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Yeah, that’s far from the truth, but this town is too obsessed with football. It’s kind of unhealthy.
And yes, my thoughts remain, even as I grin, shake their hands, and take random selfies. In the span of a few minutes, I put on the show I was taught to perform when I was a kid.
Always smile. Always be on your best behavior.
Always put on a mask.
By the time we reach the stairs, I’ve shaken hands and taken pictures with most of the people present. Let’s just say that Chad likes us as much as we like his place. Since everyone knows we hang out here, the restaurant is almost always full.
He gives me a bro hug, then clutches me by the shoulders. The smell of grease and pepper comes off him in waves. “My star quarterback.”
“Not really a star yet.”
“Oh, yes you are.”
I grin. “I guess I’ll show you this Friday.”
“That’s the spirit, son!” He gives me an encouraging slap on the back like Coach does.
People in Blackwood expect one thing from me—to be efficient. It comes with the Weaver name.
Those who belong to my family need to bring something to the table, whether it’s grades, victories, a senatorial position, or a hotshot lawyer role like my uncle.
At any rate, I need to have something to offer.
After a glittery welcoming in front of the townspeople, Chad finally points us in the direction of our private booth.
Brianna, the co-captain of the cheerleaders, slips her hand through my arm as she paints on her own plastic smile. Hers is so overdone, it’s fucking turn off.
There’s an art in faking one’s smile. A part of you needs to believe in it. A part of you needs to send signals to your brain that smiling is the best solution for people to leave you alone.
We sit around the table, the guys already mixing and matching with the cheerleaders. There are five of us and about seven cheerleaders, so Brianna and Reina sit on either side of me. But everyone knows the blonde, blue-eyed beauty captain is off the table.
She’s engaged to one of our teammates from high school, and although he chose to study international law in England and hasn’t returned in three years, she still wears his ring.
In a way, we’re only keeping an eye on her so that no one gets close. At least, Owen and the others do. I’m interested to see the stern l
ook on her face break, even if that means she finds another man.
Yes, I’m a horrible friend, but I blame it on small-town problems. As in, there’s barely anything considered fun around here.
And I’m not the type who can be allowed to have free time. If I do, my fucked-up tendencies will take reign, and that would just be…tragic.
To everyone else, not me.
Owen stands up, clearing his throat, and I groan. This is heading in a direction I can see from a mile away, but if I stop him, he’ll pout like a bitch and be a general douche. I kind of need my wide receiver on my side, at least until the critical game.
He grabs a glass of beer and holds it high as he speaks in his dramatic tone, “I want to toast our star quarterback who gets all the praise—not cool, man—and to all the beautiful ladies who make us play like beasts. To the Devils!”
“To the Devils!” everyone else echoes and I tip my glass in his direction before I take a sip.
Owen finally takes his seat, but he leans into Reina’s side. “Queen Bee, what are you gonna do for me if we win?”
She raises a brow while tracing the rim of her glass with her pink-manicured nails. “What do you want?”
“A BJ. If you give me that, I’ll win all the games.”
She smirks. “Maybe if you get drafted into the NFL, Owen.”
