by Lily Cahill
Something makes his brows twitch before he focuses on me again. “I’m not sure how much time I’ll have. But I’ll always appreciate everything I’ve learned from you in this class.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I’m not sure how it happens. One second, he is looking at me with his serious, soft eyes. Then his mouth is on mine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lilah
OUR LIPS ARE JUST BRUSHING, our bodies still inches apart. It’s a kiss to float on, to drown in. I part my lips, seeking more, and for an instant Riley dares to meet me.
Then he’s pulling away.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, shit,” he says in a tumble of rough words. “I didn’t mean to do that; I know you don’t want that from me. I’ll just go, I’ll just go now. I can still drop the class. Don’t worry, you won’t have to see me again. I should never have done that without getting your consent, and I—”
“Riley. It’s okay.” My heart is thundering in my chest. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t force me into anything.”
“I didn’t?”
My voice hitches a little as I admit the truth. “I wanted that too. I haven’t been able to stop—”
His eyes darken with desire, and before I can say the rest, he’s swept me up again.
Holy God, that mouth! Fast and strong and soft … devastating. This time his kiss is anything but sweet. His tongue is clever and insistent, tangling with mine until I’m giving as good as I get. When he finally tears his mouth from mine, I can only moan in protest.
His lips slide down my throat, and his arm wrap me up so closely I have no choice but to arch against him. I can feel my hard nipples rubbing against my slick satin bra, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough. I want his hands, his fingers, his mouth.
He has other ideas, apparently. His hands travel down to my ass. He groans when he cups both cheeks in his huge, spread hands. My knees go watery as he nips at my neck. I can feel his erection pressing against my belly—hard and hot and huge.
God, I want to fuck this man. I want him to fuck me right here on this desk until I’m screaming his name.
It’s my own shocking desire that makes me shove him away.
“Stop. We have to stop.”
The gravelly note in his voice turns me on even more. “Why?”
I stare at him, emotion swirling inside me. His big chest is heaving, the Mustangs logo taunting me.
“I won’t,” I manage through panting breaths. I can’t believe I almost did this, that I almost betrayed my best friend. “I won’t have anything to do with a football player.”
Without any heed whatsoever for locking up my classroom, I escape out the door.
A bike ride home in the hot afternoon sun does nothing to cool me off. The thoughts in my head chase each other with the same driving rhythm of the pedals.
What have I done?
What am I doing?
What am I going to do?
I want—no, need—to dislike Riley. If only he were a lazy, arrogant lunkhead, instead of the hard-working and respectful man he’s turned out to be. I’m finding myself opening up to him in a way I haven’t since Natalie’s death. She was the person I always trusted with my fears and insecurities, since my Gamma never allows me to doubt myself. Natalie listened to my worries, sympathized with my frustration, then always found a way to distract me.
Riley has found a way to distract me, all right. So much so that for a moment back there I completely forgot about the pain his kind caused my best friend.
The media never revealed Natalie’s identity, but everyone in Granite knew who she was. And a lot of people didn’t want to see their beloved Mustangs destroyed by scandal. Natalie was inundated with hateful messages on social media and dirty looks all over town. She lost her job, lost the guy she’d been dating … lost herself. And I didn’t see it happening.
My eyes are blurry with sweat—maybe tears. I pedal harder.
Football players destroyed Natalie’s life. They took everything from her. And I can never, ever forget that.
But I had forgotten it. In my haze of lust, I’ve ignored all the reasons why I shouldn’t be attracted to Riley. I feel weak and pathetic … like a bad friend.
Because that’s the thing: It doesn’t matter if she’s no longer here. I’m supposed to be Natalie’s best friend. That connection wasn’t severed by her death. If anything, I’ve clung to it. I have to keep her memory alive, or a part of me will die.
“Is that you, Lilah?” Gamma calls as I rush through the door.
“Yeah,” I shout, not even bothering to drop my bags. “Going to the bathroom!”
I just can’t face my grandmother yet. I need a minute to get my head together.
“You want a snack, honey?” Gamma asks. I can hear her measured step coming down the hall.
“No!” I cast about for a reason to stay in the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Okay, hon,” she says.
I sit on the edge of the tub and cover my face with my hands. How could I have let this happen? Why him of all people? It’s just so … wrong.
I’m holding on to Natalie’s memory so tightly that I can’t reach for anything else. Riley has reminded me that I’m letting my life pass me by. But how can I move on without abandoning my best friend?
I can’t blame Riley for something he didn’t do. He wasn’t one of the football players who raped her; he wasn’t one of the angry fans who drove her to suicide. But blame is all that’s holding me together. If I blame football players, I don’t have to blame myself for not saving her.
Miserable, I curl in on myself, slinking down to a ball on the floor. I should have been there for her. If I hadn’t gone to New York to accept the Pitkin, I would have been home the night she was raped. I could have protected her, and none of this would have ever happened. And then after, even though I tried to be there for her, it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to stop her from slitting her wrists.
Now I’m crying in earnest.
