Fading Out (5 page)

“I could save you the trouble of an inquisition,” I say, trying to hold his intense stare.

His eyebrows rise. “Interesting. You’re just offering it up that easily?”

My eyes go wide, and he immediately winces. “That’s not—”

“I am
such
an idiot.” I shake my head, finally breaking his gaze. Getting my bearings once again. “I was not offering—”

“I know!” He’s grasping my shoulders now, and I squirm against his hold. “That didn’t come out the way I wanted.”

“No,” I say, using my arms in a windmill motion to break free. “You meant it just how it sounded. But I’m not one of your groupies. There’s no touchdown going to happen here. And honestly—” I laugh “—I think words between us period isn’t smart. Let’s just not from now on, okay?”

I don’t give him the chance to remark. I’m feet away from him, and then yards. Trying to collect myself from his
almost
touchdown.

A
rian’s right
about one thing: I shouldn’t be using words around her. I shouldn’t open my mouth at all. It’s dangerous. Shit, you’d think I’d know better. Girls like her…I stopped trying to impress a long time ago.

But dammit if she doesn’t get right under my skin. She’s like a song I can’t get out of my head. Playing on a loop. And I just need to sing the tune once to be free of it. I figured I’d make a move, hookup with her, get her out of my system. But she’s so…stubborn. I’ve never had to impress a girl before; I don’t have much practice. But I’ve never been this lame before, either. I’m a fumbling idiot whenever she’s near.

Since the end of the game, I’ve been racking my brain for a way to set things right with her—to at least end the animosity between us. I hate the ill feeling in my gut that I get around her. I hate that I can’t put that beaming smile I first glimpsed back on her face. I can’t have the crushing weight of two girls who I’ve hurt on my conscience.

My feelings are so conflicting I want to punch my locker.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this now. I should be enjoying the moment before it’s over. Maybe too soon.

I’m riding a high, having sent the ball right into Devon’s hands, spiraling beautifully through the air in a perfect arc, to win the game by a landslide. Moments like that don’t happen often. We’re nearly undefeated, and I play my ass off each and every game, running hard. Winning hard. But that moment was captured as if in slow motion.

Ball snapped to me. Two steps back. Arm cocked. Ball launched.

It was clear and impeccable. That single second when everything came together and I watched the ball sail through the air, then cradled in arms, before I was tackled. I don’t even remember the takedown, just the emotion welling inside. Knowing this is what I’m meant to do.

It’s the first time I’ve ever felt it.

I wonder if Arian saw the game. If she saw the pass. Not that I should care. I don’t need her approval, I remind myself. She’s not Alyssa.

Shoulder pats and congratulations are given to me in the locker room as the last of the team head out. I’m taking my time changing out, savoring this feeling, making it last as long as possible.

Before freshman year in college, I rode the bench. My father always pushed me to play sports, any sport, but he was a hardcore football fan. So I grew up with plenty of practice; backyard games, watching him and my brother toss the ball around. Sunday game day. My mom scurrying in the kitchen to feed the shouting guys in the living room. Pep talks and last minute drills before each tryout.

And I saw the hope crushed in his eyes each time I made backup.

By my senior year of high school, I hated the game. I loathed football. Though my father never openly voiced his disappointment, the silent avoidance hurt more than any scolding. I’d rather him yell and curse, like some of the dads I’d seen do to their sons, rather than bottle his regret.

So I told myself that when I went off to college, I wouldn’t even try out. I’d be on my own and away from my family and wouldn’t have the pressure to perform. I could finally focus on something…
anything
else—like my writing. Something that I’ve done in secret ever since middle school. Short stories. Plots for novels. But tell that to my dad? That I’d rather write a book than run a touchdown?

Yeah. Sure. That would’ve been the final crack in our fragile relationship.

That’s how much the man loved football.

But that was then. A lifetime ago. Before everything changed.

I slam my locker door, my mood dimming, turning black. It’s like I couldn’t just enjoy the moment; I had to dredge up the painful past. Like a masochist. Never allowing myself the joy of the game. It’s work. Always.

Except for today. For the first time in four years—hell, since my father first tossed me a pigskin—I felt like I was destined to play ball. And not just for him.

“You coming?” Gavin says, peeking his head around the cement blocked corner of the locker room. “We’re hitting Jack’s, bro.”

Celebration for our victory. “I’ll be right out.”

Stuffing my sullen thoughts down deep in my guts, I reach for the high I felt only moments before. Solid in my choice not to let anything ruin the rest of tonight.

