“This better not be anthrax,” I joked as Chelease practically threw the box at me. She didn't laugh. When I looked down at the shipping label, I saw that it was from Tyce. He'd shipped it directly from the dorms. What the hell? I looked up and watched Chelease head into her room without a word. Her lips were pursed and tight, but I didn't know how to broach the subject that was lingering between us, stretched thin and brittle and broken.
“Be careful, okay? Keep a hand over your drink at all times.”
When the door to Chelease's room slammed shut, I sat the box down on the counter and grabbed a knife, cutting through the tape and opening up the cardboard to find a manila envelope on top of a folded mound of clothes.
When I flipped the envelope over, I saw Tyce's scrawling writing in thick black Sharpie.
You looked like you could use a new wardrobe, it said. I put it aside for a moment and dug in, pulling out a U of O hoodie in green and yellow. My heart skipped a beat and I felt a funny feeling building my stomach. For a second there, I felt like a woman in a scandalous romance novel, one who'd just gotten a designer dress delivered to her from some billionaire CEO or something. Only my cocktail dress and jewelry was replaced with Ducks themed merch—a few different tank tops, running shorts, sweatpants, socks, even a bathing suit and a dress. There was enough in there to fill up the three empty drawers on my dresser. On the very bottom, there was a jersey with the number eight on it. When it lifted it to my face, I could smell Tyce on the fabric, that colorful mix of deodorant and sweat from a hard day's work. I recognized the black and gold jersey from the first game I'd ever seen him in against the Huskies. Game used, it was called, and believe it or not, these things were actually worth a lot of money online. During a random bout of searching, I'd seen one listed for three hundred and fifty bucks.
I set it aside and tried not to smile.
But I did anyway.
Big and stupid and happy. I felt my mouth curl up at the sides as I slipped a brand new hoodie over my head and reached for the envelope. My heart was light but twisted, tangled up with feelings that I didn't know how to deal with. I just wanted Tyce here so I could kiss his lower lip, bite it, run my tongue along his strong jaw. I wanted to take his cock in my mouth, flick my eyes up and watch him watching me—for real this time. Not our pretend pseudo-phone sex.
And all over some sports merch.
Well, not really. In my heart, I knew how much deeper my feelings went.
I tore open the top of the envelope and pulled out a note, a ticket, and a lanyard with my name on it. It was all so official looking that goose bumps broke out over my skin.
This is for the family and friends section on the sidelines. Get there early. I want to see you in full gear with full face. Paint yourself up and come watch me play.
I stared at the words for a long moment, tracing them over and over with my eyes before I looked at the ticket and the lanyard again. My heart rate picked up speed until I was panting. I didn't know why. It was just a football game, right? It'd be fun, a cool college experience to add to the memory book of my brain, but that's all it was, wasn't it?
It felt like so much more.
I sent Tyce a quick text.
'Got your package,' I told him as I waited with bated breath for a response. In my head, I was already planning out what to wear, how to do my makeup.
'See you on the field, Tea,' he sent back, followed by a naked photo of his body in the locker room, gray lockers lining the walls behind him and framing his bronze form. 'I'll be playing my best game for you.'
I stared at his body, at the thick muscles of his calves, the graceful way they curved into his thighs. His cock was rigid, balls tight, like he was about to come or something. I bit my lower lip and closed my eyes, opening them up again right away so I could keep staring. His chest piece bled into a gray and black tattoo on his side, a Virgin Mary with a cross that I wanted to ask him about but never had. There were so, so many things I wanted to ask him. Why his body made mine turn into goo, why his eyes looked at me like I belonged to him, why I spent every spare second of everyday thinking about him.
Why we had to be just friends.
I almost texted him back, told him I was okay with being number two, that I wanted him here inside of me as soon as practice was over.
Instead, I just said 'thank you, Tyce' and left it at that.
If I said anything else, the dam of my heart would burst and it'd all come tumbling out.
I had so much trouble sleeping that I ended up getting out of bed at the crack of dawn. I took a long, hot shower, blow-dried my hair, and started my makeup. This time, I didn't give one half of my face to the opposing team; I kept it all for Tyce.
