False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2)

by Alison Hendricks

  Erickson laughs, and I find myself smiling. I’ve always liked making people laugh, I just haven’t had a whole lot of time to do it recently.

  “No kidding. He was the only person to approach me, and once I read up on the school, it sounded like a great program.” His smile slowly fades, and a frown is left in its place. “Can’t say my dad was real happy with it, though.”

  “He want you to go somewhere else?”

  “Yale,” he says.

  “Bulldogs have a pretty good team. If you can hack it academically, it’s probably a good program to roll with.”

  “Yeah. I went to a few of their games. The Harvard vs. Yale game especially. Never seen so many people out for blood,” he says with a laugh. But again, his humor fades. “Undergrad at Yale wasn’t where I wanted to be, though. It just felt like…”

  He pauses for a moment, and I let him gather his thoughts.

  “My whole family went to Yale. My dad, my mom, all my siblings but one. There’s a fucking Erickson legacy that goes back generations. I guess I just wanted to do something else.”

  “I get that. My family’s made up of wage slaves; people working two or three jobs to make ends meet, you know? None of them ever graduated from college, and my auntie’s the only one who ever went before me.”

  The smile is definitely gone from Erickson’s face now. Here it comes. The pity. If it isn’t scorn or disdain, it’s fucking pity.

  “Here I am whining about not wanting to go to Yale. You must think I’m an asshole.”

  Oh. It’s just self-consciousness. I guess that’s better than pity.

  “I do,” I say, and my lips tug into a smirk that thankfully eases his expression. “And everybody’s got shit they’re dealing with, man. Just because you had a real shot at Yale doesn’t mean everything’s a picnic for you.”

  He gives me a half-smile, and I can tell he’s trying to hold back a pretty vocal confirmation of that.

  “You and me are just different,” I say with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

  At least, that’s how I’d like it to be. Not a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal with me and Jason. But in the back of my mind, there’s a voice telling me Erickson is different.

  He just smiles, though, and at this point I’m not even paying attention to the TV.

  “Are you on scholarship? I can’t remember who is and who isn’t.”

  “Yeah. Full ride.” It’s a damn good thing, too. “I got recruited my senior year of high school. Back when I came on as a freshman, Eastshore didn’t have all that strong of a defensive lineup.”

  I think about that sometimes, too. That maybe if there was more competition—if the team hadn’t been desperate—I wouldn’t have been offered the spot. I guess I should just be thankful I have it and not worry about whats ifs, but this season makes it hard not to wonder.

  “Have you always played defense?”

  I grin at him, motioning downward. “Come on, man, look at me. Do I look like I could play anything else?”

  He laughs, but it’s not the sort of laugh I expect. Not that little ‘yeah, you got me, man’ laugh, but something almost… nervous? I don’t know why he’d be nervous, though. Or why he’s turning a little red now, come to think of it.

  Maybe the light’s playing tricks on me.

  The conversation we have after that is awkward for the first few minutes. It eases some, since we end up talking about preferred positions and pro players we admire, but there’s still this underlying feeling I keep getting. It’s like a humming vibration just low enough that I can’t actually hear it, but I can still feel it.

  Eventually there’s a little lull in the conversation. The clock on the DVR reads a 3:05, but I’m still not tired. Erickson must not be, either, because he asks me another question.

  “One of the guys said you were friends with Jason Hawkins and Derek Griffin. I guess they were already here when you started?”

  I stiffen at that, and a little alarm goes off inside of me. I feel like a guard dog who’s suddenly smelled a stranger and isn’t sure if they mean harm or not. This conversation could so easily go south, and if Erickson talks shit about Hawk or Griff, then whatever friendship we’re working on here is done.

  “Jason was. Derek joined a year later than me as a junior, so he only ended up playing out two years.”

  I try not to turn myself into a brick wall, but it’s damn near impossible. I need to know what he’s getting at.