She cut deep gouges longways into her flesh. Her parents had tried to get her to go to a movie with them, but she said she wasn’t in the mood. When they got back a few hours later, she was long gone. She was alone as she slowly bled to death. The same way she was alone that horrible night when she went to the party.
And now, months later, I can’t shake the feeling that I should have known. With all the years of our friendship, I should have been able to sense that she was planning to die. In retrospect, everything seems like a sign. Everything seems like a missed opportunity. Instead, I was sitting on the couch with Gamma watching Project Runway at the moment she was ending her life.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to shift that guilt. Even if I can, I’m not sure I want to.
With a groan, I knock my head against the wall. Why does it have to be Riley? Why can’t I have this intense attraction to someone more suitable? I’d be a fool to pretend that his size and strength aren’t part of his appeal. But I wish more than anything that he wasn’t a football player.
I pull my sketchbook out of my bag. For me, drawing is like therapy. It helps me think through things, think around them. I set my pencil to paper and let it go.
What I draw is his face. Not in the moment before he kissed me, though that image flickers endlessly in my brain. No, I draw how he looks when I give a lecture in class—open, interested, curious. The hardest part of all this is that I genuinely like him, even though I hate everything he stands for. Maybe I’m being melodramatic. He was right when he said I was judging him based on the actions of others. Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way. Instead of pulling away from him, maybe I need to get to know him better.
There’s a sharp rap on the door. “Lilah, are you all right? I thought you were taking a shower.”
“Yeah, I am,” I say, snapping my sketchbook shut. “I was just … uh … looking at my phone.”
She pops the door open a
nyway.
“Gamma!”
“Well, I didn’t hear the water running, and I was worried. And here you are, sitting on the floor with your makeup a mess.”
I swipe under my eyes. “I got sweaty. And my eyes were watering from … allergies.”
“Allergies?”
I shrug. “Or something. I’m going to hop in the shower in a minute.”
My grandmother still looks suspicious. “All right. But if you need anything, honey, I’m right here.”
She closes the door again. I get up and turn the lock, and hear my grandmother huff before she walks away.
I don’t know why I’m being so secretive about Riley. I’m definitely not ready to tell my grandmother that I was … doing whatever I was doing with a football player. I pick up my sketchbook and peek at the drawing of Riley.
There is something here. Something I need to understand. Despite who he is, despite how I judged him, Riley is the only one who can help this make sense.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Riley
“HIT HIM, LOTTO! HIT HIM hard!”
I grunt, my cleats tearing up turf as I dig in to drive the tackling sled down the field. My legs and shoulder are screaming, but I keep pushing, pushing, pushing. And the dummy is barely moving.
“Fuck,” I say, dropping back.
“What the hell, Lotto,” Coach Prescott says, dropping down off the sled. “You got more than that.”
“I’m giving it all I’ve got,” I protest, wiping sweat off my forehead.
“Bullshit. Is that what you’re going to say when there’s a big bastard linebacker snarling at you from across the line?”
“Yes,” I say mulishly. I’m hot, tired, and so worked up over Lilah I can’t think straight.
“Well, that’s not good enough! These boys are depending on you, Lotto. They are counting on you to crush the other team. That is the purpose for your existence on this field, and if you can’t do it, then why are you here?”
“Fuck if I know,” I spit.
Football used to be fun, it used to feel like family. But everything feels wrong now, everything feels off.
Coach grabs me by the muzzle of my helmet and pulls my face down to his. “You could be somewhere else. Playing for someone else. Is that what you want?”
I don’t know Coach Prescott very well. The school brought in an outsider to replace Coach MoFo, which I suppose makes sense, but none of us quite trust him yet. I don’t know how he’ll react, but I figure I’ll answer with the truth. “I don’t know what I want.”
He lets go of the helmet’s guard. “I know why you’re here. Because you are good enough. Because you’re tougher than any of the rest of the cowards who ran away from the Mustangs when it got hard. You’re here because you care.”
He makes the last word sound like an insult. “What’s wrong with caring?”
“I don’t need you to care, I need you to play football!” Coach Prescott paces away, then quickly back. “I don’t want your pity or your worries or your concerns or all the tender bullshit that is tearing you up inside. I want your muscle! I want your bones and blood and guts!”
“I’m giving you all I’ve got!”
“Then prove it!” He jumps back up on the tackling dummy. “Prove it!”
I look up at him, trying to summon even one reason to push myself. Lilah hates football players. Something about that makes me hate myself.
“Fuck this,” I say, yanking off my helmet. “I need a break.”
“You put that fucking helmet back on, son,” Prescott said, his voice dangerously low.
“I don’t need this shit,” I say, turning to go.
“You walk away now, Riley … you can’t come back. It’s all over for you.”
The use of my real name snags at something in me, and I stop. I can’t imagine my life without football. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
A life with football means a life without Lilah. And as mad as I was at her for being illogical and prejudiced, I’m twice as mad at myself for caring this much about a woman who doesn’t want me.
“Put your helmet on, Lotto,” Prescott says. “Whatever it is you are feeling, take it out on this sled.”