I covered my lips in black and painted a gold '8' across the center. On one side of my face, I put the Pac-12 symbol in black and green liner, and on the other I put the famous 'O' logo. Fake lashes made of green and yellow feathers decorated my lids and a wash of sparkling black eyeshadow completed the look.
In my Ducks care package, there'd been a pair of 'O' earrings that I hooked on my lobes, pulling my hair over my shoulder and braiding it so it didn't get in my face. I wanted him to see it when he looked over at me, open and bare beneath the colored cosmetics.
“I see you've got plans today,” Chelease told me when she got up an hour later and started making coffee. She was clearly upset, but I felt like I couldn't broach the divide between us right now, not before the game. Afterwards, I could be all ears. This morning, I needed to live for this.
I tried on several different outfits from the box in a variety of combinations, all the while casting glances over at my phone and wondering if I should text Tyce something. Last night, I'd tossed and turned, wishing I could Skype him and see his face, his smile. But I knew if I did he wouldn't get any sleep and I'd be doing the exact thing that had him so scared in the first place. I didn't want to be a distraction or a roadblock, just a friend.
Right now, that was enough. It had to be.
So I settled on a tight fitting gray tank with the word Ducks written across it in random green slashes, a black and gold University of Oregon hoodie and a pair of cropped running pants with a Nike logo on the side. I slipped on the new sneakers Tyce had given me and pulled the lanyard over my head, tucking the ticket and the jersey he'd sent in the kangaroo pocket of my sweatshirt.
When I was ready, and it was a reasonable enough time to show up, I headed outside and walked the block or so to Autzen Stadium.
It was a surreal experience to see the crowds already building outside the stadium, a horde of people in green and yellow, already pumped up and ready for the game. As soon as those gates opened, students would sprint up the stairs in a frantic flight to get the front seats in their section. Cars filled what was on off days just an empty lot, turning the gravel area into a shining sea of metal and glass, Ducks flags and paint decorating most of the rear windows.
All of this was new to me, a completely fresh experience that had my heart thudding and my pulse galloping. On game days, I either hid in my apartment or went to Melia's to watch everything on the small neat surface of her flat screen.
This was anything but neat.
Inside, the stadium was loud as hell, sound pounding down on me from all sides, making me feel like I was the single focus of everyone in the city. The infamous 'Autzen bounce' sent the sounds reverberating up the stadium and bouncing back down to the field. All around me, people chatted and whispered, screamed, shouted, waved flags around, wore their team colors like they were in a biker gang or something.
It made me smile.
I stood up, rising to my tiptoes and twisting my lanyard in circles as I took in my surroundings. I had an easy view of the field from my spot, a front row sideline seat at the fifty yard line for players' guests. That's what my ticket said—guest. It made me feel important and inconsequential all at the same time. I didn't want to be just a guest. I was more than just a guest. But at the same time, I liked the posses
sive. Players' guest. I was a player's. I belonged to a player.
My independent side had a fit about that, but it wasn't a man/woman thing or a power thing or anything like that. It's just … sometimes it feels good to know you belong somewhere … or to someone.
Right now, I felt like part of a massive club, the people on either side of me yelling excitedly, their faces smeared with paint, their bodies drenched in sports gear. Over the speakers, the Grateful Dead played “Touch of Grey”, a subtle nod to several decades past when Autzen Stadium had served as their concert venue in Eugene.
I sat back down, my heart fumbling my feelings as I tried to keep myself calm. It wasn't working. Here I was, surrounded by people hyped up and shouting, their own heartbeats thumping with the excitement, and yet very few of them were actually in love with the star quarterback. Not fake in love, like they had a Melia type crush, but … whatever this was that I was feeling. I was hesitant to admit to myself how bad it actually was.
I'd come to Eugene because I had a scholarship … but also because of Tyce.
I'd been in love with Tyce before he left and now … I was sexting him, fucking him. I almost put my face in my hands, but I remembered my makeup. I wanted to look good for Tyce. In my nighttime fantasies the past two nights, right after I'd hung up with Tyce, I'd dreamed about what it'd be like to be his girlfriend. Hell, that wasn't a new fantasy of mine. I'd been fantasizing about being with Tyce since I was twelve. But now, sitting here, I felt like he really was.
