Coach pats me on the back in the way he has always done since I was playing peewee football with Taylor, Drew, and Elliott. “Hit the showers, kid. I’ll see you in the morning.” I glance at him as he walks away for a moment before my eyes find their way back to Ciaráin, who is rising to his feet and grabbing his pads to head into the locker room.
“Coach Scott doesn’t fuck around, even on the first day,” he says as I head over to him, my feet carrying me closer to the object of my newest obsession.
“Nah, but would you expect anything less from someone with five rings?”
He shakes his head, half a smile peeking out and I get my first glimpse of perfect, white teeth. “I suppose I shouldn’t.”
“You get used to it,” I say, attempting to remove my eyes from his mouth. Shockingly enough, I’m able to, only for them to be caught by his eyes once again. “He’s a tough nut to crack, but he’s the definition of a teddy bear.”
Ciaráin licks his lips and nods. “I can see that. But of course, we’ll only be grateful for it down the road when we make it rain and bring the thunder on game day.”
“Hell yeah we are, man.” I add a laugh, but it feels forced. Why am I fucking nervous? “Making it fucking rain.”
My thoughts snag on that phrase.
Make it rain.
And for some reason…it reminds me of his name. I think I’ve seen it spelled before when they announced him for his Heisman nominations the past couple years.
Yeah, his name literally spells rain. With that weird little accent bullshit over the a, but still.
We start walking to the tunnel when the idea hits me. “Hey, why don’t I call you Rain?”
His shoulders go rigid as soon as the last word leaves my mouth and those amber eyes flash up to mine. That fire is back in them again, except this time it burns with something like anger, causing me to freeze in place.
“Nah, man,” he grinds out, shaking his head adamantly. “Not that one. Ciaráin is fine.”
Then he walks off the field and through the tunnel without a backwards glance, leaving me wondering what the fuck I said wrong.
The door of the locker room closes behind me with a soft click as I make my way over to my cubby to start getting dressed for the game. First game of the season, to be exact.
The state of the art locker room is seemingly empty, which I’m glad for. Whenever it was a home game while I played for Clemson, and even in prep school, I always tried to be the first one in to suit up, giving me a little bit of extra time to get into the right headspace.
I also prefer to dress without an audience of eighty other men, even though it’s not like they watch.
But as I round the corner, I find River Lennox, our QB, sitting on the bench inside his cubby about halfway down the wall. The guy is pretty cool, and a damn good quarterback too. Almost making this transfer worthwhile.
I have to admit, we’ve been fire on the field together in practice. Nearly unstoppable, even if we’ve only been playing together for three short weeks. All that does is give me hope for a successful season though.
At least that’s hope for something, seeing as football is just about the only damn thing getting me out of bed in the morning.
I pull to a stop and watch River, dressed only in a pair of running shorts, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His arms are crossed over his legs and I watch as he taps his left hand absently to his right knee in a sporadic rhythm, the arm flexing with the movement, causing the few tattoos there to ripple.
He’s not wearing headphones, at least not that I can tell from here, so I call out to him. “If you’re trying to keep a steady beat, practicing to become a drummer or some shit, I hate to break it to you, man, but you’re in for a world of disappointment.”
River’s head immediately snaps up at the sound of my voice, as if startled to find himself no longer alone. He recovers quickly, just like on the field, and lets out a laugh.
“Definitely not looking to join a band. I prefer to march to the beat of my own drum anyways,” he grins before standing up and turning back to his cubby, pulling out his padded pants.
“Then what were you doing? Having a damn seizure?” I hold my hand to my chest and gasp. “You don’t have like some...nerve disorder do you? Because dude, I am aiming for a fucking ring this year and we can’t get one when our quarterback has a twitchy hand.”
He lets out another throaty laugh before grabbing a ball out of his locker and tossing it at me. Which I, of course, catch with ease.
“Fuck off, Grady. I was mentally playing a song, okay?”
I throw the ball back into his waiting hands, my brows furrow. “Mentally playing a song? As opposed to actually listening to it?”
He spins the ball in his palms, comfortable as hell with the damn thing in his large hands, and smiles as if I caught him with his hands in the cookie jar. “I do it a lot when I’m nervous. Anxious. Or, I mean, just in general sometimes. I dunno. I think of my favorite song of the day or week, the one I can’t stop listening to or thinking about, and tap my hand to the words. Somehow it calms me. Like a coping mechanism or whatever,” he shrugs, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I nod, thinking about it. We all have our ways of dealing with stress. Life. Whatever works for him to get his head in the game, I guess.
“What one is it today, if you don’t mind me asking?”
A wide grin spreads over his face. “‘Afterall’ by Beartooth, though that’s usually my theme song before every game. The chorus, hell the whole thing, it kind of hits deep. Makes me remember I’ve got it good. Even if I fuck up on the field, it’s a small problem to have in comparison to the shit people deal with on the daily.” He shakes his head, realizing his small tangent. “Sorry, I can go on about them all day since they’re kind of my favorite band in general.”
Pulling out my phone, I bring up my Spotify app and type in the song. “You mind?” I ask before hitting play. He shakes his head and turns back to his cubby, pulling on his socks, then trading his shorts for the pants.
I start getting dressed myself, letting the sound of the song play out into the silence of the locker room. It’s really good too. The beat and the sound, both are phenomenal for getting pumped before a game or work out or something.
But the lyrics, the meaning behind the words, laced with understanding of what it’s like to live with mental illness…it sets me on edge.
All because of one fucking line.
Head on the ground and my thoughts on the ceiling.
A cold chill runs down my spine and my knuckles blanche from gripping the wooden shelf of my cubby. Instantly, I’m taken back to that night.
The sweat running down my face.
The cool barrel of the gun.
My finger twitching on the fucking trigger.
“I’m gonna have it stuck in my head on the field now,” he laughs, tossing on a cut off tee and sitting back in his cubby, leaning against the wood frame. His words effectively pull me from my memories before the demons have a chance to sink their claws in too deep for me to climb back out.
Clearing my throat, I quickly exit the app and toss my phone down to my side. “I’d happily turn on something else for you,” I give him a half smirk, attempting to cover my unease. “Perhaps ‘Baby Shark’ would be a better choice?”