The Perfect First

by Hughes, Maya

  The Perfect First

  Maya Hughes

  Copyright © 2019 by Maya Hughes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  To anyone who ever wished they were strong enough to change their future

  Contents

  1. Reece

  2. Seph

  3. Seph

  4. Reece

  5. Seph

  6. Reece

  7. Seph

  8. Reece

  9. Seph

  10. Reece

  11. Seph

  12. Reece

  13. Seph

  14. Reece

  15. Seph

  16. Reece

  17. Reece

  18. Seph

  19. Reece

  20. Seph

  21. Seph

  22. Reece

  23. Seph

  24. Reece

  25. Seph

  26. Reece

  27. Seph

  28. Reece

  29. Seph

  30. Reece

  31. Reece

  32. Seph

  33. Reece

  34. Seph

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Shameless King

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Maya Hughes

  Connect with Maya

  1

  Reece

  The icy splash of Gatorade washed over me. I tilted my head back, spraying it all over everyone still standing along the sidelines. If I had to deal with the sticky cleanup of this stuff, so did everyone else. Rivulets of it ran down my back, soaking my jersey and pads. That shit was a bitch to get out of my gear, but damn it felt good to win.

  Grabbing hold of LJ’s pads, I wrapped my arm around his neck and shook him. His brown hair was half matted to his head with sweat and half sticking straight up. He was our tight end, my roommate, and one of the chillest guys on the team. Maybe only Keyton was more chill, and that was probably why I’d snatched that touchdown pass right out of his grip. A guy who relaxed just didn’t get the intensity of the game.

  “One of these days your gambles aren’t going to pay off, but damn is it awesome when they do.” LJ slapped his fist into my chest, but his lips curled up into a smile. His eyebrow with the scar running straight through it lifted.

  I grinned and shook out my hair, spraying rain, sweat, and Gatorade all over him. He shoved me back before running off to celebrate with the rest of the team. Pads and helmets crashed into each other. Arms flew into the air. The Fulton U fans jumped in the stands, shaking the ground under my feet. I basked in their cheers and chants, turning and staring up at all the people, lifting my arm to everyone who’d stuck with us through the rain. The rumble got even louder, filling the stadium. I’d thought after what happened in the offseason, things on the field might have changed, but winning made everyone forget all that off-the-field shit.

  My body hummed with the electricity and adrenaline of the crowd and the win. We weren’t even halfway through the season and there was already talk of a championship.

  I wondered how my dad had walked away from this. It was what made me feel alive, and I wasn’t giving it up for anything. I lived for these moments.

  “Number 6, baby!” Nix AKA Phoenix Sommerland AKA my other roommate, team QB, and best friend, screamed into my ear, nearly knocking me over. His bright blue eyes, which the ladies went insane for, practically lit up the place. Girls up in the stands shouted out our names. His cheeks reddened like they always did whenever that sort of attention happened off the field.

  “Promise me you’ll let someone else catch a pass at least once this season.” He smacked against the pads on my back.

  “It’s what you get for even thinking of passing the ball to anyone else, and if they’re too slow, that’s not my fault.” I shrugged. Wrapping my fingers tighter around the facemask of my helmet, I tugged the sticky neck of my jersey down off my skin. Time for a shower and a party.

  The crowd of teammates, coaches, reporters, and officials swarmed us as we rushed into the tunnel. Pads, helmets, and gear banged into the concrete walls and the noise bounced off the tight space. After a win, it was nearly deafening.

  Nix tugged open the locker room door. LJ jumped onto us with his arms around our shoulders.

  “Press conference first.” Coach Saunders grabbed me and Nix by our jerseys, knocking LJ off. Coach’s salt and pepper hair would have made him look like a politician, but he’d sooner punt a baby than kiss one. While some former pros let themselves go, he hadn’t. He always ran sprints right along with us, mostly to keep the bitching to a minimum. If he could still keep up with us, we had no excuses. He hated everything outside of the plays and practice. His face always looked like he was headed for the firing squad, but his current glare was one reserved for LJ. I had no idea what he’d done to deserve it, but I was just glad I wasn’t the one getting the stink eye.

  “Hit the showers, Lewis.”

  LJ didn’t have to be told twice and darted inside the locker room. No one knew what he’d done to piss Coach off, but damn had he done a phenomenal job of it. If looks could kill, LJ would’ve been dead and buried months ago. It had been tense between those two since the beginning of the season, and LJ wouldn’t give up the goods on why.

  “Can I grab a quick shower first?” The tips of my fingers brushed against the metal handle. Chanting fans I could handle. Pushy reporters shoving microphones into my face? Not my idea of fun. The invasive questions from last spring and the judgment in their eyes had stung after so many years only seeing the adoring side of the media. The backlash had been like a field goal kick to the nuts.