Maybe for today I could at least pretend?
Of course, that was all a lie, but the fantasy of it was fun.
I slipped off my hoodie and pulled the jersey he'd sent me out of the front pocket. Was wearing it tacky? What would he think if I put it on? What would it mean?
Screw it.
I jerked the black and gold jersey over my head and found myself enveloped in Tyce, sending goose bumps up my arms as the crowd readied themselves for the start of the game.
The Oregon Marching Band would play “Mighty Oregon” and line up on the field, and then the Ducks' mascot, Puddles, would ride out on a Harley. The players would follow in their new uniforms, helmets glinting in the rare spot of sunshine above our heads. Tyce would be with them, his muscular arms exposed, that full lower lip of his just barely visible beneath the visor on his helmet.
I swallowed hard and rubbed my suddenly sweaty palms on the cropped running pants Tyce had sent me. This was so stupid. I was so overthinking it all.
I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest, pausing when my cell started to buzz in my pocket. Pulling it out, I found a text from Tyce.
'I'll be looking for you,' he told me and my heart fluttered. I considered texting him back, but figured he probably wouldn't get the chance to check. Instead, I closed my eyes for a moment and took deep breaths. Tyce had grown up in a trailer at least twice as shitty as mine with no dad and a struggling young mom. When he'd lost her, he'd been given to a witch of a woman with enough money and power to make him suffer ten times over. For what, I wasn't sure. Neither of us had ever understood Jackie's hatred of him, but then, maybe some people are just born wrong.
Right here, right now, I'd finally get to celebrate his escape and his success in person. It was a little bitter, sure, because of what he'd put me through, but I was still happy for him. I really was.
I took a deep breath and waited for the public address announcer to call the crowd's attention to the field, watching everyone line up, the music play, the crowd cheer. I watched that dude in a Donald Duck-esque suit ride around a motorcycle. Mostly, I listened to the sounds around me, the booing for the visitors … and the chorus of joy that exploded for the home team.
Green and yellow flags waved in the players' gloved hands as they jogged forward across the Astroturf, the Jumbotron screen above the field zooming in on helmeted faces and jerseys, a massive monitor for the crowd to enjoy from their seats.
I noticed Tyce right away, and it wasn't just because the camera zoomed in on him, or because of his number or even his tattoos. It was the way he moved, like he was confidence incarnate, like he ruled the whole damn world. He was a rarity when it came to quarterbacks, a guy who could both run and throw. And the crowd loved him.
“Winship! Winship! Winship!” they screamed between bouts of “Go Ducks!” and “OOOOOOOOO!” with their thumbs and forefingers pressed together to make the shape. The players mimicked them, holding up their hands, forming a black 'O' in the center of their golden gloves. They had jerseys to match, black pants and black helmets.
Tyce's legs were exposed below the knee, all the way down to his socks. It gave me the perfect view of his muscular calves, and when he turned, I could see the firm shape of his ass in the tight fitting football pants. I closed my eyes and took a breath before opening them back up. I hoped I wasn't the only weirdo in the stadium getting turned on right now.
Over the speakers, the public address announcer gave the weather forecast and asked the crowd to tell their visitors what the real one was. It was a bit of a joke since Oregon was notorious for its rough weather, but the crowd shouted in glorious glee, “it never rains in Autzen Stadium!”
I joined in with them, raising my hands and shouting with everyone else, but my eyes never left Tyce. Not for a second, not for an instant. As he moved across the field, I saw his gaze turn towards the fifty yard line where he must've known I'd be sitting. I couldn't see his eyes through the shaded visor on his helmet, but his lips curved up in a wicked smile.
And I knew.
I knew it was for me.
Game day.