J
ack’s Bar Wench
is a college dive bar in the heart of town. Sidewalks line the touristy beach town’s two-lane roads. Decorative glowing lampposts are planted before every building. Spiral metal benches cap each corner. The bar is attached to a chain of two- and three-story buildings, brick and wood combos, which litter either side of the main strip.

In truth, I love this town. Everything is within walking distance. It’s classic verses old. And Jack’s is a homage bar for college football. Our home. Even though I ride the guys pretty hard about not drinking or partying too hard during the season, it’s not a bad idea to throw back a beer and relax after a game. To celebrate.

I don’t dare let them drink off a defeat.

As Beck waves the waitress over, he cocks his chin and shouts, “A round for the boys, sweet tits!”

A grimace pulls at the corners of my mouth. I feel embarrassed on the waitress’s behalf, but she’s never once complained. Rather, she laughs, encouraging the attention from the players. It’s a sad truth that these guys own this town. Can pretty much do as they please—but for the most part, they don’t. Most of them want to go on to the big leagues, and know that the wrong shit going down now can prevent a career in the pros before it even starts.

My brother is living proof of that. A cautionary tale to all.

I glance around our table. “Make it last, brothers,” I say. “We’re packing it in early tonight.”

Devon groans. “You’re such a hard-ass.”

The guys chuckle, but I know it’s in good spirit. They get how important this season is. It’s our year—many of our last—to bring home the championship. We can’t afford to let one night of fun hinder our game.

Braxton won the bid for the playoff to be held here. That means the pressure is on for us to slaughter in the regular season—to impress the committee enough to secure our spot. I can almost feel the tension radiating off the guys sitting around me now, the thought hovering just above the celebratory atmosphere.

“I’m out early, anyway,” Gavin announces. He downs half the beer the waitress hands him in one long chug. Slamming the tumbler down on the table, gaining the group’s notice, he adds, “Got to get my celebrating on the right way.” He swats a hand through the air, miming spanking an ass.

“Ah,” I say. “That’s fucking worse, dude. Last time you spent the night with Laney, your game was shit.” I eye him.

But my words fall on deaf ears as he’s distracted by something over my shoulder. I turn to see Laney and her group of cheerleaders entering the bar. With a hard shiver, Laney pulls her jacket tight against her. Then, snagging the whole bar’s attention, she proceeds to peel the outerwear layer off, revealing a skimpy top and short skirt number.

Swiveling around in my chair, I note every guy’s gaze trained on the girls. Hell, there goes that. “Practice. Early. Morning.” I punctuate each word, snapping a few heads back my way. “Don’t make me bust balls tomorrow,” I warn.

“Bust ‘em all you want,” Gavin says, rising from his chair. He slugs back the rest of his beer, then grunts. “But I’m bustin’ a nut first, dude.”

A collective rumble of laughter circles the tables.

I shake my head, always amazed at how Gavin can twist everything back around to his dick. Though, really, I didn’t want to have that mental image on the field tomorrow when I’m running drills.

The girls saunter over, and Laney takes up Gavin’s side, plastering her body against his. He reaches down and grabs her ass, lifting her off the ground, and she squeals.

I look away—and my gaze lands on two girls coming into the bar.

One of which is Arian.

A strange dip bottoms out my stomach. My feet are turning in her direction before my brain catches up, then I grip the edge of the table, straining to keep myself seated.

“Damn, bro.” Beck nudges my side. “I think I might try for a piece of that.” My head swings around to see him staring right at Arian. “I could handle a little stuck up attitude if it meant getting those legs wrapped around me.”

My face heats. My muscles bunch, neck aching. But before my mouth is open to say…something, Jeremy speaks up. “Hell, I’d fuck the snotty right out of her.” He laughs, getting a fist bump from Beck.

My knuckles turn white on the table. “So vandalizing her car was, what…?” I look between them. “Your equivalent to picking on a girl you like? You think she’ll just shrug that shit off and fuck your brains out?” I wince at my own dumb-ass words. I don’t like the image I just put in my head. Even to make a point.

“Chill, man.” Beck raises his beer to take a sip. “We’re just fucking around. We know you got dibs on that. First, anyway.” He winks at me.

Hell. “Forget you guys.” I push my tumbler of Coke away. I’m not sure why I’m in such a foul mood all of a sudden. I’ve sat right here, hundreds of times over the past few years, and laughed while they talked about nearly every girl on campus this way.

