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“I’ll give it a go,” I say instead. “You ready? Coach is going to kick our asses today.”
“I was born ready. Did you see Calhoun?”
Silas points across the room, and we both watch as Todd pulls off one t-shirt only to replace it with another.
Muscles he didn’t have before the summer flex across his back.
“How much weight has he lost?” I mutter. The man was a little thick around the middle, and despite the extra weight and the scent that trailed behind him, he’s always been one of our more powerful hitters.
“Gained ten pounds,” Silas answers.
“All muscle.”
“Every ounce. If he was a powerhouse before…”
My eyes roam, somehow finding Rick even though it’s not intentional.
I look away quickly, but Silas is too fucking observant for his own good.
“He’s the cause of your sleep problems,” he says as we start to walk toward the field.
“No doubt,” I agree. “I’m regretting not switching with Jericho.”
Silas chuckles before slapping me on the back. “Ready to puke?”
***
“He’s demonic,” I hiss before spraying a cool stream of water into my mouth. “The actual devil.”
Calhoun grins, watching Silas fall to the ground, heavy breaths drawing his chest up and down.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Calhoun says.
I look at the man like he’s crazy. Silas tries to punch him in the calf, but he moves too quickly.
“Who are you?” Silas asks, the words a whimper of pain. “I puked twice.”
Calhoun shrugs before walking over to the coach, his crazy ass probably asking if he can run a few more sprints.
“Do you think it’s steroids?” I ask, even though the word is very taboo in any sport.
“Doubt it,” Silas responds. “Give me some of that.”
He reaches a heavy arm for the water bottle I’m holding.
Instead of handing it to him, I angle the tip down and squirt water all over him.
“On my neck, too.” He rolls his head back, and I oblige. “Fuck, it’s hot out here.”
“It’s always hot. Texas, remember?”
“Yeah.” He rolls over on to his stomach, and I proceed to empty the bottle on the back of his head. “But you’re from New Mexico. It’s hot there too. And before you say it’s a different kind of heat, just remember I’m from Maine. I’m not built for this kind of heat.”
I chuckle. We’ve had this conversation more times than I can count.
“Are we going to grab lunch?”
Silas makes a barfing noise. “Can’t even think about food. Who is that?”
He doesn’t have the energy to point, but I follow his eyes.
Like Calhoun, Rick is smiling, his face bright red, hair a mess as sweat pours off him. He isn’t smiling because he loved the torture we all just suffered through. That grin is directed at a guy in the stands.
“No clue,” I say almost absently because I can’t pull my eyes from the guy as he descends the steps to stand in front of Rick.
“His boyfriend maybe?”
“I’ll call as soon as I get back to town. Will miss you, too.”
“He doesn’t have a boyfriend,” I say, despite remembering the conversation I overheard the day we went home for the summer.
“You sure? They look awful cozy.”
The guy is crouched down, his chin resting on Rick’s hands that clutch the top of the fence.
“Who gives a shit?” I hiss.
“Clearly not you with that laid-back response,” Silas says as he rolls up into a sitting position before holding out his hand for me to grab. “A little help, bestie?”
He’s being sarcastic, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to tell the guy he isn’t my best friend. The clarification isn’t important, and honestly, he’s as close as it gets these days.
“Come the fuck on,” I say before walking away without helping him. “I’m starving.”
“Didn’t you puke?” Silas says, quickly catching up with me.
“Yeah, and that means my stomach is empty. Let’s go.”
“You’re going to the party tonight, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell him even though a party is the very last thing I want to do.
We head inside the locker room, grabbing our stuff for showers, and by the time I get out, Rick still isn’t there. He either opted not to shower or he’s still outside grinning at that asshole in the stands.
Despite being hungry enough to eat an entire buffet, I’m barely able to stomach half a turkey sandwich.
***
I do my best to hide the cringe as I take another sip of the flat beer. I hate the taste of the shit, but I can’t even blame peer pressure because I sought it out, hoping that having a little alcohol in my system will help me sleep better tonight.
When did I become the guy that hated parties?
Have they always been this loud? This hot?
I tug at the front of my shirt, trying to get it to unstick from my skin.
Technically, there aren’t fraternities or sororities at Lindell, but that doesn’t stop the parties from happening. The house I’m at is a block and a half off campus, so it can’t be governed by the school. Coach wouldn’t be happy about his players being here, and I know he’s going to smoke our asses like he does after every college party whether we attend or not.