It never got old for me. Every single time we went out on that field—whether it was an away game or right here at home—I felt the crowd pulsing around me like a single entity. It was the beating heart of Eugene, gathered in one place for a moment of respite from the drudgery of life. Whenever I stood in the darkness of the tunnel, waiting with chills coursing down my spine, I knew that I was more than just an athlete. I was an entertainer, a role model. I could take this gift that I'd been blessed with, and I could run with it.
It's what I fucking intended to do—especially with Teagan Fletcher in the crowd.
Even before I saw her, I could feel her. Hell, when we'd been dropped off at the eternal flame, a fire that burned in honor of past Ducks players, I'd sensed her in the stadium. Don't ask me how I knew she was there. I mean, for all I knew, she could've said fuck that guy and stayed home. I couldn't have really blamed her for that. I was a dick. And I was selfish. I wanted her, and I let her know how much I wanted her, but I refused to have her because she might fuck up my life plans.
I was a goddamn pig.
Still, when we crossed through the Mo, our indoor practice field turned tailgating party for the fans, and I waved and smiled and pumped my fist in the air, I felt good. I felt great. Because even if I wasn't treating Teagan right, using her even, I had her. It might've just been for a second, but it felt so goddamn good. Even more proof that if I'd stayed in Quaker Park, I would've destroyed us both.
I'd pushed those thoughts down, crushed them beneath my sneakers as we headed past hundreds of chanting fans outside our locker room. They pushed up against the metal fences, reached for us like we were rock stars. I felt like a rock star when I saw their faces lit up like that, painted for me, jerseys sporting my number on their shoulders.
I got dressed in the locker room, my hands shaking with anticipation. I told myself it was because of the game, but that was a lie. It was for Teagan. Because I knew she'd be right there, close enough to touch, watching me, studying me.
I wanted to prove to her that all the pain I put her through was worth it, that we hadn't suffered for nothing, that I'd made the most out of every second we'd been apart.
Down the pitch black tunnel towards the field, a security guard on either side of us, my boys jumping up and down, bouncing from foot to foot and spinning around. As we hit the end, the Harley with our mascot in front of us, we all
smacked the back of the metal sign above the tunnel. It said “Fast, Hard, Finish” on it, a motto the team had adopted in its heart and soul. I felt it personally, from the beginning when I started playing pee wee football in our crap town, studying YouTube videos of the greats, reading books, magazines, online articles. I hit football fast from the very beginning, smashed into Thurston High School hard enough to get recruited here, and now I was going to finish it.
I'd taken a deep breath as we'd started out of the tunnel, hundreds of fans piled over us, loud and riled and ready for blood, chanting our names. My name.
“Winship! Winship! Winship!”
Out onto the field, under the big ol' Jumbotron, I found my soul. My obsession. My passion.
This is what I lived for, the thrill and the fight and the glory. Out here, I'd shut the crowd out, talk to my boys with hand signals that nobody understood but us. I'd put points on the board and walk out of there with a 'W'. It was my everything, my destiny.
But as I jogged across the bright green FieldTurf, I felt a pull towards the fifty, the family section, the place where I knew Teagan would be sitting. And I saw her. From the middle of the field, I picked her out from everything. In a sea of green and gold, her red hair was like fire and her energy flickered like lighthouse, drawing me to it.
I couldn't look away. I think I smiled at her.
For a split second, I wished I wasn't grinding down here on the field, but that I was up there with Teagan, sitting next to her, curling our fingers together. Even with thousands of fans screaming my name, I only cared about what she thought.
Passion. Obsession.
I couldn't tell the two apart. Hell, maybe they were the same damn thing? Either way, for a flash of an instant there, I couldn't decide where those words belonged. Football. Teagan. A career. A future. Something worth fighting for.
My head got so jumbled up that I wanted to scream.
This is exactly what you've been avoiding! I yelled at myself, knowing I was taking risks, making mistakes, screwing up. I wasn't in the NFL yet. Until that contract was inked in blood, I was still just a college player with no money and no education. If I did anything—anything—at all to jeopardize that, I was a moron. I was worse than a moron. I was a disgusting sack of shit who left the only mother figure he ever really knew and the girl he'd loved since he was seven and a guy who let years and years of hard work and sacrifice get flushed down the toilet.
Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Page 17
