And he could introduce you to his dad. Think about it.
I play like absolute garbage for the rest of the game.
Last season, a popular sports blog crowned me‘The Most Underrated Tight End in College Football,’but today I play like the most overrated. I fumble passes and drop so many catches that my teammates start groaning. Not the look I was aiming for after celebrating my captaincy a few days ago. At least there are no coaches around to witness this shit show.
I finally jog off the field, claiming dizziness. It’s not a complete lie—my head’s been spinning ever since Mia’s last text. I drop onto the grass and immediately reach for my phone again. It takes me three tries to unlock it—sweaty fingers, maybe, or the broken screen. Either way, her last text is still there.
He could introduce you to his dad. Think about it.
I stare at my smashed phone, trying very hard to be appalled that she thinks I can be bought like this. But the memory of the broken car sitting in the yard pushes back against my morals. I have one season left to get my ducks in a row and go frommostunderratedtight end to a valuable draft pick instead of becoming another Mr. Irrelevant.
The sun is directly overhead by the time we wrap up. Stepping into the parking lot feels like walking right into a concrete wall. Sweat slides down my freshly showered back before we’ve crossed half of it, pooling just above the waistline of my pants. To make things worse, little black dots dance in front of my eyes as I follow Seb to his Audi. Skipping breakfast was a dumb idea, but I figured I'd get some calories in at the training center.
Unfortunately, Seb has other plans, and I depend on him to get home.
“You okay?” he asks when I put my bag into his trunk, my hands trembling.
“Yeah, of course. Just hot.” That's not a lie. The asphalt in the parking lot has been absorbing heat all morning, then magnifying it before throwing it back in our faces.
“You can have this,” he offers, holding up a bright red plastic shaker. “It’s uh…something-something vanilla-matcha-flavored, I think. Here, I just have to post a picture on my Instagram, and it’ll be yours.”
My stomach is begging me to say yes, letting out a low growl that I cover up with a soft cough. “Nah, I’m good,” I dismiss him while Seb snaps a quick picture. I know he’s careful to leave me out of it, yet I still take a step back to escape the camera.
“You sure? It’s organic. Or from grass-fed cows? I don’t know, probably both.”
“I’m good, promise.”I want that drink, but I also don’t want Seb to ask why I’m this hungry or why I haven’t had breakfast. He already paid for pizza the other day. And I’ll be good as soon as I get home. Hopefully, by then, one of my roommates will have recognized the dire situation in our fridge and brought home some groceries.
I’m glad when he shrugs and takes a big gulp from his shake. The next moment, his face screws up, and I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me.
“Fuckme.” He pulls the shaker back like it tried to bite him.
“Why are you drinking it then?” I snort, and he sighs.
“My mom landed some kind of deal with the brand, but this is horrendous.”
“Of course she did,” I murmur and watch as he snaps another quick picture of the drink, then hovers with his finger over his keyboard, chewing on his lower lip. We stand like that for a minute or two, me shifting from one leg to the other, the air simmering around us.
“Seb?” I prompt him gently. “Maybe you can post this later? It’s really hot out here.”
He jumps at that, then slides his phone back into the pocket of his sweatpants.
“Yeah, sure. Sorry!” He beeps the car open, and I slide inside. The air is even worse in here, so Seb cranks up the AC. For a moment, I think of my car and how its AC system died long before the rest of it did.
We drive in silence, Seb’s jaw working like he’s still chewing on that terrible protein drink. Stuff like that can bother him for hours, and even when he doesn’t say anything, I notice the way his right hand scratches his left arm every time we stop at a traffic light.
“Stop that,” I tell him when red streaks appear between the black lines of his tattoos.
“Sorry,” he mumbles and fiddles with the music instead. Over the next few minutes, the playlists change wildly from hard rock to ‘90s pop and then to Taylor Swift before settling on one of those deep-focus brainwave tracks. They cut out when Seb stops in front of the Nook and kills the engine.
“Thanks for dropping me off,” I tell him, the moment he says, “About what happened with Mia...”
I freeze. My mind goes to the text messages, then catches up. He means the party.
“Oh, that.” I laugh and sink back into the soft car seat. “Don’t worry about it, man. Mia was a bit bummed, but she already got over it.”
Seb nods, his lips pressed together in a thin line. His fingers scratch his arm again, but he drops them back into his lap the second our eyes meet.
“Sorry.”
