Fading Out

by Trisha Wolfe

  It might just be a distraction from all the tension currently binding me—but it feels like something close to relief not to be so focused on my issues for once.

  For that, I’m sort of grateful. Still doesn’t mean I excuse his ego, however.

  With a determined edge I’ve never owned before, I say, “All right. Tell me about this raffle idea. I’ll see what I can do.”

  She actually squees.

  It makes my insides fizz happily for her.

  * * *

  I need some kind of anchor. Something to make me feel secure in my new environment. While at Dartmouth, I had my weekly movie club. Lame, maybe. But unlike book clubs, where everyone tries to outsmart and outwit each other (college is nothing if not competitive), I could easily find the time to slip in a couple hours a week to indulge a movie.

  And truthfully, it was the only way I’d allow myself the guilty pleasure. Anything that pulled me away from my studies was unacceptable to my father, but he couldn’t scoff at a social activity that promoted camaraderie among his people.

  As I gaze over the signups on the cork bulletin board, my finger scanning such items as chess club, documentary divas, ECON club, I finally locate the boosters. It’s definitely not my club of choice, but despite my annoyance with “The Ryde” and all things football, I predict it will at least keep me busy. Anchored. Grounded. And joining will make Vanessa happy. I owe her that much.

  Two birds, one stone.

  I scribble my name on the signup page.

  Truly, I had wanted to use the leverage for my revenge…but when it comes right down to it, what the hell is one girl against a team of football gods? The thought was petty. I was petty. Embarrassed, actually. And possibly even my feelings a little hurt. When Ryder called me “twigs” it stung—the car prank driving the mortification even deeper.

  It’s better if I focus on the boosters as a way to help Vee accomplish her goal, do something to repay her kindness toward me, rather than for my vindictive reasons. Besides, I’m pretty awkward. I’d probably just screw it up, anyway.

  I’m decided in my efforts, mentally letting go of the childishness of last week, when I hear a deep voice. It resonates in my chest. Makes the hair along my skin stand at attention. It’s that commanding.

  “Really, carrot cake?” Ryder says. “The boosters?” He’s leaning against the wall, his forearm flat against the corkboard, elbow angled upward. He’s wearing a blue jersey with the number 16 scrawled above the high-riding hem. Peeking just below is a slab of hard, chiseled flesh that becomes painful to pry my gaze away from.

  His hairline around his face is damp with sweat, as if he’s just come from practice, maybe.

  Like he knows what his presence—his body—is doing to me, the bundle of nerves I become whenever he’s near, he moves closer, forcing me to back against the corner wall. Stretching his arm higher, his body bracketing me in, he smiles. All cocky. It’s for just this reason I’ve avoided him whenever our paths cross.

  I clear my throat and tear my gaze away from his defined chest to his eyes. Damn, that doesn’t really help. “Thought I’d invest myself in Braxton’s claim to fame,” I say. “School spirit and all that.”

  His smile widens, making some stupid, annoying flutter in my belly. “I can’t really see you as the peppy type.” His eyes languidly travel over my body, my gray pencil skirt, my black silk Chanel blouse. I feel I could combust under his scrutiny. “But hey, whatever blows your skirt up.”

  And like that, my defenses flare. I turn my attention back to the board, already dismissing him. He continues, unperturbed. “Look. I’m sure you’re not quite over—”

  “Actually,” I cut in, focus hard on the upturned corner of a page. “I am over it.”

  From my peripheral, I watch him run a hand through his disheveled dark hair. “Oh, well good.” He pauses, the awkwardness between us a solid wall. “Glad to hear.” Then he reaches out and hooks a finger through the belt loop of my skirt. My nerves attack every inch of my body, tingles awakening my skin. Logic fights for dominance over the sudden assault of want that pervades me as he tugs me flush against him.

  I can feel the brush of his rough jeans through my thin skirt. My breasts tighten and ache, and my nipples pebble as they rub against his hard chest.

