Seriously?
"You're the one who attacked me just now. Jesus, Vincent. Are you really so self-centered you think I just came here to fuck with you?"
"Why else would you leave a D2 school?" he fires back.
"Hey!" The harsh bark of Coach Ladner's voice breaks through our feud. "Not a word 'til I get there."
Nate and I stalk off the field, and I do everything in my power to avoid even looking at him. It seems like every time I catch his eye, it's like a matador waving red in front of an enraged bull. He's apparently convinced himself I'm the spawn of Satan, and nothing I say or do is ever going to prove otherwise, so why bother?
We stand apart from each other, looking like petulant children as we wait for Coach to come babysit us. He gives a little more guidance to the team and then jogs over to us, his brow bunched up so close to his eyes I can barely see them.
"You two wanna tell me what the hell is going on?" he asks, managing to sound a lot less angry than he looks.
"Collins and I got beef," Nate says, not looking at me.
"Yeah, I can see that. But whatever this is obviously goes deeper than some high school bullshit, so one of you needs to explain."
His tone is impatient, but my gaze catches Nate’s suddenly stricken look, like his coach has betrayed him. It’s my fault he feels that way. I should’ve just let Coach Ladner handle it or found some way to talk to him before we met up on the field.
There’s nothing I can do about it now, though, and so I just take responsibility for us both and start telling the story of what happened a few years back.
"We played for rival teams in high school," I start.
"What I saw out there goes way beyond high school rivalry," he interrupts, giving us another hard stare.
Nate just snorts. "No shit."
"Hey." Coach pins him with a hard stare. "Unless you wanna help explain this, I don't want to hear your wise ass commentary."
Of course, he doesn't say anything else, and I keep on.
"It was always hyped up," I explain. "The local papers latched onto it and every time our teams played each other it was a big deal."
I'd actually enjoyed it, once upon a time. It was exhilarating knowing I'd get to match up against someone like Nate every once in a while. And from the way he used to grin at me after I brought him down--or after he slipped one of my tackles--I'm pretty sure the feeling was mutual.
But that all changed our senior year.
"Everything was fine, but then I--"
"Then Collins spread my personal business all over town," Nate finishes, his brown eyes so dark they're nearly black.
"Barber was the one who did that," I say, not even sure why I'm bothering to defend myself.
What I did was shitty, and Nate rightfully calls me out on it.
"And how did he find out, huh? He just make a wild guess? Or did you tell him shit that wasn't yours to tell?"
I look away at that, shame washing over me. I thought I could trust Barber, and I was so fucked up by what I'd seen that I hadn't known what to do. I never expected...
"I’m guessing you didn’t talk this out like you said you would.” Coach’s voice is stony, and I swallow hard.
“Hold up,” Nate says, his attention turning to the coach. “You knew about the shit he did and you still brought him on?”
“I’d advise you to back down from wherever you’re going with that, son. You’re grown men. I expected you to work it out like adults and not compromise this football team.”
"I was going to talk to him after practice. I thought we could move past all this high school shit."
I know the words are wrong before they even leave my mouth, but with Coach Ladner and Nate looking at me, I just feel trapped. This isn't the place I want to have some deep conversation about why I did the shit I did.
I can feel the blood drain from my face when he turns to me, energy crackling off of him.
"All this high school shit?" Nate repeats incredulously. "Are you serious--"
"Enough!" Coach grips his pads and gives us both a look that makes it obvious just what he's thinking.
If we keep this up, our college careers are over.
"Here's what's going to happen," he continues, letting go of Nate. "Whatever this is, you two are going to work it out. Until you do, neither of you are starting."
"We won't even be playing against each other during real games," Nate protests.
"You're a liability on the field, and I'm not gonna have either of you tank our reputation when we're just starting to get a shred of respect in the league."
There's a fire in his words that silences me, and I draw in a slow breath through my nose, closing my eyes. I get that, and the last thing I want to do is contribute to people thinking the Mavericks are just a team where all the rejects end up.
Even if it's true for me.
"You understand?" Coach prompts.
Both of us manage a "yes, sir." I feel like a child again, but he's right. There's no reason our high school drama should carry into college. I have no idea how we're going to fix this, but I can only hope football is important enough to Nate that he's willing to try.
"In the meantime... Vincent, are you still rooming alone?"
"Coach..."
The incredulous, almost panicked note in Nate's voice snaps my attention back to the present. There's no way he's suggesting--
"Collins, you'll be shacking up with Vincent until I say otherwise."
Holy shit.
Forget about rebuilding the bridges we burnt between us. It'll be a fucking miracle if we don't just kill each other first.
5
Nate
I can't believe this shit.
It's bad enough I have to see him at practice, in the gym and hopefully sitting his ass down on the bench during games. But now I have to share my space with him too? Seriously? A whole year of rooming with Owen Collins?
Coach'll be lucky if we don't kill each other after the first week.
I need a break from it; from him. After practice, I hit up my boy Eli and see if he wants to go out. There's not a whole lot to do in Eustis, but even sitting around a McDonald's parking lot would be better than going back to my dorm tonight.