But Arian’s different—in the way that I’ve made some kind of unspoken claim to her. One I feel the rest of these hard legs should recognize. My insides coil tight at the memory of calling her a bitch. No excuse; just asinine on my part. But that wasn’t their cue to start pissing circles around her.

From my peripheral, I see her and her friend take a seat at the bar. My attention is painfully divided by the conversation going on about a new play we’re running tomorrow and Arian talking to the bartender.

I zone out like this for a while until I hear: “Lap dance!”

My full attention goes to the guys as they beckon the group of cheerleaders to dance for them. This happens often, too. I don’t think anything of it, my attention being diverted away again, then I spot Beck—my OT—motioning toward Arian.

“We need a couple more girls, man,” he says to Jeremy. “Hey, yo! Condom girl!” He tries to wave her over, and I cringe when I think of how she’ll respond. I feel the sudden need to duck. “I have a free lap that needs a hot little ass on it.” He pats his big thighs. “Come give big daddy a dance.”

To her credit, Arian ignores him easily. Which is not so simple to do, considering the guy is massive. Not just tall but thick and stocky. He guards my ass on the field. But Arian doesn’t even waste a glance his way.

I consider telling him to knock it off, but Beck’s already up and walking toward her. Without another thought, I spring from my chair.

“Actually,” Beck says when he’s just a couple feet from her. “I think my man Ryder needs that dance more.” He nods toward me, and I squeeze my eyes closed for a brief second. Shit.

Arian twirls around on her stool, her face pinched. Mouth tight. “By all means,” she says, waving her hand through the air, “don’t let me stop you. Give it to him good. And make it sexy.” Her head nods encouragingly while she says this, and a laugh slips from my mouth.

But Beck doesn’t see the humor. His features twist into a hardened expression, and I’m by his side in a flash. “We’ll leave you ladies alone now.” I eye him, trying hard not to look at Arian, whose slitted eyes are shooting daggers at me. As if I sent Beck here for this request.

“Yeah,” Beck says, backing away. “Not enough ass for my lap, anyway.”

My mouth pops open to defend her…but I realize, with a mental groan, that I said practically the same thing to her once.
Hypocrite
bangs around my head as I lead him back to the tables.

My night is officially on frustrate. I’d planned to ride the high, not let anything bother me, but I’m feeling like it’s better to end the night earlier rather than later. Before my mood really takes a dive for the trenches. And I end up punching one of my teammates.

Hell, besides, every time I try to make amends with Arian, I just end up fucking things up worse. And I really do try. I mean, I go in with the best of intentions, an apology ready on my tongue—but then her hot little body draws me in. And I’m all over her, unable
not
to touch her.

My breathing is ramped just thinking about her body pressed to mine. I release a strained breath. We need a fresh start. A do-over. Fuck, we need something.

And I need to make it abundantly clear to Beck and the rest of them to steer clear. I stare at the glass of Coke, wary, as if the bartender somehow gave me the wrong drink. I don’t feel intoxicated, but I’m looking for a reason, any excuse, to blame for my abruptly brimming anger.

I need to go cool off outside.

Raising my hand, I signal the waitress to cash out my tab. While I’m waiting, hoping I can escape this scene before it gets ugly, I stare blankly at Marissa as she swivels her hips, rocking into James.

A high-pitched yelp snags my attention. My gaze is drawn to the bar top where Arian is waving her hands frantically. She bounces off the stool and pulls her soaked shirt away from her body.

What the…?

The laughter pulls me out of my confusion, and I turn around. Five of my guys covering their faces, trying and failing not to burst into laughter. As Arian’s annoyed voice rises above the low music, all of them at once lose it and crack up.

“Hey,” Beck says, shaking his head at me and shrugging sheepishly. “She makes it too easy, bro.” The others clap him on the back.

Then I’m walking toward Arian, lava in my veins. What the hell now?

“This your idea of a joke?” She stops ringing her shirt—that probably cost more than my old Jeep—to reach for a straw. She’s covered in what looks like cranberry juice. Then she uses the straw to pick something off the bar top. A condom. “It was in my drink.”

I see it now. Her putting the drink to her lips, seeing the floating condom, and then dumping the drink on herself. If it were any other snotty chick, I’d probably laugh; say she deserved it. But as I’m watching Arian get fired up with outrage, I note her shaking hands. The tremble of her lips. The hurt she’s trying to conceal. The humiliation etched on her face steals all the air from my lungs. I have nothing to laugh with.