  Coach ignored my request, shoving us to the side and down the hall. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Pulling at the front of my slowly drying jersey, I felt its gummy dampness clinging to my skin.

  “Don’t worry—they’ll still think you’re pretty,” Nix whispered in my ear as he ruffled my sticky hair with his sasquatch hands. He grimaced and wiped it on his pants. “Gross, dude.”

  “That’s what you get.”

  Coach pulled the door open. The camera flashes temporarily blinded me as we sat down behind the flimsy table on the small stage in front of the reporters. This was something I needed to get used to. Spots danced in front of my eyes. I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep my face neutral. Coach slapped down his playbook and pointed a meaty finger at the first reporter.

  The woman stood up and stared straight at me. “Reece, how does it feel, adding another winning touchdown to your stats?” She kept her eyes on me with her pen poised above her notepad. The entire room was hanging on my every word. The tension in my shoulders eased and I lapped that shit up.

  I leaned into the mic. “Feels pretty damn good, and I’ll be happy for it in every game from here until the championship.”

  “What about stealing the pass from your own teammate?” A guy leaning against the wall in the back shouted out the question.

  Everyone’s head turned to him.

  “Keyton was lined up perfectly for the interception. You streaked across the field and grabbed it out of his hands.”

  “Who are you, his dad?” The corners of my mouth darted down. “If he’d been faster he would’ve gotten to it. End of story.” Keyton wasn’t exactly the best under pressure. I’d done us all a favor with that snag.

  “How do your teammates feel about the drama surrounding you at the end of last season?”

  I glared at the smug reporter. There’d been four games this
season and not one word about the offseason. Maybe that was why I’d gotten lulled into a false sense of security. “I didn’t do anything wrong, and if anyone has something to say about it, they can go f—” The mic was batted off the table and Coach turned to me then grabbed my arm.

  “Phoenix, finish up here,” he ground out over his shoulder.

  The flashes went into overdrive and the shouts followed us into the hallway as the door slammed behind me.

  “My office, now,” he shouted then stalked off.

  Clenching and unclenching my fists, I followed him like a kid being sent to the principal’s office. He threw open his door and stepped out of the way to let me in. Lighten the hell up was on the tip of my tongue, but I wanted to keep my balls attached to my body, so I decided to keep that sentiment under wraps.

  He slammed the door behind him, rattling the glass. “I’m sick and tired of your showboating bullshit. I’d have thought after last season you might have a bit more humility.”

  After last season, I had a healthy aversion to the opposite sex and even more sureness that my pro career was my first and only focus. “We’re winning games, aren’t we?” I flopped into one of the chairs in front of his desk. Have fun scrubbing off this sticky mess when I leave. Should have let me shower first.

  “Winning isn’t all that matters.” He threw down the playbook onto his desk. The papers all over it blew back and a framed picture of a little girl with pigtails clattered to the floor. I picked it up. The girl looked oddly familiar, but he’d never talked about having a daughter before. I set it back on his desk.

  “I’m sure your salary and my draft prospects say differently.” I leaned back in the chair and crossed my legs at the ankle.

  He turned his back to me and braced his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers. The big gold championship ring on his right hand glinted in the light.

  I shot forward. “And I’m sure you had to do quite a lot of showing off to get that ring.”

  Turning, he glared at me. “I wasn’t out there on the field all by myself, and neither are you. Keyton was there for that pass. He had it and you nearly cost us the game.”

  “But I didn’t.” And I hadn’t all season.

  “If you want to make it in the pros—”

  I slammed my lips together and stared up at the ceiling.

  He stepped in front of me, right into my line of sight. “If you want to make the pros and actually have a career after, you need to clean up this attitude. No one wants to work with a showoff, and if you don’t get your act together, no team out there’s going to want to deal with you. I deal with you because you win games, but when it comes to the NFL, they’ve got bigger prima donnas who can sprint laps around you.”

  The muscles in my neck strained and my eyes narrowed. I’d like to see someone try to get past me.

  “You’re a great player, don’t get me wrong, but there’s more to it than that when it comes to making it long term. That should have been Keyton’s play and you know it.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I stared at him, trying to bore a hole through the hair at the top of his head. Maybe it could have been Keyton’s play—or maybe he’d have dropped it. He was four out of ten for completions under pressure, and I wasn’t going to let him stop the team from getting to the championship.

  “I want you to talk to someone.”

  “I’m not talking to a shrink.”

  He turned his head and lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t talking about a therapist, but maybe you should see one. I’m talking about someone to help you handle the media, someone to help you learn how to at least appear gracious in front of a room full of reporters.”

