by McKinley May
He nods his head. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“What about you guys? How’s the team looking?” I know the football team hasn’t had the best record the past couple of years, but a new coach and an amazing signing day might turn their luck around.
“We’re looking decent. Better than we have the past three preseasons, so I have high expectations for the team.” He runs a hand through his jet black hair. “This new freshman class has some stars on it, man. There are still a few little shits who think this is all fun and games, though. I’m thinking a nice locker room beat down might change their minds.” He smirks, and I laugh at the thought of him beating up anybody.
Blake’s a complete badass as a quarterback, always destroying his opponents on the football field. But off the field? The guy’s about as harmful as a giant teddy bear.
“So you thinking playoffs this January?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Let’s not get carried away here. I love this team, but reality and dreams are two very different things.”
I shrug. “You never know.”
He seems to think it over for a second. “That’d be wild, going from a 2-10 season to playoffs the next year. They’d be making one of those rags to riches sports movies about us. Maybe I’ll even get to star in it as myself.”
He gives me a cheeky grin and I chuckle.
“All the NFL teams will be dying to have you. Sports star and movie star combination. Can’t get much better than that.”
“Real talk here, I’d humiliate myself in some shitty made-for-TV movie if it meant I’d get a contract.”
I frown, a little surprised by the doubt in his voice. “There’s no way you’re not going by the second round, man.”
“A lot can happen before April. We’ll see.” He tips his bottle back and takes a long drink. “What about you? Still thinking—”
The explosive sound of a bottle crashing to the floor interrupts him, and he groans as he hoists himself up from the couch.
“I swear, I’m putting a patent on some gloves that grip drunk people’s beer for them. I’ll call them Tipsy Grippies or some shit. Sounds catchy to me.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Good talking with you, Steel.”
As he walks into the kitchen and spots the culprit, I hear his contagious laughter echoing throughout the house. “Dude, you’ve got butterfingers off the field, too?”
After I get my fill of lounging in the armchair, I join the party, finally giving into Cam’s pleas for a Beer Pong Savior. After I sink two dozen little white balls into the red cups and get Weston completely plastered, I head to the dance floor, grinding on a raven-haired beauty in the middle of the crowd. After a couple songs, I glance at my phone to check the time: 1:41 am. I’m slipping it back in my pocket when my brain registers what I just saw. I quickly pull it back out again, double-checking the date.
Shit.
I can’t believe I forgot her freaking birthday.
I only missed it by a few hours, but still.
I head off the dance floor, grab another beer from a cooler, and return to my chair. I go to my text messages and scroll way down until I find her name.
Sydney Steel.
I click it and eye the same blue-bubble messages I see every time I send her a text.
Me: Happy Thanksgiving.
Me: Merry Christmas.
Me: Hope you’re doing well.
All of them marked as read, but never a response from her in the last two years. Not a damn one. But that doesn’t stop me as I type out another blue bubble to add to the ignored messages.
Me: Happy Birthday, Syd
I stare at the screen for a little while, thinking maybe she’s forgiven me. Maybe this time she’ll answer.
Yeah, not going to fucking happen.
I chug the entire bottle of beer, memories from my past flooding back and causing the room to feel unbearably stuffy. I get up and make my way towards the back door, thinking some fresh air will clear my head and distract me.
I’m almost to the door when a delicate hand grips my forearm, gently pulling me back.
“Hey,” a sultry voice hums.
When I turn, I recognize the tiny redhead who was with me at the bar earlier. I feel like a total ass because I have absolutely no fucking clue what her name is. But when she bites down seductively on her lip and presses her palms against my chest, I get the feeling she’s more interested in me getting to know her body than her name.
Fine by me.
She bats her eyelashes. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Yeah?” I flash her a smile and let my gaze sweep over her. Her tits are bursting out of her top, and I don’t bother hiding the fact that I’m shamelessly staring at them. She notices me ogling and smiles, rolling her shoulders back and pushing her chest out further.
“You wanna go upstairs?” She tilts her head towards the staircase and pushes her body against mine.
I did say I needed a distraction.
I nod, leading her through the crowd and up the stairs to one of the empty bedrooms. She opens the door and grabs my hand, pulling me inside. Once I lock the door behind us, she presses both her hands against my chest, rubbing up and down my torso.
“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you all night,” she purrs, getting down on her knees in front of me. I lean my head back against the door, closing my eyes as she starts undoing the button on my jeans. “I was worried you'd have to stay at the bar and finish whatever you were doing with that girl in the workout clothes.”
Ah, fuck.
Why is she bringing that up?
Fucking mood killer.