  I’m willing my breathing to regulate, but my quick breaths are tripping over my lips as his body heat presses against me. Setting my whole damn body aflame. My thighs tremble at the feel of his thumb rubbing a path along my waist. Traitor. My body is the ultimate traitor.

  As he looks down at me, lips parted, his eyes flick over my face. Then, “I did want to apologize…”

  My breath stills as I wait to hear his next words. But then, like it wants to be acknowledged as its own being, my stomach growls. Loudly. Oh, God.

  I close my eyes.

  I can feel his gaze hard on me. I don’t have to look to know the surprised, probably about-to-crack-up look he’s wearing right now. And I’m proven right when he says, “Damn, carrot cake. You should feed that beast.”

  Warmth prickles my cheeks, and my eyes fly open. Truth is, I’d been so ill over my choice to sign up for the boosters—one of the most popular clubs on campus; whose members openly mocked me last week—that I skipped breakfast. And lunch. Just to give myself the extra boost of confidence I sorely needed.

  This moment, right here, proves how out of touch I am with that side of myself. Confidence and me?—two polar opposites on other ends of the planet.

  “Thanks. A lot,” I say, pushing out of his hold. Then I turn and all but run down the hallway.

  “Wait.” He quickly catches up to me, his long legs swallowing the short distance. I keep my gaze on the floor, watching his feet take one step for my every two. “I didn’t mean it…”

  I stop, and he turns to face me. “You have no filter. Like, zero.” I make an “o” with my hand.

  Thick brows arch over clear blue eyes. “You’re so sensitive. I was joking.” He makes a face that almost looks as if he’s pained. Then adds, “Something, which, you clearly don’t care for.”

  Oh, so now I’m uptight? Right, well, I guess I am. I’ve been through near hell these past months—enough hell to probably make anyone a bit high-strung, but I’m not explaining this to him. “Forget it. Just, please, leave me alone. Okay?”

  Sinking his hands into his pockets, he lifts his shoulders, looking almost childish—too young for the body containing him. Like he’s been reprimanded. For a second, a pang knocks my chest.

  “I was actually hoping for just the opposite,” he says.

  “What?”

  He drops his chin, his features becoming serious. “I don’t want to leave you alone. I’d like to get to know you.”

  “Why?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Crap. I glance away, at the students milling behind him, at the taped posters clinging to the gray walls. At anything to distract me from his answer.

  He takes a moment longer than needed for such a simple question, and each second that ticks by is torture. Maybe he was just setting me up—waiting for me to fall into that trap. Like getting to know me is some form of sick foreplay to break down my defenses and humiliate me further. Though I’m not sure what would top condom bombing my car.

  That thought makes my stomach sink. Then he’s stepping closer to me, crowding my space, sucking up all the air from between us. I inhale the warm scent of him. Fresh aftershave or cologne, woodsy. Fall leaves. Leather from his backpack strap. He’s too close.

  “Because,” he says, a low rumble in his throat, ridiculously long lashes sweeping his angular cheeks, “when a girl…I mean, a beautiful girl…throws beer in your face, you kind of have to get to know her. Figure out what makes her tick. And try to make up for being a complete douchebag to her.”

  I snort. The dumb noise vacates my nose without my permission. I swear, I have no control over my bodily functions around this guy. It’s embarrassing.

  Recovering by quick
ly following up with a cough, I clear my throat. Look up. Hell, I shouldn’t have done that. His lips are tipped up in an inviting, full smile. Eyes squinted in that cute way of his that makes him seem innocent—but with just a hint of bad beneath.

  “I could save you the trouble of an inquisition,” I say, trying to hold his intense stare.

  His eyebrows rise. “Interesting. You’re just offering it up that easily?”

  My eyes go wide, and he immediately winces. “That’s not—”

  “I am such an idiot.” I shake my head, finally breaking his gaze. Getting my bearings once again. “I was not offering—”

  “I know!” He’s grasping my shoulders now, and I squirm against his hold. “That didn’t come out the way I wanted.”

  “No,” I say, using my arms in a windmill motion to break free. “You meant it just how it sounded. But I’m not one of your groupies. There’s no touchdown going to happen here. And honestly—” I laugh “—I think words between us period isn’t smart. Let’s just not from now on, okay?”

