The Pickup (Imperfect Love 1)
Prologue
Nick
Twenty years old
I’ve just gotten back to my dorm, and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m ready to take a hot shower then go see my girlfriend, Samantha. I throw my gym bag on the bed and grab a change of clothes and a towel. Stripping out of my sweatpants and shirt, I turn the water on as hot as it can go and wait for it to heat up. Once I can see the fog filling the bathroom, I get in. Standing with my back toward the hot water, I let it rain down on my sore muscles. Between sitting on a crowded, uncomfortable-as-fuck bus for the ten-hour trip to and from D.C. for our first football game of the season, the lumpy king-size bed I had to share in the hotel with my teammate Killian, and the two-hour meeting I had to attend once we returned to go over the game tapes, a hot shower is exactly what I need.
I grab my shampoo and wash my hair, then squirt some body wash into my hands. As I scrub the dirty feeling from the nasty bus off my skin, I try to think of everything I need to get done. With it being the beginning of my junior year at North Carolina University, it feels like my to-do list is never ending. I need to pick up the textbook I ordered for the British Literature class I’m taking, go by the library to see if I can check out The Hobbit and The Neverending Story for my Fantasy Lit class… Shit! I also need to go by the writing lab to schedule the required tutoring session. Some days it feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day, and today is definitely one of those days.
After rinsing off, I get dressed and head to the writing lab. “Excuse me, my name is Nicholas Shaw. I’m taking Professor Hughes’s creative writing course, and he said we have to schedule a tutoring session.”
“Yep! Let me pull up your name. What’s your student ID number?” I give her my ten-digit number, and she types it into the computer. “Hmm…it seems you’re no longer enrolled in that course.” She types some more on her keyboard. “It actually shows you’ve dropped the course and switched your major.” She prints something out and hands it to me. I read over it, and sure enough, my degree seeking states business and not English Literature. My classes are all basic accounting and business management shit. What the hell? I just picked my damn major not even two weeks ago when I met with my advisor.
“Okay, thank you. I’ll get this figured out.” I fold up the paper and put it into my back pocket and start heading toward Samantha’s dorm, furious as hell. There’s only one person who would do this. I hit his name on my cell phone, and not even one ring later, my dad answers.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
“Nick, I’m glad you called. I saw your game, and I’m not the only one. There’s chatter from several teams. If you continue to play the way you did yesterday, you’ll be entering the draft this year instead of next, and most likely go in as a first round—”
“Did you change my major?” I ask, cutting him off.
“What?” my dad responds incredulously. “Did you hear what I said? There’s a damn good chance you will be drafted this year.”
“Yeah, I heard you. But I thought I was going to stay in college all four years so I can graduate with my degree.”
“We talked about this, Nick,” my dad says, frustration evident in his tone. “Football comes first. Your coach called and told me that you asked for permission to leave your practices early this semester because you need to attend some writing bullshit.”
“Writing lab.” I sigh. Since I was little, I’ve always felt a pull toward literature. When I’m not reading, I’m writing. Horror, Mystery, Fantasy, Nonfiction, I don’t care what it is. When I was a kid and didn’t really believe I stood a chance at playing pro ball, my dream was to one day delve into the world of books. My second grade teacher gave me a writing journal, and that year I filled the entire thing with story after story. Growing up, I read everything from The Boxcar Children and Harry Potter to 1984. As an adult, I’ll give anything a try. From James Patterson to Stephen King. Hell, I’ve even given Nicholas Sparks a go-round. I’m not sure, if given the opportunity, what I would do in the field—maybe write or edit. All I know is I love books.
Not that it matters at this point. I’m not being given the opportunity, and I won’t be in the future. How many football players do you know of that have written a novel? And I’m not talking about the millions of autobiographies. Exactly…