“You have a new receiver.”
My brows shoot up. This is news to me.
We’ve been trying to recruit another high caliber wide receiver since my freshman year when Taylor decided to follow his gut and play baseball at University of Michigan instead of football here. He had options, since he’s talented as fuck in both, but he decided to step from under his father’s shadow and forge his own path playing the game that called to his heart more. And while I fucking miss playing with him, I respect the hell out him for doing it.
Still, a new wide receiver is fucking exciting. Andrew Benson has been one of my receivers for not only my time at CU, but also in high school. By now, we have pretty good on-field chemistry, especially since we’ve been great friends since childhood. But I can’t always count on Drew, that’s too predictable and unrealistic to rely on a single wide receiver all the time. I need someone else I can trust to go long and catch whatever I throw at them.
“Who is it?” I ask, my eyes searching the field for an unfamiliar form, number, anything. But the issue is we have plenty of new faces and practice uniforms on the field right now, since we lost quite a few players last year to either graduation or the NFL draft.
“Transfer from Clemson. Junior,” Coach finally tosses me a glance. “He tossed up some very impressive yards last season. Could be our ticket to a bowl game this year if the two of you mesh on the same level you and Drew do.”
I wrack my brain, trying to think of receivers from Clemson, but I come up blank. Keeping track of stats for other teams isn’t high on my list of priorities, but especially if it’s a team we never face during the season.
I roll my eyes at Coach before whipping my gaze over to where the wide receivers are running through alone ladder drills with the running backs. I notice a couple new numbers in the mix, but none stand out. “You act as if I should just know who you’re talking about. Again, I ask. Who?”
Instead of answering, Coach raises his megaphone to his lips. Covering my ears just in time, I hear a muffled “Grady, over here!” shouted to who I’m assuming is my new wide receiver.
Grady? Doesn’t ring any bells.
I watch as all the heads in the group snap up to look at us except the one player running the ladder drill. No one moves to come our way, so that leaves one option on who must be Grady.
Number eighty-three.
His head is down, dark hair wet with sweat as he keeps his attention on his feet. He’s laser focused, moving with a profound amount of agility back and forth through the ladder. The ease in which he maneuvers his frame screams athleticism, and my heart pounds in my chest as I continue watching him stay zoned into his task.
Immediately, my brain latches onto the fact that he has every component to make the kind of receiver I prefer to work with. Not only because he is clearly built for this sport and is dedicated to honing his abilities. There’s also the fact that he will put his training as a higher priority than listening to the order to come over here while he was in the midst of a drill.
I even catch Drew nodding his approval at Grady disobeying Coach to finish out his drill.
This defiance for the sake of growth, it’s something only Drew and his twin brother, Elliott and I know will gain the highest respect from Coach. It’s a secret we keep from the rest of the team, hoping they learn it for themselves and earn that level of reverence from an NFL great like Graham Scott.
But this little trick is something we only learned by being raised with Coach Scott in our lives. If Taylor wasn’t part of our friend group or our team back at Summit Academy, I don’t think we would have been smart enough to figure it out.
But Grady somehow managed to do just that on his first damn day.
My eyes stay trained on number eighty-three as he works through the rest of the drill, not stopping until he hits his mark and the offensive coach stops the time on his watch. The second he steps out of the ladder, his eyes snap up to look in our direction.
I’m unable to tell the color of his irises from here, but what I do know is whatever they are, they carry a lot of heat with them. I can feel them burning into me from fifty yards away as he bends to grab his helmet from the ground, only growing in intensity as he jogs closer to us.
Crossing my arms to watch him approach, I take in his tall, lean form. He might only be about an inch taller than my six-two, but his presence is loud, large, and dominating in itself, even at a distance. He’s not built like a brick shithouse seeing as he is made to run, but the skin of his arms and legs that are visible under his practice uniform are well defined and toned. Veins pop in his forearm from his grip on his helmet, bulging out from beneath his skin like a roadmap. At least, that’s true on the skin that isn’t completely covered in ink. Which is only the lower part of his left bicep.
When he pulls to a stop in front of me, I blow out a breath, because I do know who he is. I don’t know how I didn’t put the pieces together earlier when Coach mentioned his last name.
Because Ciaráin Grady has been throwing up astronomical stats the past two years at Clemson, being in the running for the Heisman both years.
And now he’s here at a college that isn’t exactly known for its football.
Which begs the question...why?
His attention is focused on Coach, not even giving me a second glance, when he says “Coach?”
That one single word, sliding over me like a smooth, rich whiskey, has my stomach doing somersaults and backflips and every other gymnastic move in the book on an instant.
Coach grunts before nodding to me. “Grady, I’d like you to meet your QB. My hopes are you’ll be able to mesh well together. Even despite the fact that you haven’t played together the previous two years.”
For the first time since he’s stopped in front of us, his eyes leave our coach and zero in on my own. They’re two deep pools of honey whiskey, the most distinct amber I’ve ever seen on a human. Seems fitting they match his voice.
“River Lennox,” I tell him, ensnared by his gaze as I extend my hand to him. “The guys call me lots of shit besides that though. QB, Riv, Len. Whatever works.”
Those golden eyes stay on mine as his own arm reaches out to shake my hand. But the second our palms touch, fingers wrapped around each other’s hand, fire licks at my skin.
Actually, fire is putting it mildly. It’s more like a bolt of lightning, zapping each and every nerve ending in my hand, sending shockwaves of electricity and heat coursing through every inch of my body. All from a simple handshake.
From the flare in his eyes before he quickly looks down at our joined hand, he feels it too. That is, before he drops my hand like it literally burnt him and his gaze returns to mine.
“Ciaráin Grady.” He speaks his name slow and fluidly, sounding like keer-en.
When he doesn’t say anything else, I quirk a brow. “Do you just go by Ciaráin?”
He smirks slightly. “I guess my old team used to call me G or Grady, so that would be fine too. You’re welcome to come up with something else, so long as it’s more creative than asshole or dickhead.”
“Not asshole or dickhead. Duly noted.” I nod in all seriousness. “Well, Garrett over there—” I point to my backup QB on the other side of the field— “goes by G, so for clarity’s sake I think I’ll stick with Grady.” I give him a wry smile before continuing. “But welcome to the team, man. I have to say, you transferring might be a gift from God. I've needed another stellar wide receiver for two years now.”