  “I, uh… There’s another reason I chose Eastshore. It wasn’t just the attention from the recruiter, as nice as that was.”

  I lift a brow, silently encouraging him to go on.

  “I watched on TV when Griff was outed. I saw all the signs and everything, and all the support from the rest of the team.”

  My fingers curl against the edge of the couch. This is going to go one of two ways, and for Erickson’s sake, I hope it’s the good way.

  “It was just… great to see. To know that… if I decide to come out publicly, I won’t be, you know. Stoned to death on the field or something.”

  All right, one of three ways, apparently.

  I stare at Erickson for a while, and when he realizes I’m not going to say anything immediately—because apparently I can’t get my mouth to work—he turns his attention back to the TV.

  He’s gay. I guess I should have known. Straight guys don’t usually get hard when you shove them against the lockers. No wonder he was so quick to apologize. He didn’t want me to think he was going to start creeping on me.

  Shit, and now I’m sitting here not saying anything.

  “There’s always going to be assholes, no matter where you go,” I finally manage. “We had a guy here—graduated last year, thank fuck—who was a dick about it. And there’s probably some closet homophobes on the team now, but if anybody gives you shit, you tell me.”

  He looks back at me, a little surprised. His lips part, his mouth works, but he takes a moment as if to measure out his response carefully.

  “So you’re… okay with it?”

  “Hawk was my best friend,” I say, and that pang of loss hits me again. “And, well.” I glance away briefly before looking back to him. “My grandma had a partner for a long time. I’ve only spoken to her a couple times since my grandma passed, but I grew up in a house where I was told I had better fucking things to worry about than who somebody chooses to fuck.”

  I smile at him, because it’s easier to say that than the truth.

  The truth is, what Rose and my grandma had was one of the most honest, loving relationships I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t just normal to me. It was ideal.

  “That’s awesome. I’d really love to have that one day. Just find somebody to settle down with, maybe adopt a kid or two.” He laughs, and there’s still a nervous edge to it. My nerves are acting up, too, since he’s confessing his most private dreams to me now. “Shit, sorry. You don’t want to hear all this.”

  “Nah, it’s cool.” I shouldn’t want to hear it, but I can’t stop myself from keeping the conversation alive. “Your folks okay with you being gay?”

  Again his smile fades, dropping off completely this time. He looks toward the TV, and the softness I saw before is gone. He’s all hard lines and rigidity.

  “Not really. My mom pretends she doesn’t hear me every time I explain why I don’t have a girlfriend. My dad is convinced I’m doing it to spite him. And my brothers… I don’t know what they think.”

  Ouch.

  My mom and I have had our ups and downs, but I can’t imagine it ever being like that for us. If I came out as gay, she’d be completely supportive.

  “Sorry, man.”

  He shrugs, and when he looks back at me, there’s a small smile on his lips. “That’s why I’m down here. I’ve got a year to be whatever I want to be. And like I said, if I decide I want to be out… it’s good to know I’ll have a friend.”

  “A year?” My brow furrows. “Aren’t you here for four?”

 
; He ruffles a hand through his hair. “When I said my family expected me to go to Yale, I meant it. My father made a deal with me. I’m down here a year, and if I don’t do well enough, I’ll be finishing my undergrad up there.”

  Shit. I wonder what “well enough” means, but it definitely explains the fact that he’s hit the ground running. I want to ask more, I’m just afraid talking about it’s going to bring up the fact that Erickson and I are in direct competition.

  “Well, if anybody on the team fucks with you, let me know and I’ll do something about it.”

  Erickson grins at me, and my nerves start to jumble together again.

  “Do I look like I need you to do something about it?”

  I look him up and down. It starts just as a joke. An over-exaggerated once-over before I say ‘yes.’ But by the time I get down to the wide set of his shoulders, I start to actually look. And once I actually look, I become aware.

  I tell myself it isn’t because he’s gay. It wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I never gave Jason or Derek more than a passing glance. But then, they were both lean; typical athlete’s body. Erickson… isn’t. He looks athletic, but he’s built beyond that.