After a moment, I pull my helmet back on. In its familiar cage, I can only see in one direction—toward Coach Prescott. I think about Lilah and the Mustangs and my future and let the pressure simmer inside me. Then, lodging my shoulder against the sled, I let that pressure blow.
“Good!” Coach Prescott shouts as the dummy begins to move. “Great! You’re doing great, Lotto!”
I drive forward, telling myself I’m leaving Lilah behind with every step. This is my life. It’s always been my life, always will be my life, and if she can’t deal with me playing football, then fuck her.
By the time I finally collapse, I’ve driven the sled thirty yards.
“There you go, Lotto. I knew you had it in you.”
I tug off my helmet and nod at the coach, too exhausted to speak.
“Now that I know you have that kind of intensity, I expect to see it at every practice.”
He claps me on the shoulder before jogging off to another part of the field where Weston is struggling to perfect his spiral.
“What do you think of this guy?” Reggie asks, coming up behind me and tapping me on the shoulder with a bottle of water.
I pour the water down my throat, dumping the last few ounces over my head. The late afternoon Colorado sun is brutal. When I have the energy to speak, I say, “He’s got balls, that’s for sure.”
“He’s no MoFo,” Reggie says, idly stretching his hamstring.
I don’t answer. MoFo was, hands down, one of the best coaches in college football. His eye for talent and creativity on the field was unmatched. There are still plenty of people who want him back at MSU, despite what he did. And I won’t deny that there was a certain comfort in knowing that MoFo had the experience and expertise to win football games.
Prescott, on the other hand, is an unknown. He was with a small college for a few years, and turned their football program from a joke into a competitor. I’ve heard he played college ball himself, until he blew out his knee and had to quit. A lot of people think he’s an odd choice to coach on this level, and he’s been taking flak for months.
But Coach Prescott just made me dig deeper, pull out more dedication, than I had in a long time. He saw my weakness and convinced me to turn it into strength. Which is exactly what a good coach is supposed to do.
“I like him,” I say finally, “but I think it’s up to us more than him. Some of these new guys out here, I don’t know anything about them. Last year’s team was like a well-oiled machine, and this year we’re just a bunch of spare parts.”
“You’re not wrong about that, man. And some of these guys—like Duke Dickwad over there,” he says, sparing a glare for the Brit rugby player, Ben Mayhew, “they take themselves way too seriously.”
I cast a look at Reggie. I’ve heard about the recent shit Reggie has pulled in their shared kitchenette. “Is he still mad because you super-glued all his silverware together?”
“Yeah,” Reggie says with a huff. “I got him some replacements, but he refuses to use them. He called me a tosser, and I don’t need to speak British to figure out what it means. But, I mean, what sort of dude is too good to use plastic forks?”
I raise an eyebrow but decide to move on. “Anyway, we ought to have some sort of bonding exercise where we can all get to know each other better. Like go rafting or camping or some shit.” I say it casually, but I want to bond with my new team. Just not in a way that they’ll give me shit about.
“Yeah, we could do that,” Reggie says slowly, before his face lights up. “Or we could throw a big fucking party tonight.”
I start to argue, but when I really think about it, a party sounds like exactly what I need. A few drinks, some good times with guys who accept me. Maybe I can hook up with one of the hotties who always seem to appear at these parties.
That would be a good way to clear Lilah out of my system … and prepare me for the fact that I will see her in class on Monday.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, that’s a great idea, Reggie.”
My cell phone rings just as I’m stepping out of my post-practice shower. I hit the speaker to answer. “Hey, Dad.”
“Riley. I didn’t expect to catch you.”
“Coach let us out of practice a little early today.”
Dad’s silence speaks volumes. Finally, he says, “I thought MoFo usually kept you boys until five.”
“It was close to a hundred degrees today, Dad. And we’ve got weights tomorrow morning then practice in the afternoon.”
“Well, all right. I just hope this guy Prescott knows what he’s doing. It’s gonna be hot tomorrow—is he gonna let you off early then too?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, already knowing how my dad is going to react. “We’re actually going to be in the pool tomorrow, doing water training.”
“Water training? You mean like aerobics? Like the little old ladies down at the YMCA? Dammit, Riley. I’m gonna get in touch with the school board. This new guy is driving your team into the ground.”
“It’s actually really hard,” I protest, rubbing the towel over my hair before tying it around my hips. “We did it last week. You have to tread water the whole time and control your body in the water. It was a good workout.”
“Well, sure, if you’re going to be a synchronized swimmer!” My dad’s voice echoes around the empty shower stall. “But you’re going to be a football player, Riley. You should be practicing football.”
“I am.” I hate how defensive I sound. “My shoulder’s sore from pushing a sled all afternoon, okay? I’m getting plenty of football practice.”
“I don’t know, Riley, I just don’t know. What if this guy is the reason you don’t make the NFL?”
I pick up my shower caddy and turn off the speaker, bringing the phone up to my ear as I leave the bathroom. “We talked about this. You said you wanted me to stay on the Mustangs.”
“I know, I know. But sometimes I wonder if we made the wrong choice.”
