I don’t know how much I could have gotten away with this morning, but with how much I want from them, I wasn’t going to push my luck at that moment. However, sending flirty messages throughout the day was fair game, just to get an idea of how badly they were spiraling after everything, and they are bantering back with me just fine. I highly doubt they are anywhere near as deep in this as I am, but they aren’t pushing back or throwing up the harsh boundaries as they did before. It gives me hope that I have a chance this time, and I’m going to make it count.
“Marcus, position,” Gio hollers testily, snapping me out of my head.
Fuck, I need to clear my head and get back into practice. I’ve got time to drown myself in Qiang later. Right now, I need to force my brain to focus on the here and now.
I’d always said that I didn’t want to complicate my life with feelings, drama, and hurt feelings. It wasn’t worth my time, and it wasn’t worth the divided attention it demanded of me with my football dreams. However, after last night, that reasoning crumbled at my feet, and I decided I could pursue both football and Qiang without losing either.
Knowing I need to back that decision up, I get into position and focus on the present. We’ve been running drills for a while now, and sweat drips freely into my eyes while my chest heaves steadily. Myweight is on my dominant foot, which is perched slightly behind me, and my eyes are on the ball, waiting for the snap.
It doesn’t matter that it’s just a drill; the anticipation coils all the way down to my core, tight and ready to spring. The adrenaline narrows everything down to the steady heartbeat pulsing in my ears, the rhythm of my heavy breath, and my eyes riveted, waiting for the snap of the ball.
While Gio shouts out a string of commands, there’s a shared energy that ripples through all of us as we prepare to move, and then a whistle blows, interrupting the play. A jarring sensation courses through me as the coil in my core malfunctions and the energy dissipates into nothing.
The ball now lies on the ground, forgotten, while the team slowly stands to see Coach Stephens, Derrick Montave–one of the three starting wide receivers–and an infamous wide receiver from a different university suited up inourhalf-pads, jogging up to us.
The infamous player, Kingston Adair, has been a starting wide receiver for Pine Meadows University for the past three years. He’s infamous because he spends almost as much time on the bench for dirty plays as he does racking up ridiculous stats on the field. Boggles my mind how he’s managed not to get himself kicked off the team. I mean, he has wicked stats, but there are other players just as good that require significantly less damage control.
“All right, guys, listen up. This is Kingston Adair. He’s a late transfer from Pine Meadows University that’ll be joining the team as a wide receiver,” he announces, and several of us trade questioning glances.
Kingston puts me in mind of the arrogant pricks I went to high school with. Blue eyes, blonde hair, lips a bit too thin, but not enough to detract from his being what society deems classically handsome. However, there’s a smugness in his face, a slight wrinkle of the nose that makes it seem as though he’s looking down on everyone around him with distaste. Since I started following college ball more closely, he’s one player that I’ve always gotten a bad vibe from.
It’s Holt who finally breaks the silence. “But season’s alreadystarted, Coach,” he points out, his eyes on Kingston with obvious displeasure.
Coach Stephens gives Holt an uncomfortable glance. “Well, there were some extenuating circumstances that led to Adair being a late transfer,” he explains.
I frown at that because it’s not against the rules for a walk-on to join the team after the season starts, but it’s odd that Coach Stephens would agree to have a player with Kingston’s reputation join the team. If anything, the season already having started should have been an excuse to at least delay Kingston joining until the offseason.
However, extenuating circumstances happen. That’s not really what feels off, so much as it’s the uncomfortable gleam in Coach’s eye that says he’s no happier about the new player than Holt seems to be.
“Because he’s a late transfer, he’ll be on the team as a backup wide receiver for now,” he says as an explanation.
There’s a loaded silence among Coach Stephens, Gio, and Holt, where their facial expressions convey more than words can between players and coaches who have worked together for a while. I haven’t been here long enough to fully decipher everything that transpires between them, but there’s everything from discomfort to frustration. After a few glances, Gio snorts derisively and turns back towards the field line to resume practice.
Coach Stephens sighs, watches Gio’s back for a moment, then turns back to the rest of us and clears his throat to get our attention. “I’m assigning Adair to Montave, and I want to see them in action for a bit, so Myers and Bauer take a rest.”
Holt shakes his head and motions towards me to follow him. “Good thing Coach put him under Derrick and not me,” Holt mutters, probably more to himself than to me.
“Why?”
“The only way Coach Stephens would allow someone like that on the team is if the school made him,” he answers with a frustrated tone.
“Doesn’t really answer why it’s better he went to Derrick and not you,” I nudge, hoping he’ll say more.
Holt turns and looks towards the field with a glare that seemsmuch more sinister than it really is because half his face is heavily scarred from a car accident he was in as a kid. And no, I didn’t pry; he told me when I first met him. I feel like that’s something he does on purpose to get the questions out of the way, and I just find it sad that enough people have felt the need to prod into his scars for him to do that now.
Despite all of that, though, the guy is like the king of sunshine. He’s always got a smile on his face, and he’d probably never hurt a fly off the field, but because of the way his scars enhance his facial expressions, it makes his rare glares look sinister as fuck.
“Because the only way this went down is by money trading hands somewhere, and I don’t put up with people who need their daddy to buy their way on a team. Neither does Derrick really, but he tends to be more patient than I am,” he grates out harshly.
A series of whistles pulls my attention to the field, where Gio and Kingston are already squaring off.
“Seems like Gio doesn’t either,” I point out while watching Coach Stephens try to get everyone to cool off and run the play again.
A half-smile crooks up on Holt’s face, softening the harshness of his features from a moment ago. “Nope, never expected him to,” he says more to himself than to me.
I keep my responding eye-roll to myself. I’m not just suspicious that Holt has a massive fucking crush on our quarterback; I’m completely convinced of it. The heart eyes he throws at Gio every time he looks at him are ridiculously obvious.
Pretty sure Gio has to somehow be completely unaware of it, because I have a feeling the crush is reciprocated. But then again, I don’t know Gio as well as I know Holt, so I’m not as sure of Gio’s feelings.