  Coach sat at his desk, put his glasses on, and began typing on his computer, clicking the mouse now and then. The second hand in his office ticked louder and louder with each passing second. Maybe I shouldn’t have done what I’d done out there, but I wasn’t going to let anyone get in my way when it came to getting what I wanted, not even my own teammate. This was my time to shine, to show pro scouts what kind of player I could be…but maybe learning to finesse things a bit wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  “The average pro career is three years, two for wide receivers, but if you’re a first-round pick, that goes up to nine. Don’t make a team have second thoughts about you because of your attitude.” He held out a piece of paper with blue ink scribbled on it.

  I wasn’t going to be a flash in the pan.

  I wasn’t going to leave until I was ready.

  I wasn’t going to end up like my dad.

  “Fine, I’ll meet with him.”

  “Her.” Coach peered over the top of his glasses. “And I wasn’t giving you a choice.”

  I left his office and went to the locker room. Looked like I’d missed the celebration. Pads, helmets, and bottles littered the floor.

  Keyton came out of the showers with a towel wrapped around his waist and another around his neck. He ran it over his hair, trying to dry his light brown strands. He always kept it short and neat, like the preppy kids who used to tease the shit out of me back in middle school. But he wasn’t like them. Keyton had transferred two years earlier, a quiet guy who mainly stuck to himself. He walked past.

  “Listen, man, I didn’t see you out there or I wouldn’t have gone for the ball.” I held out my hand.

  He stared at me, his fingers tightening around the towel. There was a flash in his eyes, the same kind I’d seen when guys got to their boiling point. He was only half an inch shorter than me, but when people got that look, they could be unpredictable.

  “Yeah, you would have.” Then the look was gone, blowing right past like a feather on the wind. He smiled and shook my hand, smacking me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll beat you to the next one.”

  I grinned back at him. “I’m sure you will.” Not a chance.

  Rushing into the shower, I blitz-washed myself, scouring my skin to get the remnants of the sticky drink off me then headed back out into the locker room. I dried off and sat in front of my locker. My gaze darted down to the bench, and I glanced underneath it. My heart rate picked up. What the hell?

  Jumping up, I opened my locker and stood frozen. The blood drained out of my face. The bottom of my locker was empty. Finally able to form words, I bellowed, “Where the fuck are my shoes?”

  “What shoes?” Nix sat beside me with his hippie-ass hair and a shit-eating grin.

  “Don’t screw around with me. Those are limited-edition Adidas.” The vintage pair I’d bought over the summer. The same ones I’d begged my parents for, but they had shot me down over and over again when everyone else on the team had had a pair in ninth grade. As a former pro player’s son, I’d had a bullseye on my back growing up. Expectations were sky high not just for how I played, but also for how we lived.

  “You’re worse than a chick, man.” Cupping his hand around his mouth, he faced the rest of the room. “Someone hand over his shoes before he passes out.”

  Berkley strolled out of the shower room with a wide smile showing off his dumbass dimples. His black hair dripped water everywhere because he straight-up refused to use a towel, just free-balling it while air drying.

  “You did this, didn’t you?” I pointed at him like an evil old witch ready to turn him into a frog.

  “What? Did you mean these size 15s that were once again sitting on top of my clothes?” Berk grabbed the pristine pair of sneakers from the top of the lockers behind me and shoved them into my chest.

  Recovering from his linebacker attack, I cradled the red and white striped beauties in my arms. “You think I’m putting these just anywhere?”

  “Next time you put your shoes on my clothes, they take a Gatorade bath, just like you.” He slipped his feet into his beaten and battered sneakers, which no longer had any discernible color other than gray, kind of like the ones I’d worn my last semester of high school. It wasn’t that we’d been broke, but my dad had only played pro for a couple years and af
ter that, things weren’t easy. If you didn’t get a fat contract, you were screwed, which meant first-round draft pick or bust for me.

  “And I’ll be shaving off your eyebrows while you sleep. I’m not going to set them on the dirty bench.”

  “But you’ll sit your ass on it? You’ve got some priority issues.” He shook his head, spraying everyone in the vicinity like a dog after a downpour, and tugged a shirt on.

  “Just because you’ve worn the same pair of sneakers since freshman year doesn’t mean some of us don’t like to look like we didn’t drag a pair of shoes out of the dumpster.”

  “They’re comfortable.” He shrugged and grabbed his bag. “You headed back to the Brothel?”

  I cringed and buttoned my jeans. “Can’t you just say the house?” The term was a leftover from the name the frat house had had before they got kicked off campus and we moved in. Theta Beta Sigma, AKA The Bed Shakers Brothel.

  We’d spent the last year disinfecting the place, finding condoms crammed into places they had no business being. The name stuck after the previous tenants left and the Brothel was born, whether we liked it or not. It didn’t help that our team was the Trojans. The Fulton University Trojans, or the FU Trojans as was often chanted in the stadium, the volume always reaching a deafening point. Being known as a manwhore hadn’t been too big of a deal until it was, and I’d learned the hard way that it wasn’t easy erasing someone’s preconceived notion of you once it settled in.