“Are you going to beat her record? Go for eight? Maybe nine?”

  “I would never put my vagina through that.”

  “Oh shit. Okay,” I chuckle.

  We’re just sayin’ vagina. Like it’s nothin’.

  “Three kids or less,” she adds. “Church on holidays.”

  “Unless Gandy’s visiting. Then it’s every Sunday.”

  “Is that what you call your grandma?”

  It’s what I call my step grandma because my real grandma on my mama’s side is dead and I never knew my daddy’s mama.

  “Yeah,” I answer simply.

  “I like that,” she says quietly. “Gandy.”

  “It’s charmin’ as shit, isn’t it?”

  “It’s cute. Is that a southern thing?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I like the southern side of you.”

  I chuckle, switching the phone to my other ear. “It’s the only side I’ve got.”

  “That’s a lie,” she scolds. “No lying. Lying makes you sterile.”

  “And you want three kids.”

  “So you better keep that potency up.”

  “Did we just get engaged?”

  “You had me at ‘Gandy’.”

  “Wow. It’s all happening so fast. I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s not always something to say, Butler Shay,” she sings softly.

  I grin, my chest doing a quick fist bump against my ribs.

  She knows my name.

  She looked me up.

  “You got curious, huh?” I ask.

  “Didn’t you?” she replies, unashamed.

  “I did. Brookrook.”

  “Why didn’t you friend request me?”

  “I didn’t wanna seem thirsty.”

  She laughs. “And cold calling me at one o’clock in the morning on a Wednesday isn’t thirsty?”

  “Is it really one?”

  Damn! I gotta go get my books. We have a team meeting at six tomorrow morning. Coaches are finally allowed to start practices for the Spring Game.

  “Do you need to go?” Brooklyn asks.

  I want to tell her no. I want to stay on the line with her all night because it feels good, really good, but I can’t. I’ve got shit to do and places to be. My life is scheduled down to the minute, and I already sacrificed study time to talk to her. I can’t give up sleep too.

  “Yeah, I do,” I admit reluctantly.

  “Well, it was good talking to you.”

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this was a one-off and we’re never talking again.”

  “Oh no, we’ll talk again. When you’re a starter.”

  “Fuck that,” I laugh, not a hundred percent sure she’s kidding.

  “I had one rule!”

  “It was a stupid rule.”

  “You don’t get to decide that.”

  “You knew it was bullshit or you wouldn’t have called me back. You would have blocked me.”

  She sighs heavily. “I thought you were a gentleman, Red Shirt. I thought I could trust you.”

  “Yeah, but you were hopin’ you couldn’t.”

  She’s smiling. I can’t see it but I can feel it. I laid the accent on a little thicker, let the drawl run a little longer, and she’s hooked. She likes the way it sounds, the way it feels, to hear me say it.

  She liked what she saw in that bathroom.

  She wants to see it again.

  Soon.

  “You need to go,” she reminds me.

  “Call me tomorrow,” I push.

  “No.”

  “I’ll call you, then.”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you going to answer?”

  “Maybe.”

  I grin. “You will.”

  “Maybe,” she repeats, her voice coy. Playful. “Then again, maybe not.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  About an hour after I hang up with Brooklyn, I have sex with a girl named Gideon.

  This is not me being a douchebag. I swear.

  Not completely.

  Look—just hear me out.

  It’s been over a month since the last time I had sex. Did I mention that? It’s important. It matters. A lot.

  Dick is in my head nonstop. I can’t sleep at night. I’m amped out of my mind with the stress of finals coming and the Spring Game and training. If the coaches see me killing it in these spring practices, I’m more likely to start next year and I have to start next year. Not because of Brooklyn. She’d be a cherry on a sundae I’ve been dreaming about my whole life, but she’s not the reason I need to succeed. That’s for me. For my pride as a man. I’ve never wanted anything the way I want what Eustis has – a shot at the NFL. And the only way I get there is if I’m starting next year. I’ve gotta get on the radar, which is why I came to the U of O. They’re in their stride right now. We nearly made it to the National Championship last year, and if the world wasn’t so busy sucking SEC dick, we would have been there. We would have won. But when the choice came down to who was going, they picked Auburn over us. Same strength of schedule, we had one more win than they did, but they were ranked higher because they’re SEC.

