Originally Chapter 9

Lincoln

I shouldn’t look at Derek as an enemy.

He’s my teammate, after all. Yet, when I look at him, all I see is a big red bulls-eye. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t care about the team. Or because he showboats every damn day of his life. It possibly stems from the fact he thinks he’s better than everyone. But I’m pretty sure I hate him even more right now because he's just shown up for dinner for the first time. While all the offensive starters and some defensive team members are invited, Derek has never shown up to any team builder. Yet, here he is, flowers and a wide-ass smile in hand.

Paxton’s brows are raised, his shock evident.

“Welcome!” Mrs. Lawson greets him with a smile that grows when he presents the flowers to her.

“We’re so glad you could join us. This isn’t anything fancy. We do it family-style.”

Maggie stares at her mom a moment, her brows knitted. “This is fancy, Mom. Most college students use paper plates and eat food made in a microwave.”

Mrs. Lawson waves her reasoning away, but Derek doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is on Dr. Lawson. Of course. Because he’s an asshole and is likely looking to get in Dr. Lawson’s good graces.

Then Rae appears with Arlo in tow, his arm draped around her shoulders as she carries a large stack of napkins to the table. Arlo doesn’t know her much better than I do, but Arlo doesn’t know boundaries or customaries, so when Rae ducks, he doesn’t drop his arm like I can tell she was intending. Arlo’s focus moves to Derek as well, and like the rest of his, his posture changes, his shoulders becoming a wall, and his easy demeanor switching to a similar expression he gets on the field when facing an adversary.

If Derek notices, he doesn’t address it. He smiles and then walks toward him like he’s greeting a friend.

My attention is glued to Derek, watching as he passes coaches and other teammates with a genial smile that I don’t trust for a second. He stops in front of Arlo and Rae, and his smile transforms, becoming something foreign—less cocky than his usual interactions. “Hey, Raegan. I was hoping you’d be here.”

Paxton pulls his head back, looking at me with anger glinting in his eyes.

Then Rae smiles, and I realize the two of them might have spent more time together at the party than I’d realized. They seem familiar with one another—friendly even. Not in the same way one is when you’ve hooked up, when there’s a shared energy with consideration for more, no, this is far more concerning, a genuine interest that has both of them smiling and seemingly distracted by everyone else.

Shit.

“How are you?” Derek leans closer.

Rae smiles, and it’s so damn sweet. She looks relaxed—happy—two things I can’t say usually grace her expression when I talk to her. “I’m well. How are you? It’s good to see you.”

“What in the fuck’s he doing here?” Pax asks in a whisper.

“It looks like he’s here to see your sister.” This is a good thing, I remind myself. My feelings for her are centralized in lust and desires that stem from being told I can’t be with her, grown only because of how cold she’d been when I kissed her. I hate people playing hard to get. I loathe mind games. Yet, I’m not sure she is playing mind games with me. I’m fairly certain Raegan Lawson has absolutely no interest in me. This shouldn’t bother me, in fact, it should relieve me.

Arlo moves away from Rae but looks over his shoulder at them as he approaches us. “You might need to revise your plans to kill anyone who dates your sister. I think Coach might bench you if you knock Derek out.”

Son of a bitch.

***

I live for game days.

The anticipation.

The adrenaline.

The focus.

The scent of leather when opening a fresh pair of game shoes.

The chill of my jersey sliding over my arms.

Since I was seven, I’ve played football and chills still race over my arms before a game.

On the other hand, Paxton is a jittery fool who often sucks my enthusiasm away until he loses his stomach and calms the fuck down. He hasn’t reached that point yet. We all have our own routines—the same events that lead us to prepare for a game. For me, game days start early with reps and transition to sprints. After sprints, I run for two miles and then hit the showers and eat like a king. It’s a double order of eggs benedict every single time. Then, I study film until it’s time to ice my shoulder and get my ankles taped. I don’t hang out with others. I don’t answer my phone. Game days, I become a solitary motherfucker, and don’t enjoy small talk or flirting or anything else.

