False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2)

by Alison Hendricks

“Who?” I try my best to ignore what he’s likely thinking. Scum like Randall never change.

  I expect him to jerk me around, but I hear him typing in the background. “Check’s from a Mr. George Erickson. Your mom got a special friend?”

  My whole body tenses, as if I’m going to be able to leap through the phone and throttle him like he deserves. Fucking asshole. Every fiber of my being tells me I shouldn’t let him talk shit about my mom like that, but she’s still living on one of his properties. If I tear him a new asshole, she’s the one who’s going to pay for it.

  And it wouldn’t be the first time.

  So instead, I force myself to grit out a “Thanks for your time,” then I hang up.

  Without Randall to focus on, my mind seizes on Erickson. George Erickson. That’s Mitch’s dad. I’m pretty sure he didn’t take a sudden, unsolicited interest in my family, so Mitch has to be the one behind this. He knew about my mom losing her job. He knew about her asshole landlord.

  And he paid the guy off. Without thinking about it. Without even talking to me.

  We’re right back to square fucking one.

  Not twenty minutes earlier, I was worried about what might happen when Erickson and I saw each other in the locker room on Monday.

  Now I’m worried for a whole different reason.

  16

  Mitch

  I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I kept trying to find some clarity in what to say, what to do the next time I see Dante.

  I didn’t find any clarity. Just my alarm clock telling me I’d pissed away the last of my one day off.

  I showered, dressed, grabbed some breakfast from the commons, and headed to the stadium, figuring it would be best to show up for the chopping block early instead of trying to put it off. The lights weren’t even on when I got there, and I had to sit and wait outside until the janitor came and unlocked the door.

  Even that period of solace didn’t help me wrap my head around what was likely going to happen.

  I haven’t spoken to Mills—Dante—since that kiss. I don’t know what he thinks of it; I can’t even venture a guess. A part of me believes I should resign myself to thinking it didn’t happen. That’s clearly the only way we’re going to get through this. He’s going to act like nothing’s changed, I’m going to pine like the fool I am, and eventually maybe I’ll get it through my thick skull that it didn’t mean anything.

  It can’t mean anything. Dante is straight, and wanting a straight guy is a sure recipe for disaster. I know that. If not from personal experience, then from common sense.

  So I have to prepare myself for two stark realities. One, I’m going to be spending a lot of time with my hand until I forget about that kiss. Two, Dante and I are probably back at square one as far as our friendship is concerned. Maybe even further back than that. At least then we were rivals. I don’t know what we are now.

  I sit on the bench in front of my locker, just staring at my uniform. I knew I wanted to play football when I was a kid, but even then, I knew the why of it, too. Belonging to a team was the greatest feeling I’ve ever had in my life. Feeling wanted and needed, like I could contribute to something bigger than myself? It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  But as I sit here, I can’t ignore the flicker of hope that darts through my mind.

  What if that kiss did mean something? What if I can have the support of a team as well as a partner?

  When I think of what I really want out of life, that kind of partnership always factors in. Not the cold, polite marriage my mother and father have. I want someone who will understand my needs and strive to meet them just as much as I’ll strive to meet his.

  I want to be a part of someone else’s life. Their whole life, the good and bad.

  And after one kiss, my treacherous heart wants to think that someone could be Dante.

  I sigh, dropping my head into my hands. My hair is tied back, so tugging at it doesn’t work as well as it normally would, but the sharp sting in my scalp still serves its purpose. I let out a sound of frustration and as I hear voices outside I realize I still don’t have a plan. Great. I guess I’m going to wing it.

  When I hear the guys filter in, I act casual, smile, and try to be my normal self.

  And then Dante comes in.

  My heart skips about twelve beats, and I scowl. Intentionally. At myself. But seeing him again just hammers home the fact that I’m not going to be over that kiss any time soon. I don’t know what he’s done to me, but it runs deeper than I thought. Deep enough that I don’t even realize I’m staring at him until he comes right up to me.

  Then I see he isn’t smiling. He doesn’t even have a neutral expression on his face. He looks like he’s barely controlling a bout of rage.

  “We need to talk.”

  The four most ominous words in the English language. I swallow hard, but try to smile at him.

  “What’s up?”

  For a second I wonder if he’s going to put this on me; say I somehow coerced him into the kiss. But that’s ridiculous. I didn’t, and even if I did, he wouldn’t talk about it here. Not with everyone standing around, watching us.

  “Not here,” he bites out.

  “Oooh, Mommy and Daddy are fighting again,” Sommers says.

  It’s harmless. I know it is. But it draws that much more attention to us, and Dante is livid. I have no idea how to calm him down, but he looks like he’s on the verge of hauling off and socking Sommers.

  “Fuck off,” I say casually, and the focus shifts to me instead of Dante. Quietly, to him, I add, “I don’t know what’s going on, but lead the way.”

  Both Dante and I ignore the comments as we walk, but I can see his shoulders tense. Thankfully, just as he leads me toward a side door, I hear the other guys shift their focus to someone else.

  When I pull the door closed behind me, Dante looks right at me and his eyes are fierce and dark. It’s hard to read them, but I have the instant, gut-clenching feeling that if I’m not careful with what I say, any progress between us is going to be completely eradicated.