I come to my senses as the image of Rayne storming out of the bar plays through my mind. She was freaking pissed, so much so that I was half-expecting smoke to come out of her ears as she stomped away.
And then Coach’s words come back to haunt me, that I better not cause any trouble with her.
Dammit. I need to fix this. And now.
I reluctantly back away and button up my pants. “Sorry, I gotta go,” I apologize as I turn away from her disappointed gaze and make my way down the stairs.
I actually do feel shitty about what happened with Rayne. I drunkenly invited her to the bar thinking it would be fine for an interview. Now that I’ve sobered up slightly, I realize how ridiculous that sounds. I’m surprised she agreed to it in the first place; she doesn’t exactly strike me as the bar type.
I head out to the empty backyard and sit on a lawn chair, thumbing through my contacts to find her. I’m confused when I don’t see her in the R’s, but then I vaguely remember setting her name as the umbrella and raindrop emoji at the bar.
Shit. Must’ve been drunker than I thought.
As the phone rings, I realize she’s probably way too mad to answer, but I don’t care. I want her to know I’m not an asshole.
Okay, maybe a little bit, but not as much as she thinks I am.
I’m planning my smooth apology for the voicemail message when I hear a click on the other side of the phone.
“Steel, what do you want?” Her voice is rough and raspy, like I woke her up from a deep sleep.
“Steel, huh? We’re on a last name basis now?”
She huffs. “Yep. First name basis is for friends. Last name basis is for douchebags. And you most definitely fall into the latter category.”
“Ouch. That’s harsh, Raynie.”
“Just keeping it real.” I hear her yawn.
“I’m surprised you answered my call. Didn’t think you would after earlier.”
“You’re right, actually. I’m not sure why I answered. Let’s blame it on the fact that it’s two in the morning and you rudely woke me up, so I didn’t comprehend what I was doing until it was too late. Hanging up now. Bye.”
“Wait, wait just a minute. I want to make it up to you.”
She scoffs. “Yeah, uh huh. And how exactly?”
“Come to my preseason game Saturday. Not only will you see my super
iority on the soccer field, but afterwards I’ll give you the best damn interview you’ve ever had.”
She hesitates, thinking it over. I sweeten the deal and amp up the charm.
“I’ll even do the interview shirtless. An interview and a view. Two for one deal. Can’t beat that.”
I hear a small snort. “I think I’ll have to pass on that.”
“Your loss.”
“Whatever.”
“So what's it gonna be? You wanna do the interview or not?”
She pauses for a few seconds before letting out a low sigh. “Fine. Saturday after your game. But you need to know that you’re walking a fine line here, and I’m not dealing with anymore of your crap. No bars. No rowdy friends. Just you and me getting down to business.”
“Getting down to business? I like the sound of that.”
She lets out a little groan after realizing her innuendo. “Shit. You know what I mean, Steel.”
“We’ll see. See you Saturday.”
6
On my seventh birthday, my dad took me to my first baseball game. My parents were struggling big time when it came to finances; my dad was in-between jobs, and my mom’s part-time yoga instructor gig wasn’t exactly bringing in the big bucks. So when one of my dad’s friends offered him some free MLB tickets, he jumped at the chance. They were super crappy nosebleed seats—the absolute highest ones possible—and even with our binoculars it was like watching little ants scurry around the bases.
But that game was everything to me. The packed, high-energy crowd, the gleaming stadium lights against the night sky, and the sugary-sweet taste of the cotton candy we shared was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before.
The game went into extra innings, and when it was over, my dad said I turned to him and asked if we could go to another one the next day. I was in total awe of this new world he had introduced me to, and I just could not get enough. It was at that moment my obsession with sports of all types began.
It became an annual tradition for us to go to a game every year. One year football, the next hockey, and then soccer. On weekends in the Fall, my dad and I would spend all day in the basement watching every football game broadcasted to our area, screaming and cheering at the TV so loudly my mom worried our neighbors might call the cops. He taught me about the quarterback sneak, the difference between a slider and a curveball, and how to tell when a soccer player’s actually hurt or just flopping for a call.
But the most important thing he taught me was how to spot the hard-working athletes. The ones that give 100% every game, every play, no matter what. He told me those were the ones to cheer for.
As much as it pains me to say, Vaughn is one of those athletes.
As I’m sitting in the cold bleachers of Warrior Stadium Saturday night watching the men’s soccer team in their first preseason game, I can’t help but be impressed by him. Like, extremely impressed. Though I’ve always known he’s one of the best players in college, what I’m observing right now is unreal. The man is no joke when it comes to natural athletic ability, but his constant hustle and effort just enhances that talent even more.