  I’m just admiring a fellow linebacker; somebody who knows the kind of training it takes to do my job.

  That’s all it is.

  I tell myself that over and over once our conversation tapers off and we’re just watching TV together. I tell myself that once Erickson goes to bed. I tell myself that as I lie awake, staring at the ceiling fan.

  I don’t know what time I finally drift off, but it takes until the moment I lose consciousness for me to believe it.

  That’s all it is.

  Nothing more.

  I never get a chance to cook him breakfast.

  I slept a lot later than I planned, awoken not by Erickson, but my phone. It buzzes on the table, rattling the piece of furniture and creating a noise that makes me think I’m suffering from the worst hangover ever, even when I know I’m not.

  I reach over for the phone, palming it and pulling it to me. The caller ID says “Mom” and I answer immediately.

  “Ma?”

  “Hey, baby boy. Sorry to call so early.” I look at the clock on the DVR. It’s after 9. Not early at all. “I know you were planning to come over today, but I just wanted to let you know you don’t have to. I have to run some errands anyway.”

  Grogginess clouds my mind, but even through the haze I can tell something is wrong. Her voice doesn’t sound normal. It’s like she’s trying too hard to sound happy, and her sentences break halfway through. Most damning of all, she’d never tell me not to come over because she’d rather run errands.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I sit up and finally see Erickson. He’s over in the kitchen, his tablet in his hands, earbuds in his ears. Or one of them, anyway. He must’ve taken the other one out when he heard me wake up.

  “Nothing’s wrong, I just have a lot to catch up on.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Ma.”

  Sometimes I think she still sees me as a kid; someone she has to protect. I’d rather know about what’s going on than have to find out secondhand.

  She just sighs, and when she speaks, I can hear the weariness in her voice. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

  “That’s why I’m an LB,” I say dryly.

  “They had to cut back hours at the store.”

  My fingers dig into the arm of the couch. Those fuckers have been cutting back her hours for the past year. First it was a drop from full time to part time so they didn’t have to pay for benefits. Then it was a gradual decrease in hours, with the manager always saying they were just over on payroll, and next week would be different.

  “You’ve been with that piece of shit store for fifteen years,” I say, barely able to contain my anger.

  “Watch your mouth, Dante. That store kept food on our table, and don’t you ever forget it.”

  “That doesn’t mean they can mistreat you now. How many hours are you working next week?”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “Scott has me down for two shifts, but—”

  “Two shifts?!”

  She used to work four, after they dropped her to part time. It wasn’t enough on its own. She had to get a second job by that point just to keep us in house and home. But two shifts? That’s the action of a company that’s just trying to phase her out, and it makes me furious.

  Even more so when I realize the implications. She was barely making rent before. There’s no way she’ll manage it now. Not with Randall hiking the cost so much.

  “Ma, how are you going to pay for rent?”

  “You let me worry about that. I have some money in savings. It’ll all work out. I just need to start hunting for another job in the meantime.”

  “This is wrong. Everything they’ve been doing to you is wrong.”

  And they’re doing it because they can get away with it. Because my mom is the type of person who’s grateful to even have a job.

  “Dante, I mean it. You don’t need to be worrying about this. This is your mama’s problem, and she’ll take care of it. Understand?”

  She uses that tone of voice when she wants me to drop it. My jaw clenches and I look at a spot on Mitch’s wall, trying to form an argument in my head that she won’t shoot down. But I don’t have one. I can’t tell her to challenge the manager; they’ll fire her for sure. And it’s not like I can provide for her. Not yet.

  “Yeah,” I mumble. "I'll come by sometime this week, after practice."

  "Good," she says, and I don't know if she's saying it because she approves of my choice to come over this week, or because she approves of me backing down.

  I look over at Mitch and catch his eyes on me. He gives me a sheepish smile and a shrug.