  Maybe he’s just going to tell me how it is; tell me there isn’t going to be anything between us. Maybe what I see in his eyes is just a desperate attempt to turn the world right side up again.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing paying my mom’s rent?”

  Oh, shit.

  I spent all this time thinking it was about what happened between us. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he might have figured out what I did. Especially considering I told Mr. Randall I wanted the name to stay anonymous.

  “I thought it could help.”

  “Then you should’ve told me that instead of going behind my back and just paying that asshole off.”

  I wince. He’s right. Not asking his opinion first was a stupid move. I can readily admit that.

  “I just wanted to help, man. You looked…” Beaten down. Broken. “I don’t know. It looked like you and your mom could use a leg up. I had the means to help, so I did it.”

  Isn’t this what you’re supposed to do for friends? Not that I’ve had a ton, but I’d appreciate it if somebody did something like this for me.

  The fury in Dante’s eyes tells me I’m wrong.

  “It’s all so easy for you, isn’t it, Erickson?”

  My brow furrows as I look back at him, but I don’t say anything.

  “Just throw money at a problem and it goes away.”

  “That’s not what I was trying to do. Don’t be a dick to me because you can’t ask for help.”

  “You think that’s what this is? Just my pride, right? You were just trying to help my mom and me, and now you’re upset because I’m making you feel like an asshole.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. I don’t want to be mad at him, but that’s about the long and short of it. I’ve never tried to lord my family’s wealth or status over anyone. I know I’ve had it easy when it comes to money.

  For him to act like I’m somehow trying to prove I’m s
uperior to him is… more hurtful than it should be.

  “You know what happened the first time my mom got laid off after Dad died? You know what happened whenever she pulled out her EBT card? People looked at her like she was reaching into their pockets and taking money from them. Like she was living off hand-outs. They judged every fucking thing she bought. She came home in tears half the time. She worked her ass off to get enough to provide for us. I’m working my ass off to provide for her. So don’t you fucking tell me you forcing your hand-out on us means nothing.”

  “Jesus, Mills, it isn’t a hand-out! I never saw it that way!”

  “But I do,” he says, and his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. “I’m not your fucking charity case, Erickson.”

  It hits me then. In the middle of everything else. I’m back to being Erickson. He’s back to being Mills. Whatever gap we’d bridged before this has opened up into a chasm now.

  “I don’t—”

  “Stay out of my shit,” he says with a growl. “And stay the fuck out of my way.”

  He pushes past me, and the door to the locker room is thrown open. I don’t even hear the taunts from the other guys. Whatever they think we did out here, it has to be better than what actually transpired.

  I feel helpless. Powerless. My hand balls into a fist at my side, and I can’t manage to compose myself before heading back into the locker room.

  I dress, and don’t look at Mills. I take the practice field, and don’t look at Mills. I play with an aggression that scares even me, the crack of contact so intensely visceral that it rattles through my consciousness.

  But still I don’t look at Mills.

  I thought this whole thing would be awkward. Uncomfortable. But it’s so much worse than that.

  17

  Mitch

  I should be sleeping.

  Practice was exhausting, and a full day of classes on top of it has turned my brain to mush. It’s going to be like this through the regular season, and even worse during post-season. But right now my mind and body are still getting acclimated, and they aren’t exactly happy with the sudden intensity.

  As much as they’re complaining, though, my heart is louder.

  I can’t shake this feeling that’s clung to me all day. I almost feel betrayed. Jilted. I tried to do a nice thing for Mills, and not only did he not accept it, he basically threw it back in my face.

  So now I’m lying here, alone in my house, staring up at the ceiling and wishing I had someone to talk to. Mills, maybe. There’s so much more I want to say. I feel like if I could just explain myself better, he would see reason.

  But I’m too angry with him to call.

  I consider just hopping online and vaguebooking, but I’ve never been the type to do that, and I don’t want to start now. Instead, I reach for my phone and look through my missed texts for the day. All two of them.

  One’s from my mom, reminding me that Dad has another benefit gala or something I’m expected to fly home for. It’s a month away, though, so I ignore it.

  The other is from Lydia, and I can’t help but smile as I read it.

  Hey loser. Hope you aren’t dead. Love, your fellow pariah.

  I glance at the clock. It’s late, but not late enough that she would have gone to bed yet. I need to call her to let her know how things are going. And, selfishly, I need to call her because right now she’s the only one who will understand what I’m going through.

  I dial her number, and I only have to wait a single ring before she picks up.

  “He lives!”

  My smile transforms into a grin. “Sorry, you’ll have to try harder to get rid of me.”

  “No problem. I’m putting the finishing touches on a special care package right now.”

  “Oh yeah? Cyanide cookies?”

  She scoffs. “Please. I’m more creative than that.” She doesn’t elaborate, but there’s no need. This game never goes very far between us. “How’s Florida? Are you a lobster yet?”

  I look down at my arms. Sure enough, there’s a red patch from my wrist up to the point where my sleeves stretch over my pads.

  “Only a partial lobster. It’s been good, though. Nice to not be freezing my ass off.”