  Fuck that biased shit.

  Anyway, I’m stressed. I think that’s why I’m not sleeping. There’s a lot on the line and a lot going on in my head, but it’s never quieter than after I’ve had sex. Back home in high school, I got laid the night before every game. It was like getting high for me. Actually, it’s better than being high. It’s like taking every muscle relaxer in the world, turning the volume in my brain down to zero, and slipping into a coma for eight hours.

  I need the release.

  Gideon will give me that, gladly. Brooklyn won’t. She can’t. She’s forty-five minutes away and a lot of work needs to go into that relationship before I’m getting laid. We’re playing a game right now and it’s only the first quarter, but Gideon and I don’t play regulation. We scrimmage. No clocks, no quarters. It’s all about scoring for both of us.

  Is that a blunt enough metaphor?

  We fuck – that’s it. That’s our thing.

  I should feel guilty, though, right? Because I just hung up with Brooklyn and after getting my stuff from the library, I go straight to Gideon.

  Is that messed up?

  I honestly don’t know.

  When I text Gideon to ask if I can come over, she’s quick to say yes. She’s under a lot of stress too. She’s a freshman, like me. An athlete. Midwestern, big into football. Big boobs, small butt, and weirdly long fingers. Like, Jack Skellington from Nightmare Before Christmas kind of fingers. Bony and thin and just really long. It’s almost a problem for me. I like her, though.

  Dick loves her.

  Calling her doesn’t always mean we’re having sex. She’s not a prostitute. Sometimes it’s just getting dinner or making out in her dorm until her roommate comes home and I get kicked out. Basically anytime I call, Gideon is down for whatever.

  Her dorm is only five minutes from the library. When I get inside her room, it’s dark except for a string of white Christmas lights around the window. Her bed is made, her clothes are on the floor like she just shoved them there to make room. Room for me and whatever is going to happen on her bed until—

  “Jillian’s gone for the night,” she tells me with a smile. “You can stay as long as you want.”

  DTF! Dick screams. DTF! DTF!

  I pull my hoodie off over my head. “How long do you want me to stay?”

  She kisses me; rough and demanding. Her mouth tastes like cherry Chapstick and Diet Dr. Pepper. I put my hands in her hair to control her. To tilt her head back and kiss down her neck to her chest. Her shoulder. I slow things down because I’m not ready yet. I need to feel her first.

  Grab her ass, Dick commands.

  I grab her ass.

  Put your hand in her pants, he coaches.

  I slide my hand inside her shorts. She’s not wearing any underwear.

  See if she’s wet.

  I put my hand between her legs, delving one finger inside. Deeper than I need to.

  She bucks against me, her body going rigid, then soft. Supple.

  Dick hums happily. Suck her tits. Make her wetter.

  I pull off her shirt, shoving her back on the bed where her breasts bounce like water balloons. She giggles girlishly. Her legs fall open for me, and I slide Dick against her where he’s happy and warm.

  He doesn’t say much after that.

  None of us do.

  When I reach for a condom, she tells me she has one. I don’t answer. I take out my own, Meyerson’s voice echoing in my brain.

  “College girls come prepared,” he warned me at the start of the year. “But don’t ever use their shit. Bring your own. If you didn’t bring it, don’t wrap your dick in it. You don’t know what they’ve done to their condom.”

  I want to think Gideon wouldn’t do something crazy but I don’t know for sure so I’m not taking that risk.

  “Go slow,” Gideon purrs as I slip inside her. “We have all night.”