After he scores his second goal right as the half comes to a close, I temporarily forget how much of a douchebag he is and find myself jumping up out of my seat and shouting along enthusiastically with the crowd.
Lexie—who I dragged along despite her obvious disinterest in anything that involves “chasing around a stupid ball”—finally perks up from her phone which she’s been glued to the entire time.
“Loud cheering is my cue to ask what just happened.”
“Another goal by Steel,” I tell her as I sit back down and take a sip of my cherry soda. I’d filled her in on my article and our first disastrous meeting earlier today.
“Jeez, no wonder the guy can get any girl he wants. I don’t even understand sports or athletes in the slightest and I’m attracted to him.” She raises her blonde eyebrows. “Is he single?”
I shrug. Vaughn’s love life is about the last thing I’m interested in.
“Who knows. He strikes me as the type who has a long line of girls he strings along, telling them he doesn’t do relationships but they don’t care as long as they get to brag that they hooked up with him,” I speculate.
She lets out a dramatic gasp at something on her phone before shoving it directly in front of my face. I pull my head back and squint at the screen until Vaughn’s team picture focuses in my vision. He’s got a cocky smirk plastered on his face, and he’s giving the camera total sex-eyes. It’s like someone forgot to let him know this was a headshot for the soccer team, not People's Sexiest Man Alive photoshoot.
“Ho-ly shit, can you blame them?! Look at that face. He’s beautiful, Rayne! I can’t believe you failed to mention you were interviewing a freakin’ Greek God!”
I roll my eyes and push her phone out of my vision, but not before silently agreeing that he definitely hit some sort of genetic lottery with that jawline.
“Believe me, Lex. He’s so freaking arrogant and inconsiderate it lowers his 'hot-or-not' score significantly. I'm talking like five entire points off.”
“Five points off and he’d still be more attractive than the majority of guys at this school.”
She winks at me, and I sigh before quickly attempting to change the subject.
“How was your date with Brian?” She hadn’t mentioned anything after their date Thursday night, so when she scrunches her button nose in response I’m not that surprised.
“I don’t know. It was alright, but not you-get-another-date alright. He’s way too nice, and you know how I get bored easily,” she mutters, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
I definitely know.
Lexie’s what I refer to as a serial-dater, and a notorious one at that. She’s constantly going on first dates with different boys. Only a handful of lucky guys have received a second date, and I'm not sure if anyone's gotten farther than that. Most of them become completely enamored with her, but she always cuts them off in search of someone new. She’s hard to please, and for good reason. She deserves the best.
“You need someone who can keep you on your toes, someone adventurous and a little crazy. Someone who’s just like you but, you know, the dude version.”
She nods in agreement. “Exactly. Which is why tonight I’m going out with Pierre. He’s an international student from France, and he’s taking me to a knife skills class.”
“Knife skills class?” I crack up laughing. “I’m sorry, what?”
She kicks my leg with her pointy boot. “Oh, shut up, R. I told him I didn’t want to do the usual dinner and a movie.”
“And that’s what he came up with?”
She frowns. “He wants to be a chef, Rayne. Knife skills are an incredibly important part of the profession. Knowing and maintaining your cutlery is crucial.”
Her serious tone sends me into a fit of hysterics again, earning me another kick to the shin.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’ll stop laughing. I’m sure you’ll have fun,” I say, finally getting the giggles under control.
The ref blows the whistle for the start of the second half, and Lexie resumes her position hunched over her phone. The next forty-five minutes go by quickly with one more goal by Vaughn and another by an outside mid, leading to an easy victory. When the game ends, a group of students led by the dolled up Goal Girls rush onto the field to congratulate the boys on a promising start to their season.
Lexie and I head down the bleachers, her fingernails digging into my arm as she tries not to trip and fall in her five-inch boots. When we reach the bottom, she gives me a hug goodbye, promising to text me when she makes it safely to her date with the Gordon Ramsey wannabe.
I walk to the edge of the railing and look out onto the grass, eyes peeled for Vaughn. I spy a few of the players I recognize from the bar a few nights ago, but mainly the field is full of students, some talking with the players and others kicking the ball around. Five minutes pas
s and I feel my impatience growing.
I try to keep myself from getting annoyed. It’s not like I expect him to run straight to the stands after his game looking for me. He’s probably getting changed in the locker room or chatting with his Coach or something. I mean, there’s no way he forgot we were meeting.
He was the one who planned this, after all.
After five more minutes of scanning and searching, I finally spot him talking with Weston on the other side of the field. They get up from the bench and grab their bags, ready to leave.