  “Don’t say that to Grandpa. He’ll start talking about how you’re shaming our Norse ancestors.”

  I laugh at that, and some of the tension dissipates.

  “I saw your game,” she says, and I hold my breath. “You did great. I mean, for someone who just runs around hitting people.”

  My cheeks hurt from smiling. Despite the way she’s couched it, I can tell she’s proud. I always knew Lydia would be proud of me, no matter what, but hearing it in her voice helps a lot.

  “Thanks, Lydia.”

  “Sorry to say, though, that you’re not the hottest guy on the team.”

  “You have to say that because you’re my sister.”

  “Oh, no. I have to say it because it’s true. That big guy, number 21 I think? It’s criminal that he didn’t get put in sooner. He’s too hot to ride the bench.”

  I can practically feel my blood freeze in my veins. 21 is Dante’s number. Christ. My sister doesn’t know it, but she’s provided the perfect segue.

  Now I just have to come out with it.

  It was anger that made me pick up the phone, but her support has dampened my fury somewhat. Now I’m left with the notion of talking about a guy I like with my sister.

  It could be worse. Lydia was the first person I came out to, and I’m pretty sure she suspected it for years.

  “Actually, I know exactly who you’re talking about. Mills, right?”

  “Yep, that’s him. I looked him up on the team roster during a commercial.” She pauses a moment, and then her voice takes on an unmistakably sly tone. “Wait. If you ‘know exactly who I’m talking about,’ that means you think he’s hot, too.”

  My cheeks burn like I’m twelve. My brain fires back a ‘nuh uh!’ but thankfully my spoken answer is a little more mature. “I’m not going to deny it. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

  I can practically hear her grin. “You are so busted.”

  “What?”

  “You used the Dad voice. You only ever use that voice when you’re lying through your teeth.”

  I scowl. “I did not use the Dad voice.”

  “You totally did.”

  “I didn’t!”

  Okay. So much for sounding mature.

  “So have you told this guy you’re totally in love with him yet?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. And actually…” At least I can ease into this topic. “He’s pretty pissed at me right now.”

  “Uh oh. What did you do?”

  I explain the situation to her. I tell her about Mills’ family, and the fact that his mom lost her job and is having trouble keeping up with the landlord’s steep fees.

  Then I tell her how Mills blew up on me, and I can’t help but let some of my emotion seep into my words.

  After I’m done, the line goes silent. I check the phone to make sure I haven’t lost her, but she finally says something.

  “Mitch, I say this from a place of love.” That can’t be good. “But you’re a fucking idiot.”

  And just like that, any good feelings evaporate.

  “Thanks, sis.”

  “Hear me out. I mean, do you have any idea what you said to this guy? You basically said: I know your family’s too poor to take care of their own problems, so I’m going to take care of them for you. No need to thank me! It’s all in a day’s work for Captain Savior!”

  “Jesus, you know I didn’t mean it like that!”

  I thought Lydia would be on my side. She’s always on my side. What the hell?

  “It doesn’t matter how you meant it,” she says, and her voice is calm and serious. “He’s the one who has to live with it.”

  My first instinct is to snap back at her like a wounded animal. But I fight against it. Not for any altruistic reason; just because my prid
e is too wounded to speak right now.

  But not responding gives me a chance to actually hear those words and let the weight of them sink in. My stomach starts to feel uneasy as a cold sense of uncertainty washes over me.

  “I know you’re a good person,” Lydia says softly. “But you need to listen to what he’s telling you.”

  Mills’—Dante’s—words surface in my mind. It’s all so easy for you, isn’t it? That sick feeling in my gut overwhelms me, my stomach roiling. I get up from my bed and start to pace, still not saying anything.

  “How do I fix it?” I finally ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Apologize. And mean it. Then shut your mouth and listen to what he has to say.”

  I nod, bringing a hand up to rub my jaw.

  “And Mitch?” I cringe at that. Whatever’s coming next can’t be good. “You can’t buy someone’s affection.”

  It’s worse than I expected. My hackles go up immediately. Buying affection is what my dad does on a daily basis. He’s made a career out of it, like a politician fishing for loaded delegates.

  “I would never try to buy anyone’s affection.”

  “But you already have. Come on, Mitch. Paying his mom’s rent?”

  My tone becomes immediately defensive. I can’t hide the hurt. “You think I did this because I want him to like me? Because I think he’ll be so grateful he’ll just fall into bed with me?”

  “No. But you wanted him to see you as a good friend, didn’t you? Taking care of something he needed? Maybe you even wanted him to see you as somebody who cares about him as more than a friend? Everybody likes to be recognized for the shit they do, and you…”

  Realization slowly sinks into my being. She doesn’t even need to finish that sentence.

  I crave recognition. It’s the whole reason I started playing football.

  And knowing that about myself, it’s not a huge leap to think my subconscious might have controlled my actions; that I might have actually paid off that landlord because I wanted Dante to like me.

  God.

  That sick feeling washes over me. I stop pacing, sit back down, and just sort of sink back onto the bed, having a hard time even holding the phone up. I surrender, putting it on speaker. Lydia doesn’t say anything. She knows me too well.