“Brunch?” I ask. “I was thinking—”
“Yes, ten thirty, after your morning practice is over,” she says as if I hadn’t spoken. “At the Steak House. I like that place the best because they serve mango juice and I love mango juice.”
“Ten thirty,” I repeat like a dumbass. “For brunch.” What in the hell is she talking about?
“Yup. Here are your flips, sugar.”
She points to the floor. I shove my feet inside the sandals. Before I can voice another objection, the front door is open, and I find myself standing on the other side.
“See you at ten thirty.” She smiles brightly one more time and shuts my own door in my face.
2
Ace
I head to practice wondering what in the hell just happened. I’m not really meeting up for brunch with this chick, right? I mean, she didn’t even give me a chance to respond, so if I’m a no-show, she can’t really hold it against me.
Right?
Fuck. But if I don’t go, it might get back to my new teammates that I stood Bryant up. And, judging by the worshipful way they’d all treated her last night, I don’t think they’d like it if they found out I ditched the girl.
Plus, there are two things I’m good at: sex and football, and right now I need to concentrate on the latter.
By the time I reach the Fieldhouse, the Renegades’ football facility, I decide that I’ll go to brunch, tell her to leave me the hell alone, then go back to studying the playbook. My teammates hate me now, but once I start winning, all that animosity will fade away. Locker rooms have no conflict when you’re winning.
The facility reminds me of pictures I once saw of a gentlemen’s club in a GQ magazine. It’s all dark wood and leather with the accents of crimson and gold. It’s as state of the art as the facility up in Western State, requiring a key card to get in and featuring more than one security guard walking the polished tiles in the corridors.
I nod at a tall guard wearing a black uniform with a crimson horse insignia over the chest, and make my way toward the locker room. When I stride in, most of the guys are already inside, changing out of their street clothes and shooting the shit by the leather-padded lockers. Mornings are for weight training, meetings with your position coaches, and, for those unlucky bastards who are banged up, visits to the medical staff.
“You’re late,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn to find Ty Masters looming over me. For a moment, I’m disoriented. Ty is a carbon copy of his brother Knox, who I played with back at Western. The same massive physique, dark hair, and intense green eyes. I’d never be able to tell them apart in a line-up. The only reason I know it’s Ty standing in front of me right now is because Knox is currently kicking off his rookie season in New York for the Cobras.
I fish my phone out of my back pocket and discover that I’m right on time. “It’s six twenty-five,” I answer, a furrow in my brow. “Practice starts at six thirty, no?”
“If you’re not early, then you’re late.”
Right. I’m still not used to the idea that if the schedule says eight, I’m supposed to be here ten minutes to. If you wanted me here ten minutes before the hour, then put it on the fucking schedule. As it is, I have five minutes and that’s plenty of time for me to throw on my weightlifting gear, which consists of gym shorts, a tank, and a pair of tennis shoes.
Ty strides off toward his own locker, high-fiving one player, joking with another. Everyone here looks up to him. If I was smart, I’d spend my days kissing his ass, but that’s not ever going to happen. See, I’ve got something Ty doesn’t.
Like his brother, Ty plays defensive end. He’s definitely good enough to play for the pros, has won a boatload of college awards, but the most prized one of all eludes him—a national championship title. And out of all the yahoos in this room, only one person has won that all-important game. Me. I’ve done it twice.
Which means I’m not bowing and scraping to anyone here. I might not be a first-round draft pick, but I’m a winner. At least for now.
I doubt I’ll enter the draft. Even if I did, I probably wouldn’t be drafted in the top rounds—there are better college QBs out there than yours truly. Not that I care. Okay. Maybe I do care. A little. I mean, it’d be sick to play football at a professional level, but everyone knows I’m not good enough.
I fucking hate not being good enough.
“Yo, QB,” someone shouts from across the room.
I finish pulling my tank over my head before turning to see who called me. It’s Travarius Daly, one of our star cornerbacks. Definitely pro material. Southern churns out NFL-ready players like a little football player factory.
“Yeah?” I call back warily.
“Heard you went home with Bryant last night,” Daly says, wandering over. He flicks an elastic band off his wrist and starts tying his thick mass of dreadlocks into a low ponytail.
“Yeah, I did.”
“And?” He watches me expectantly.
I stiffen. Is he expecting locker room talk? Does he want to know how tight her pussy is? If she gives good head? If I fucked her in the ass? At my old college, I probably would’ve given him a detailed account of the fucking, but, at my old school, I was a Grade-A asshole. I didn’t give a shit about etiquette. Hell, I didn’t give a shit about anyone around me. That’s why they ran me out.
This year, my senior year, I’m trying to be…better, I guess? I’m still an asshole, and I still don’t give a shit about many people, but I’m not falling into old habits. Or, at least, I’m trying not to. Besides, I have no doubt that sharing details about how I plowed Bryant last night would only confirm Ty’s low opinion of me. Through his brother, Ty knows all about my past bad behavior.