Mrs. Goode pays me for cutting her lawn with Super Saver coupons. I always accept them because I understand letting people have their pride.
Mentally, I prepare for that long-ass nap I’m gonna take this afternoon. After an early workout, moving furniture all afternoon, and mowing Mrs. Goode’s lawn, I’m more than ready to bypass this party.
My best friend Tank marches through the chaos on our front lawn in ridiculously small swim trunks, scuba flippers, and a snorkel mask. “Cannonball contest in ten.”
“Who’s dumb enough to challenge you?” We bump fists.
“I know, right?” He gives me a wide grin. “I think people just want an excuse to see my beautiful Samoan ass glide gracefully through the air.”
I choke on a laugh. Tank, whose real name is Tamatoa Salamasina, is six five, three hundred pounds, and the heart of my O-line. “Don’t get hurt, man. I need you.”
“I got you, baby! The only thing that’ll be hurting my ass is Bree.”
Overshare, dude.
Tank is obsessed with his girlfriend. The guy already has a wedding ring picked out and plans for a half-dozen kids. I used to wonder how he could forgo the buffet of girls who throw themselves at us, but I’m starting to get the appeal. Especially when he gets all those home-cooked meals he won’t share.
These days I prefer hooking up with one woman for a few months rather than random one-nighters. As long as we’re on the same page that this is just for fun. And condoms are a must every time. No slip-ups allowed.
So yeah, I’ll pass on Tank’s dream of having six kids. One would make me crap my pants. Six might put me in an insane asylum.
When I turn, I find that Ben is still talking to Gabby down the street and clench my jaw. What the hell does he want with her?
Blonde hair pops into my vision, and I barely have time to school my expression before Miranda leaps up, wrapping all of her tanned limbs around me like a koala bear.
“Whoa.” I laugh half-heartedly. Guess I won’t be locking myself in my room for a nap.
Grabbing Miranda’s bikini-clad ass with both of my hands, I hoist her over my shoulder, and she squeals so loudly, my ear rings.
Everyone on my yard stops to stare. The guys take a long look at this girl’s rear, which wiggles against my shoulder. I don’t even have it in me to glare.
Mira and I have always had fun, but we have an agreement—nothing serious. Ever. That’s why it works between us. Because I have never felt that pull toward her, and she never wants more.
My eyes dart to Gabby across the street, still talking to fucking Ben.
For the briefest beat, I wonder if it would be so bad to be committed to one woman for more than just hookups. To not have to worry she’s using me for my social media following or the great parties or the attention we garner on campus.
Someone who thinks I’m more than my stats or the last touchdown or the potential millions I stand to make if I’m drafted. A friend, someone I can be myself around and let my guard down with.
Would it be so bad to have a warm woman to snuggle first thing in the morning?
And then I come to my senses. What the actual fuck, Rider?
I almost snort with disgust.
No, this is what I signed up for. Casual is what keeps me from going down the rabbit hole and losing focus on what really matters: Football. The game. Winning. That’s it.
Because without that, what’s left? My father’s trashed-out double-wide? The bills we can’t pay? The locals who think we’re dumb hicks? I’m lucky Charming is far enough away from my hometown to avoid that gossip.
No, football is my ticket out of here, and she’s my only mistress. The girls who warm my bed know the deal. I’m always upfront about that. And the beautiful woman across the street already got that memo.
The look of contempt on Gabby’s face this morning rushes back to me, and I cringe. I hate that she probably thinks I’m scum.
If she talked to anyone in my town, they’d agree. They’d tell her like father, like son.
I like to think I did her a favor by stepping away when I did. She knows I’m not into commitments, and I know she’s a forever kind of girl.
Oil and water.
So however much I might like her, however much I might be attracted to her, she’s someone I can’t be tempted by again. Because she’ll never be down with a hookup, and I’ll never want more.
“Let’s party, people!” Miranda screams over my shoulder, and the growing crowd roars in agreement.
I laugh right along with everyone else. It may sound hollow to my own ears, but no one else notices. They never do.
3
RIDER
After unloading my duffle bag into the stall, I take a deep breath of locker room air, a unique combination of mold and questionable male hygiene, and toss up a prayer I can take the team all the way this time.
We got so fucking close last year.
But close doesn’t get you a championship.
Close might not get you a first-round draft pick.
And I’ll do anything to take my team to the top. No sacrifice is too big. No workout too hard. No pain too great.
I didn’t come this far to place second.
I must not be the only one with victory on the brain because there’s an electricity in the air we haven’t had in previous years.
“We’re seniors! Can I get a ‘woot, woot?’” The guys echo Tank’s rally call as he does a round of high-fives and some hysterical dance moves that no man his size should be able to pull off. “We gonna kick some ass and get those alums to cough up the cash so we can level up and y’all baby Broncs can finally have some nice digs.”
The team shouts in agreement.
I glance around, taking in the drab paint and the fading Lone Star State logo on the back wall. Our bucking bronco Buckee has definitely seen better days.
Not only does our college name sound like a sappy country song, until a few years ago, our football team never got a lot of national recognition. The locals may love the sport, but that never brought in the dough. Hometown fame gets us free or discounted meals at local dives and back slaps at the Mini-Mart, not multi-million-dollar investments in our locker room, like the amenities at UT or A&M.
But the bells and whistles are not what brought me here.
When Coach Sullivan looked me in the eye when I was a high school player, he didn’t see the kid from the wrong side of the tracks who barely got the grades to play. He didn’t see my threadbare jeans or the holes in my faded t-shirts. Coach saw my potential. He said if I kept my focus on the game, he could make me one of the best college players in the country.
My answer was simple: Hell yes, I wanted to play D1 football for him.
After I got to start freshman year when our QB got injured and his backup got redshirted, Coach Sully never wavered. No, he doubled down. On a punk ass like me. I’d basically give my left nut sack for the man.
Hopefully it never comes to that. I’m kinda fond of my nuts.
One of the assistant coaches sticks his head in the locker room and yells, “Conference room in ten, gentlemen!”
Hell yeah. Let’s get this started.
I’m tucking my phone into my locker, feeling like I can conquer the world one touchdown at a time, when it buzzes.