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“Don’t ask,” Cruz says. “It’s some long story from when they were kids that they won’t tell you.”
I have only a quick second to puzzle over why Cruz has a sort of pained look on his face before Jagger says, “I’ll tell you our story if you tell us yours.”
I take a deep breath, stalling to find the right words. On the surface Jagger’s questions are innocent, but the follow up could dig deeper than I’m comfortable with. “I’m from Arizona, studying pre-med, and I’m not a genius, just good at science.”
“Pre-med sounds like a genius to me,” Cameron says. “You want to be a doctor?”
That’s the follow-up I was hoping to avoid, although I suppose with my major it’s inevitable. “A doctor, a researcher, a lab rat. I haven’t really narrowed it down. What about you two?”
“We’re from the western slope—that’s what we call the other side of the Rockies here—we’ve known each other since elementary school—”
“Preschool,” Cameron interrupts.
“Same building.” Jagger shrugs, and when Cameron raises his eyebrows Jagger amends, “My bad, preschool. Anyhow, I’m his rebel and he’s my conscience, which is why we’ve been best friends forever, and I’m athletic training while he’s physical therapy. Cruz here is the lone engineer.” Jagger gives Cruz a little up-nod.
“I prefer oil and grease to blood,” Cruz says by way of explanation, though I’m not sure what it means. Maybe a reference to his dad’s car shop? That reminds me…
“Where are you from?” I ask Cruz.
“A really small town north of here. Practically Wyoming.”
“And you guys all play football together?” I’m certain I know the answer but ask anyway to keep the conversation on them.
“Wide receiver, fullback, tight end.” Jagger points to himself, Cameron and Cruz in turn. “You ever play?”
“No.”
“Liam plays lacrosse,” Cruz says. “Did you know they have a club team here? But it can’t be NCAA because you have to have an equal number of scholarships for men and women, and we take up most of the scholarships for men.”
I’m waiting for the accusation that I must not like football because of that, but it doesn’t come. And Cruz doesn’t hint that’s the case, another point in his favor.
“That’s a spring sport, right?” Cameron asks.
“Yeah.”
“Ooh.” Jagger shudders. “Good luck. I swear spring weather is worse than fall in Colorado.”
“That’s when all the snow falls,” Cruz tells me. “Our season might get the cold weather, but we don’t usually have to play in snow.”
“So, you’re saying lacrosse players are tougher then?”
Three sets of jaws drop open in a mild state of shock before Cameron snorts, “Good one,” and Jagger throws a fry at me with an exaggerated eye roll.
Cruz just grins like the golden retriever he is, and while I’m still not ready to declare the four of us friends—in my experience jocks have a hive mind, and if one decides to be a douche the rest follow—these particular jocks have surprised me.
Maybe they aren’t like the ones where I came from. Maybe somewhere down the road being friends is a possibility.
Chapter five
Cruz
"Iwish I would’ve got more reps today,” Jagger grumbles. “I was just getting into a groove when practice ended.”
“You gotta get faster,” I tell him.
“What do you mean faster? Have you seen my forty? Top five on the team.”
“Three of the guys faster than you are receivers though,” Cameron says. “And not freshman.”