  As I fuck her, both of us gasping, grunting, I promise I’ll go slow because she asked, but I’m not staying all night. I wanna be back in my dorm and asleep by in the next hour.

  I can’t give Gideon all of anything, not even my night.

  ***

  That night, I have a dream about Brooklyn. I’m on top of her on a bed in a dorm room. There’s a pile of clothes on the floor. White Christmas lights around the window. She moans my name and I grunt hers, her caramel hair in my hands. She smells like Brooklyn but feels like Gideon.

  That I do feel guilty about.

  100%.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I wake up to my alarm screaming at five in the morning. Fumbling for it, I knock my phone off the nightstand. It clatters somewhere under my bed.

  “Crap,” I moan into my pillow.

  I hate waking up. I got used to early workouts in high school when my coach took the extra time to condition me before I left for college. That doesn’t mean I liked it. I hated every second of it. I hate how cold the room is. How dark it is outside. I hate what little sleep I get and how hungry I feel the second I open my eyes. I’m always hungry. Mama said I started eating like a pregnant woman when I was eleven and never stopped. I eat for two every meal. I’d weigh three hundred pounds if I didn’t work out as often as I do.

  My phone rings under my bed.

  I grab for it blindly, my bleary eyes only registering color and light. Nothing more.

  “I’m up,” I answer gruffly. “I’m on my way down.”

  “We’ll be there in ten,” Weiss warns me.

  “Got it.”

  “Why’d you stay at the dorm?!” Meyerson shouts at the phone.

  “You’re screaming in my ear,” Weiss complains.

  I grunt, my feet recoiling from the cold floor. “Tell him it’s none of his damn business.”

  “Be outside in five.”

  “I thought I had ten.”

  “Would it kill you to be early?”

  I get dressed as quickly as I can, grabbing my duffel bag to fill it with clothes for tonight and tomorrow. I need something clean at the apartment. I’ll stay there tonight instead of coming back here. I pull a fresh pair of shoes out from under the bed where they’re lined up with six other pairs. My closet is stocked neatly with sweatshirts, jerseys, and T-shirts hung in a cascading row according to warmth. I grab a hoodie from the middle before opening my dresser to grab a fresh pair of underwear and shorts out of the stacks inside.

  My dirty clothes from last night go straight into the hamper by the door. It’s half full. I’ll do laundry tomorrow to empty it.

  I don’t know where I got my need for order. It definitely wasn’t Mama. She’s a mess. Not as a person, but as a housekeeper. She drops stuff as she’s walking into the house and doesn’t pick it up. She’ll kick off one shoe in one room and the other in another, just to run around panicking an hour later when she can’t find either of them. Who keeps moving my stuff?! she’ll shout. She literally has no idea that she’s her own problem.

  Big John was shocked by it when we first moved in with him. Our apartment was small and perfectly organized every time he saw it, but he didn’t know that was because of me, a ten year old kid. I’ll never forget the look on his face the first time Mama made dinner in his house. It looked like a bomb went off. There were no survivors.

  Big John’s house was larger than anything I’d ever seen before, and Mama is a roving force of nature. I couldn’t keep up with her. I started to get stressed. The chaos messed with me. John started to feel it too. Three weeks after we moved in, he waved the white flag.

  He hired a housekeeper.

  I’ve never come closer to loving him than I did that day.

  The hall is silent as I walk to the stairs. People will wake up soon to fight for a spot in the showers or the good sink in the bathroom that gets the hottest water. That bathroom is shared by more than twenty people and it’s probably cleaner than the one at the house with the guys, but it isn’t the same. It doesn’t feel like home the way living with them does.

  When I hit the lobby, the smell of coffee wafts warm and bitter into my nose.

  “Good morning,” a girl giggles.

  She’s by the door, her hands full of big bakery boxes. She’s arranging them on a folding table covered with paper plates, napkins, and coffee. She’s in pajamas, her blond hair a messy bun on the top of her head. She smiles at me, pretty and perky.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “The gym.”