  "I gotta go. I'm staying with one of the guys and he's already up. Love you, Ma. Let me know how the job search goes."

  I try not to grit my teeth halfway through saying it, and I mostly succeed.

  "Love you too, baby boy. Tell your friend I said hi."

  I hang up, setting my phone on the end table. Standing up, I stretch before finally turning to look at Mitch. He's gone back to looking at his phone, but one of his earbuds is still out.

  "Sorry about that. Mom just wanted to touch base."

  He turns to me, his arm draped over the back of the chair. His brow furrows, and is jaw works like he's considering whether or not he actually wants to say something. I really hope he doesn't. I don't want to talk about this. Not with him. Not with anyone.

  But Mitch takes the other earbud out, sets his phone down, and asks, "Everything okay?"

  "Yeah," I say, padding into his kitchen and searching his fridge.

  I find a pitcher of water and pour myself a glass. My throat's suddenly dry, but even the big gulp of cool liquid doesn't help.

  "Dante... I heard what you said. I didn't mean to, but--"

  "Don't worry about it, Erickson," I say, making a point of using his last name despite him calling me Dante.

  I hear his chair scrape across the wood floor as he stands up. "Did your mom lose her job?"

  My fingers curl around the glass. I take another long drink, then, with my back still turned to him, wash it out in the sink and put it in the dishwasher. I don't know what my hope is. Maybe that he'll go away if I ignore him. Anybody else would take the hint.

  But when I finally turn around, Erickson is still standing there, looking concerned.

  "She got her hours cut back," I say, folding my arms over my chest, daring him to say more.

  He takes that dare without hesitation.

  "Shit, I'm sorry, man."

  It's not as bad as I thought. He reaches out to clap me on the arm, and for a second, I'm hopeful that's all he's going to say about it.

  "She shouldn't stay at a place like that, though. If I were in her shoes, I'd walk. Fuck 'em."

  I told her the same thing, more or less. That she's better than that job. But h
earing it from Mitch's mouth--from the mouth of the guy who paid for a whole team's worth of drinks; from the guy who has his own fucking townhouse--gets to me.

  "Yeah, well you aren't in her shoes."

  If he walks from a job, he's got a trust fund waiting for him, and probably a cushy place in his father's company. And what's my Mom got? Another few months of companies thinking she's a risky hire because she left a job? Another few months of being completely humiliated when she has to apply for assistance she probably still won't qualify for?

  "No, but I just mean she's worth more than any job. She can't let them treat her that way. They'll just keep doing it."

  Also things I've thought, and things I've said to her. But coming from Mitch, they make me think of every person who's ever told me or my parents that we just need to try harder. Find a new job, get a degree, work hard enough and then maybe someone will treat you with a shred of respect.

  "Don't you fucking lecture me about what my mom should or shouldn't do, all right?"

  He takes a step back from me, and raises his hands defensively. "Hey, man, I didn't--"

  "No. I don't wanna hear it, Erickson. You've never lived the way my mom's had to live. You've never dealt with the shit she's had to deal with, and neither have your parents. So you don't get to tell me what she should do."

  He opens his mouth to say something, then quickly shuts it. Emotion flickers behind his eyes. Anger? No, I don't think that's it. He looks hurt.

  I turn away from him, heading back toward the living room to grab my bag. I shove my phone into my jeans a little harder than I should. Fuck him for making me feel bad about him feeling bad.

  "Thanks for the couch," I say as I head for the door.

  It sounds like he says 'any time' as I let myself out, and that makes it even worse.

  13

  Dante

  It takes me too long to head back to Erickson’s place.

  Considering I knew right after I told him off that I was in the wrong, anything longer than five minutes is probably way too long. But this seems to be the way of things between us. He does something harmless, or at least something that doesn’t mean whatever I think it means. I blow it way the fuck out of proportion and assume he’s someone he isn’t. And then I act like a complete dick to him for no reason at all.