arms. He didn’t break stride to look for the ball, and he didn’t stop running until he reached the end zone.

In a game, it would have been a perfect touchdown. The crowd would have gone nuts, and the bench would have whooped gleefully while an excited announcer sang my praises. “Rafferty does it again! A sixty-yard pass right in the bread basket! That boy is NFL-bound for sure!” Reality was a tad more subdued. My backup QB gave me a fist bump and chuckled when Gonzalez spiked the ball and did his usual TD dance. But everyone else was too busy running through their own drills to notice. And they were probably ready to go home anyway. We’d been in the weight room and then on the field for two hours. Coach Flannigan blew the whistle and signaled the end of practice just as Gonzalez jogged back to me.

“Oh, I thought we’d try that one more time,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“Why mess with perfection?” I joked.

He frowned as he passed the ball over. “It wasn’t quite perfect. I had to speed up at the end to catch it. We gotta get the drop to match velocity, ya know?”

I scoffed. “Engineering majors suck.”

Gonzalez chuckled. He was a good-looking guy with dark, unruly curls and a lean, compact body. He was smart, athletic, and enthusiastic. And his quiet confidence was laced with a wisdom that seemed like an anomaly among most twenty-one-year-olds.

“My art history minor balances out the geek stuff,” he replied with a self-deprecating shrug.

“No. Sorry. Still geeky,” I teased as I headed toward the sideline.

“Wait up! I have a question. Um…do you know Sky Jameson?”

Tags: Lane Hayes Out in College Romance
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