  She spots my bag. Oregon Football is sewn into the side of it in bold green letters. “You’re on the team?”

  “Yeah. Offense.”

  “Do you want a donut?”

  My stomach rumbles excitedly. “You have donuts?”

  “They’re for an RA meeting but we have plenty. Take one. Or two.”

  I search the boxes until I find a maple bar and a bear claw. Pretty Perky hands me a small paper plate and a steaming cup of coffee.

  “I added one sugar and a little creamer,” she explains. “I hope that’s okay.”

  It sounds disgusting, but I smile gratefully. “It’s perfect. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a great day.”

  “You too.”

  She smiles again. Brighter this time. “I’ll try.”

  She’s flirting.

  She’s cute.

  I should get her name at the very least but I don’t have time. I salute her with the overly sweet coffee and hurry out the door just in time to catch Eustis’ Jeep pulling up out front. I climb in back with Meyerson.

  “Where’d you get donuts?” he asks jealously.

  “A girl.”

  “Do you know her?” Eustis asks.

  “Nope.”

  “She just gave you donuts and coffee?”

  “She saw the bag,” Weiss drones tiredly.

  They nod in understanding. Suddenly it all makes sense to them. They’re forgetting I’m also hot.

  As we pull into the parking lot next to the practice field, I quickly check my messages. I was in such a hurry this morning I didn’t think to look at them. I have three. One from Eustis last night asking if I was ‘coming home’ (I feel like shit for not answering him), one from Mama asking how my week is going, and one from Brooklyn. It hit my phone at four this morning and I wonder if the girl ever sleeps.

  I sent you a friend request on Facebook and Insta, she tells me. Accept as soon as possible. I need to see a pic of you that doesn’t look like a serial killer or else my memory of you in Vegas is going to be tainted. With blood. From your victims.

  I snicker, responding, You mean my team photo? I look tough. Not crazy.

  I go through my social media, accepting her requests. My fingers fly to her account to get a better look at who she is but she doesn’t post much. Maybe once a month she’ll throw up a picture of her with some girlfriends at a festival or an art show, but during the season it looks like they’re always at a football game.

  Actually, there’s a lot of shit about football in general. Reposts from players and coaches, pics of different stadiums and fields. She’s been to her share of them all over the country. Autzen isn’t on there. It makes sense. Even though it’s in her backyard, no self-respecting Beaver fan would post pics of the Ducks’ field unless they’d just won a game there. And that sure as hell isn’t happening.

  The pictures she posts of herself are a mixed bag. One minute she’s in full hair and makeup at a bar with her girlfriends and the next she’s wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, her hair swept back into a ponytail, her face almost completely clear of makeup. Either way, she’s gorgeous. She’s exactly the girl I remember from the bathroom in Vegas. The one I can’t wait to get my hands on.

  “Shay,” Eustis barks impatiently. “Get out of my car, man. We’re here.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  I turn off my phone before stuffing it in my pocket. It’s a habit I picked up from Weiss. Fewer distractions means fewer fuckups, he told me. That’s advice I can use.

  I’m prone to fuckups.

  I follow Weiss and Meyerson toward the athletic complex where the rest of the team is waiting for us. This workout is important because it’s the first one back under the direction of the coaches. During the off season we were allowed to follow ‘suggested’ workouts with our strength and conditioning coach present to make sure no one got hurt, but he couldn’t actually lead the workouts. No other coaches were allowed to be present. Those workouts are technically considered optional, but they aren’t. No one is visibly taking attendance, but mentally they are.

  I’ve never missed a single workout but I wish today I could. I’m exhausted. I stayed out too late at Gideon’s – that’s the problem. I gotta watch that. If I want to go to the NFL, I have to make my mark on this team as soon as I can, and to do that I need to live and breathe football.

  No distractions.