Eli's got me covered, though. He gets the guys together and we head over to Tony's, a local pizza place that has a huge arcade taking up half the building. The pizza there tastes like cheese-covered cardboard but the games are fun, and during the off-season Eli and I came up with a competition we like to call the Arcade Triathlon. Basketball, ski ball, and three turns at the claw machine to see who can pull the best prize. The winner gets the cash pool from everybody else who participates, and gets the honor of judging the next triathlon.
It's stupid shit, but it's the kind of thing I really need right now.
Tony's is all but dead when we walk in, a bunch of huge guys in ESC Football shirts barreling through the double doors. The staff already knows us by now and nobody gives us any trouble when we pull a few tables together, giving us enough space for all the guys who are probably going to show up. Somehow word of Tony's Night always gets around.
We pool our money and order a bunch of pizzas and game cards. The guys who can get away with it go in for some watered-down beer, but I just stick to water. They know me well enough here that they'd card me if I tried to pull anything.
"Thanks for getting this together, man," I say to Eli. He sits beside me, trying to sip through a layer of foam.
"Seemed like you needed it."
I've been friends with Eli since the day I noticed him checking me out during summer conditioning. We both pinged each other's gaydar—or bidar, in his case--hard, even if nothing ever came of it. He and I aren't really compatible in that way; that was obvious from the start. But we look out for each other, and he gives me shit on the regular about just how many closeted jocks I'm taking back to my bed.
The look he's giving me now tells me there's more at work in his brain, and I'm not surprised
when he asks, "So what's your beef with Collins?"
Eli and I have been bros for a while, but something in me hesitates. I don't care about him knowing why my skin prickles even at the mention of Collins' name, but I also don't want him trying to psycho-analyze me or some shit. Eli likes to make a way bigger deal out of things than he should.
If I don't tell him, though, I know I'll just look like a kid throwing a tantrum all season.
"You remember I told you I was outed in high school? He's the guy who did it," I say, not really caring who else hears me. After Barnes and Ruiz, anybody who had a problem playing on the same team as queer guys abandoned ship, and the Mavs are stronger for it.
"Shit." Eli scrubs a hand over his short hair. "Not cool."
"I mean, it wasn't him specifically. He told some fuckboy teammate who told everybody else."
I don't know why I even bother clarifying. If it wasn't for Collins, I would've stayed in the closet. I would've gone on to a D1 school and my life would be a hell of a lot different than it is now.
"How'd he even find out?"
I snort. Eli’s no stranger to me sharing my conquests, but this one's just dumb enough that I almost don't want to tell him.
"He saw me blowing some guy in a Pizza Hut parking lot," I mutter, taking a big gulp of water.
As predicted, Eli damn near cackles, slapping the table. Some of the guys closer to our end snicker, obviously having heard me. I flip them all off.
"Dude probably got off on watching you and felt weird about it," Eli says, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears from how hard he was laughing.
"Fuck off." I roll my eyes and punch him in the shoulder. "Not everybody likes dick."
"Amen, man. Amen."
His tone turns weirdly somber, and I look at him in the dim overhead lights. He looks guilty as shit.
"Don't tell me you're still fucking around with that straight boy," I plead, already knowing the answer.
He's had it bad for this one guy for as long as I've known him. Nothing's ever happened between them--at least as far as I know--and nothing ever will. Either the guy is painfully straight, or he's an idiot if he can't see Eli's interest.
Either way, Eli deserves better.
"I'm not fucking around with him," he says. "We're friends."
I open my mouth to fire back, but a sound like a stampede interrupts me. At least ten more guys pile through the doors. Most of our D line and a few others. A grin spreads across my face, because the linemen always know how to throw down in the Triathlon.
But that grin flees real fast when I see who's walking in with them.
Owen Collins.
That same anger from earlier starts to simmer deep inside me, and I immediately get to my feet, ignoring Eli's efforts to keep me at the table. Collins' dark green eyes lock onto mine as I stalk over to him.
"The hell are you doing here?" I ask.
"Calm your ass down, Vincent. I invited him."
Reggie, one of the biggest linebackers on the team, stares down at me like I've lost my mind.
"Is that a problem?" Collins asks, a challenge in his eyes as he looks at me.
One of us could back down here. It's a big enough place that we wouldn't have to see each other all night. But somehow Collins still knows how to slam down on my rage button with just a look, and his posturing leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
"Nope. No problem."
I hold his gaze for a moment, every muscle in my body tensing up before I walk away. I don't know what it is about this guy. What he did to me was shitty, but having an almost visceral reaction every time I see him is a little much.
"Y’all gotta stop that alpha posturing shit," Eli says as I sit back down.
"Can't help it."
The pizza is finally brought over, and I stuff my face with three slices before I even let myself glance down the table toward Collins. He's laughing with the D-line, looking right at home on my team.
That's what gets under my skin the most, I think. He doesn't care about what he did, and why should he? I heard his superstar dad got him a spot with the Panthers. Why he's here, I have no idea. Probably couldn't hack it and wanted to be tossed back into the small pond where he could run over people like me.