Coach strides into the locker room, snapping as he makes a path to the center of the room. “All right. I know this is a pre-game, but I want you guys out there, acting like it’s the real deal. We aren’t going to play easy on the goddamn Bruins. I want to see hustle. I want to see intensity. I want to see you whoop their mother fucking asses!” Everyone cheers around us, but Pax and I remain silent. He does it because he’s green and can’t focus on anything but not barfing in front of Coach me, I don’t like this type of hype. It doesn’t build me up or get me into the “zone” like it does others. No, what tips me over that edge and makes the world silent around me is stepping out onto the field and eyeing both end zones. The sight of those painted strips of grass lock me into an impenetrable space where come hell or high water, I’m going to do everything in my ability to win.

“Need a hand? Or a finger?” I jab Pax with my elbow as Coach concludes his spiel.

Pax blows a slow stream of air through his mouth, then jogs toward the bathroom stalls.

“That’s such a disgusting habit.” Arlo cringes. “I don’t understand. How after all this time does he still get sick?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know, but it seems to work for him.”

“Glad I don’t have to deal with that.”

“You’re superstitious as all hell, dude. You’ve got your own bag of nuts.” I eye his socks that are tinted brown because he’s been wearing the same damn pair for five fucking years and has yet to wash them because he’s afraid we’ll lose if he does.

“Not everyone can be perfect like you.” Arlo clasps my cheeks.

“Cute,” Derek says, slowing as he passes in front of us.

“Does he know how badly I want to bash his face in every time he speaks?” Arlo asks, watching Derek walk away.

“No. His head’s shoved too far up his own ass to realize anything.”

Pax appears a sports drink in hand, sweat formed on his pale brow. He looks terrible, but he always does at this point.

“Ready?” I ask.

He nods before taking a long drink, and then the three of us go out toward the tunnel where the team is lining up, ready to take the field.

Friday night games are admittedly my least favorite. I hate the transition of twilight, before it’s dark enough to turn on the lights and yet not bright enough to clearly see each detail. Being drafted isn’t even an option—it’s a must. I can’t imagine only having one year left to play football. This game is what makes me who I am--the one thing that truly defines me.

Coach slaps me on the back, his hat pulled low over his eyes. “You ready, son?”

I flash a smile. “I’m always ready.”

He chuckles, a large wad of gum visible between his teeth. Coach is always chewing gum, sometimes so hard I expect him to pop his jaw out of place. The man doesn’t know how to remain still. Between chewing gum, snapping, and pacing, he’s always moving. “I want to see your face on the highlights reel tonight on ESPN.”

“You will.”

He chuckles again. He loves my confidence—needs it to fuel his own.

I put my earbuds in and pull my helmet on. Coach pats my back again, firm enough to feel his touch through my pads but gentler this time with more endearment. It might be because I’m his meal ticket, having brought Brighton more publicity in the past three years than they’ve had in over a decade, or possibly because I practice a ton and all those hours together have accumulated and formed a bond that often has me looking to coach like another parent. One who doesn’t have unrealistic expectations or guilt associated each time he looks at me.

We stream out onto the field, passing by the cheerleaders who scream, shout a rhyme, and wave flags as the crowd cheers raucously. We’re anticipated to be a big contender this year, and announcers are already talking about us going undefeated this year. These types of news stories make Pax even sicker, but for me, they give me purpose. I either need to prove someone wrong or prove they’re right. There’s never been an in-between for me.

Arlo is next to me, his arms raised in the air, feeding off the crowd, and then Hoyt joins him, jumping in the air and doing what looks like a jig. He’s a mountain of a linebacker, and like Arlo, he loves the pre-game. I focus on the music and smile because that’s what people want to see when they see the highlight reel tonight. They want to see The President smiling and being the cocky bastard who leads his team to another victory.

Coach snaps feverishly, the sound muted over the crowd. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” He looks over us as we stand in formation. I pull my earbuds free and hand them and my phone to Benny, one of the assistant coaches who works exclusively with us wide receivers. He pockets them and nods before giving me a clean towel to tuck in. It’s a dry night, but I still accept it because habits are as strong for me as they are for Arlo and Pax.

“Derek, you have strongside. Lincoln, you’re the weak side, son.” He looks between us as pride swells in my chest. I’ve always been on the weak side, yet just like each time I step out onto the field, hearing Coach makes this call still gets my blood pumping.