  I don’t give him the chance to remark. I’m feet away from him, and then yards. Trying to collect myself from his almost touchdown.

  8

  Ryder

  Arian’s right about one thing: I shouldn’t be using words around her. I shouldn’t open my mouth at all. It’s dangerous. Shit, you’d think I’d know better. Girls like her…I stopped trying to impress a long time ago.

  But dammit if she doesn’t get right under my skin. She’s like a song I can’t get out of my head. Playing on a loop. And I just need to sing the tune once to be free of it. I figured I’d make a move, hookup with her, get her out of my system. But she’s so…stubborn. I’ve never had to impress a girl before; I don’t have much practice. But I’ve never been this lame before, either. I’m a fumbling idiot whenever she’s near.

  Since the end of the game, I’ve been racking my brain for a way to set things right with her—to at least end the animosity between us. I hate the ill feeling in my gut that I get around her. I hate that I can’t put that beaming smile I first glimpsed back on her face. I can’t have the crushing weight of two girls who I’ve hurt on my conscience.

  My feelings are so conflicting I want to punch my locker.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about this now. I should be enjoying the moment before it’s over. Maybe too soon.

  I’m riding a high, having sent the ball right into Devon’s hands, spiraling beautifully through the air in a perfect arc, to win the game by a landslide. Moments like that don’t happen often. We’re nearly undefeated, and I play my ass off each and every game, running hard. Winning hard. But that moment was captured as if in slow motion.

  Ball snapped to me. Two steps back. Arm cocked. Ball launched.

  It was clear and impeccable. That single second when everything came together and I watched the ball sail through the air, then cradled in arms, before I was tackled. I don’t even remember the takedown, just the emotion welling inside. Knowing this is what I’m meant to do.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever felt it.

  I wonder if Arian saw the game. If she saw the pass. Not that I should care. I don’t need her approval, I remind myself. She’s not Alyssa.

  Shoulder pats and congratulations are given to me in the locker room as the last of the team head out. I’m taking my time changing out, savoring this feeling, making it last as long as possible.

  Before freshman year in college, I rode the bench. My father always pushed me to play sports, any sport, but he was a hardcore football fan. So I grew up with plenty of practice; backyard games, watching him and my brother toss the ball around. Sunday game day. My mom scurrying in the kitchen to feed the shouting guys in the living room. Pep talks and last minute drills before each tryout.

  And I saw the hope crushed in his eyes each time I made backup.

  By my senior year of high school, I hated the game. I loathed football. Though my father never openly voiced his disappointment, the silent avoidance hurt more than any scolding. I’d rather him yell and curse, like some of the dads I’d seen do to their sons, rather than bottle his regret.

  So I told myself that when I went off to college, I wouldn’t even try out. I’d be on my own and away from my family and wouldn’t have the pressure to perform. I could finally focus on something…anything else—like my writing. Something that I’ve done in secret ever since middle school. Short stories. Plots for novels. But tell that to my dad? That I’d rather write a book than run a touchdown?

  Yeah. Sure. That would’ve been the final crack in our fragile relationship.

  That’s how much the man loved football.

  But that was then. A lifetime ago. Before everything changed.

  I slam my locker door, my mood dimming, turning black. It’s like I couldn’t just enjoy the moment; I had to dredge up the painful past. Like a masochist. Never allowing myself the joy of the game. It’s work. Always.

  Except for today. For the first time in four years—hell, since my father first tossed me a pigskin—I felt like I was destined to play ball. And not just for him.

  “You coming?” Gavin says, peeking his head around the cement blocked corner of the locker room. “We’re hitting Jack’s, bro.”

  Celebration for our victory. “I’ll be right out.”

  Stuffing my sullen thoughts down deep in my guts, I reach for the high I felt only moments before. Solid in my choice not to let anything ruin the rest of tonight.