I've had to work damn hard for every scrap of playtime I got last season. Collins will probably get tossed into games just because he's a Heisman winner's son, not because of anything he did.
It boils my blood, and by the time I tear through my share of pizza, I'm ready to throw down over some arcade games. That restless energy is coiled up like a spring, and if I don't release it soon, I know I'm going to snap.
"All right," I call out over the noise of the restaurant, "anybody who wants a piece, put in your cash and grab your card."
I throw down a fiver and take one of the arcade cards from the pile in the center of the table. The usual crowd also tosses in their money: Brody, the QB; Russell, the safety; Allen, special teams; and a few other guys who lose to me almost every time we do this.
Down on the other end of the table, I can hear Reggie razzing somebody. My jaw clenches as I see Collins toss in five bucks.
Of course he has to be in on this.
As we head over to the arcade side of Tony's, some of the guys trailing behind, that part of me that's hungry to compete surges forward. If Collins is stupid enough to go up against me, I'll just go out of my way to humiliate him in every way I can.
"Rules are simple," I say for the benefit of the newbies. "Start at the hoops. Play through until time runs out. Move over to ski ball, use up all the balls. Last stop's the claw machine. You get three tries and that's it. Eli will tally up the score at the end, and the winner takes the pot. You cheat, your ass is out."
I shoot Collins a pointed look. He just glares back at me, his dark eyes intense. It'd probably be kind of hot if he was anybody else. A big, brawny guy staring me down like he wants to fuck me into submission is my kind of kink.
Damn. Where the hell did that come from?
I push the thought aside and get into position in front of one of the basketball stations. Eli gives the countdown, and the guys going first ready their cards to swipe.
Once it kicks off, I focus on the weight of the ball in my hand and tunnel vision my way to the hoop. My first shot bounces off the rim. The second hits the backboard but rattles in. The third is all net, though, hitting with that satisfying whoosh. After that, I get into a rhythm, popping jumpers one after the other, nailing the follow-through and watching the ball sail in every time.
Ski ball starts the same way. I end up overshooting the fifty and land in the ten, then the twenty. Eventually I manage to peg the twenty-five, but some excited whooping takes me out of the flow and I look down at the other lanes to see what's going on.
Collins is lining up shot after shot, tipping the smooth balls into the fifty like it's nothing. I stare at his point counter in disbelief, then grit my teeth and try harder.
By the time we move on to the claw machine, Collins is right next to me. And it's dumb as hell to glare daggers at somebody over a machine filled with stuffed bears, but I do. I wrench the joystick and slam down on the button, going for one of the toys that looks like it was jogged loose from the others. The claw drops down, gets around it, and then... stops.
It just stops, and I can hear the motor whirring uselessly.
"What the fuck?" I pound on the console, trying to dislodge it.
One glance at Collins makes me even more annoyed. He got one first try, but as his claw moves over to the prize drop, it stops, too.
Fucking karma right there.
"Seriously? How did you both break your shit?" Eli asks, giving Collins and I a look.
Okay, so maybe we slammed down a little too hard on the buttons. I look over at Collins and he actually seems a little ashamed. Of course he can feel bad over this, but not over outing a gay teen.
Asshole.
"We'll just use different machines," I say.
But
Eli shakes his head. "Nope. You know the rules. One machine per person."
Rules I established. Of course. And because of it, Brody is the one who wins the prize money, despite the fact that Collins and I both put up way more points on the other two machines.
It's bullshit, and it bothers me even more when Collins just pats Brody on the back and congratulates him like he’s been part of our squad for forever.
It shouldn't bother me. I know I'm acting like a spoiled brat. But I keep flashing back to being a scared kid; to having my world cave in around me. Knowing Collins was responsible for that, knowing he doesn't even care... it's not something I'm just going to get over.
As we finish up for the night and head back to the campus, I can't help but think this is going to come to a head sooner rather than later.
6
Owen
I like to consider myself a pretty laid back guy. People say I'm easy to get along with, and even easier to live with. I pick up after myself, I don't make a ton of noise, I don't snore, I don’t bring dates back to my place. I'm like the ideal college roommate.
But apparently all of those qualities aren't good enough for Nathan Vincent.
It'd be one thing if he was constantly glowering at me or trying to pick a fight, but most of the time he just avoids me completely. I know I should be glad for that--it's probably way more mature than him seeking me out and trying to start shit. But for some reason it feels like even more of a slight, and every time his ass doesn't wander in until after two in the morning, I just get more and more unhinged. Especially since we've got practice at the crack of dawn most days, and somehow he still manages to put up a good performance.
I may have the "famous" dad, but everything seems to come easy to Nate. He was always a better player than me, and I used to admire him for that. Hell, part of me still does. Watching him leap over a tackle to pluck a tight spiral out of the air is a thing of beauty.
But I just can't get over how much this guy hates me. Every time his eyes catch mine, his face turns red and he gives me this glare that could freeze the inside of a volcano. Then he turns into this psychotic big cat who's trying to provoke his prey into running before he pounces on it.
Unnecessary Roughness (ESC Mavericks Book 2) Page 3
