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“But…”
I turn around and meet his gaze, my vision slicing right through all the pain that’s swimming in his blues. I don’t want to see it. Facing it will undo every logical decision I need to make right now. He is wearing a tight pair of black boxers, an Adonis with a sculpted face, asking for his mortal friend to play a game only the gods can win.
“Simon Cowell,” I say one last time. “Please let go.”
He shakes his head, turns around, and walks away, doing exactly as I tell him to.
The next day, I do the unthinkable—the un-fucking-doable, and push a teammate to the ground because he stretched too close to me. Yep, I shit you not. Quarterbacks usually try to protect their hands and arms, not shove them into other footballers’ personal space to start a fight.
“What the fuck is your problem?!” Michael asks, throwing his helmet to the grass and shoving my chest. I’m just looking for an excuse to rearrange some random dipshit’s face, so this is all the invitation I need to get in his personal space and growl, “You’ve been asking for this, motherfucker!”
I’m about to throw a punch—knowing that it’s going to put me in a very bad spot, knowing that scouters are roaming the training area, knowing that I could be flushing my whole future down the toilet—when I feel a big hand yanking me away from Michael. Tom and Dre are pushing Michael in the other direction while Mark is hugging my midsection and dragging me to the other end of the field. Lines of mud are forming beneath my feet. I’ve always been an aggressive player. Comes with the territory of being a huge-ass kid with a shit ton of issues. I was actually supposed to be an O-Liner. But it so happened that my first coach said I was too intelligent not to be a quarterback and forced me into the position. Today, I’m feeling especially confrontational. The kind of asshole that needs to be thrown inside the octagon or ring with Conor McGregor and Floyd Mayweather and can still come out of there unscathed.
“Are you trying to shit all over your future?” Mark bares his teeth, slamming me against the wall of the sports auditorium. I shrug, taking off my helmet and running my paw through my now long-ish hair. I normally ask Jolie to cut it for me, but I’ve been too busy trying to get in her pants lately to ask her to take care of that shit.
“It’s fine. He won’t say a word to Coach Drescher.” I wave Mark off. He puts his hands on his waist and paces in front of me like an exasperated parent. Behind him, my teammates are arguing and yelling and I did this shit. The realization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Doesn’t matter, bro. You’re still acting like King Douche of Cuntland, and you need to cut that shit before you get blacklisted. You can’t afford to do that. Not when you’re so close to getting drafted.”
I know he’s right. I also know that I’ve been acting like a dick all day, and that’s unlike me. I need to get my head back in the game, but it’s hard when I know that JoJo’s a few feet away, going about her day after smashing my fucking heart yesterday on the kitchen floor.
“So, I shouldn’t be a massive dick to everyone even though I have a massive dick. Gotcha.” I nod, trying to lighten up the mood. Mark lifts his head and pins me with a serious look.
“What’s gotten into you? Something’s wrong?”
Like I’d ever tell him.
“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s so dandy and fucking right I want to break into a dance.” The sarcasm drips from my mouth like drool.
“Yeah? So this has nothing to do with you and Jolie?” He lifts one lonely brow.
Her mere name on his lips makes me want to punch the wall behind me, then run a fucking marathon to spend all the pent-up aggression coursing through my body.
“Everything’s great between JoJo and me. Don’t say her name again, please.”
Mark stares at me, dumbfounded. A smile spreads across his lips. We’re not super tight, Mark and I, but I know that he is good people. I also know that he was born and raised in a nice Southern family where people hug a lot and talk about feelings and shit. That makes me uncomfortable around him sometimes. Like he can see through me. See the parts I’m only really comfortable sharing with JoJo.
“You’re in love with her,” he says, chuckling. “Holy shit, man. You are in love with your roommate. That’s hilarious. Does she know?”
Does JoJo know? Maybe the better question is—do I know? Sure, yeah, I like her, but what, exactly, does it mean? Fuck, I can’t even seem to read myself anymore. Why else would I act the way I do? Like the Duke of Dickwads. But admitting to myself that I’m in love—not just love, but in love—with my best friend is somehow like admitting defeat. Because other than a couple times recently, JoJo has never flirted with me in her entire life, and I’m pretty sure if I ever told her how I feel, she’d laugh in my face and tell me it’s a phase.