  * * *

  Jack’s Bar Wench is a college dive bar in the heart of town. Sidewalks line the touristy beach town’s two-lane roads. Decorative glowing lampposts are planted before every building. Spiral metal benches cap each corner. The bar is attached to a chain of two- and three-story buildings, brick and wood combos, which litter either side of the main strip.

  In truth, I love this town. Everything is within walking distance. It’s classic verses old. And Jack’s is a homage bar for college football. Our home. Even though I ride the guys pretty hard about not drinking or partying too hard during the season, it’s not a bad idea to throw back a beer and relax after a game. To celebrate.

  I don’t dare let them drink off a defeat.

  As Beck waves the waitress over, he cocks his chin and shouts, “A round for the boys, sweet tits!”

  A grimace pulls at the corners of my mouth. I feel embarrassed on the waitress’s behalf, but she’s never once complained. Rather, she laughs, encouraging the attention from the players. It’s a sad truth that these guys own this town. Can pretty much do as they please—but for the most part, they don’t. Most of them want to go on to the big leagues, and know that the wrong shit going down now can prevent a career in the pros before it even starts.

  My brother is living proof of that. A cautionary tale to all.

  I glance around our table. “Make it last, brothers,” I say. “We’re packing it in early tonight.”

  Devon groans. “You’re such a hard-ass.”

  The guys chuckle, but I know it’s in good spirit. They get how important this season is. It’s our year—many of our last—to bring home the championship. We can’t afford to let one night of fun hinder our game.

  Braxton won the bid for the playoff to be held here. That means the pressure is on for us to slaughter in the regular season—to impress the committee enough to secure our spot. I can almost feel the tension radiating off the guys sitting around me now, the thought hovering just above the celebratory atmosphere.

  “I’m out early, anyway,” Gavin announces. He downs half the beer the waitress hands him in one long chug. Slamming the tumbler down on the table, gaining the group’s notice, he adds, “Got to get my celebrating on the right way.” He swats a hand through the air, miming spanking an ass.

  “Ah,” I say. “That’s fucking worse, dude. Last time you spent the night with Laney, your game was shit.” I eye him.

  But my words fall on deaf ears as he’s distracted by something over my shoulder. I turn to see
Laney and her group of cheerleaders entering the bar. With a hard shiver, Laney pulls her jacket tight against her. Then, snagging the whole bar’s attention, she proceeds to peel the outerwear layer off, revealing a skimpy top and short skirt number.

  Swiveling around in my chair, I note every guy’s gaze trained on the girls. Hell, there goes that. “Practice. Early. Morning.” I punctuate each word, snapping a few heads back my way. “Don’t make me bust balls tomorrow,” I warn.

  “Bust ‘em all you want,” Gavin says, rising from his chair. He slugs back the rest of his beer, then grunts. “But I’m bustin’ a nut first, dude.”

  A collective rumble of laughter circles the tables.

  I shake my head, always amazed at how Gavin can twist everything back around to his dick. Though, really, I didn’t want to have that mental image on the field tomorrow when I’m running drills.

  The girls saunter over, and Laney takes up Gavin’s side, plastering her body against his. He reaches down and grabs her ass, lifting her off the ground, and she squeals.

  I look away—and my gaze lands on two girls coming into the bar.

  One of which is Arian.

  A strange dip bottoms out my stomach. My feet are turning in her direction before my brain catches up, then I grip the edge of the table, straining to keep myself seated.

  “Damn, bro.” Beck nudges my side. “I think I might try for a piece of that.” My head swings around to see him staring right at Arian. “I could handle a little stuck up attitude if it meant getting those legs wrapped around me.”

  My face heats. My muscles bunch, neck aching. But before my mouth is open to say…something, Jeremy speaks up. “Hell, I’d fuck the snotty right out of her.” He laughs, getting a fist bump from Beck.

  My knuckles turn white on the table. “So vandalizing her car was, what…?” I look between them. “Your equivalent to picking on a girl you like? You think she’ll just shrug that shit off and fuck your brains out?” I wince at my own dumb-ass words. I don’t like the image I just put in my head. Even to make a point.