Matty raises his eyebrows. “I’m guessing your mock trial is set up a little differently but in football, your coach is your daddy, the Holy Trinity and the President of the United States all wrapped up into one foul-mouthed body. If he asks you to murder someone, you respond with ‘Should I use a knife or a gun?’”
“That sounds healthy,” I say sarcastically.
“It’s just the way it is,” he admits. “But he has us for four years, or in my case five since I redshirted, but for the time that we’re here, he owns us. We’re his chess pieces on the big green board.” Matty leans back against the cushion and stares at the ceiling. “I think that’s why college coaches suck as pro coaches. Here we do everything he says, but once you’re out and making money, he doesn’t have as much control.”
Matty tips his head and points his startlingly blue eyes directly at me. “I’m not going to lie to you. I sat in the back of that room when you delivered that closing thinking how you were the perfect person to deliver the message to Ace because you’re so amazing. If you came to me, with a passionate and reasoned argument like you delivered, I’d do just about anything. So yes, in all honesty, I did use you but not in the way you’re accusing me.”
I suck my lips into my mouth and mash them between my teeth. “I’m so confused. I don’t know what to think or do right now.”
“You don’t have to make any decisions, but I’d like a chance to prove myself to you.” His gaze doesn’t waver, and I can’t see anything but sincerity in his eyes.
“How?”
“I won’t bring up Ace again.” He shakes his head slowly. “I’ll be honest. I feel like I’m outkicking my coverage. Not only would I want you to be my lawyer, but I’m not sure I’m worthy of being your boyfriend.”
“Is that what you are?” I ask. My heart is telling me to believe. I’ve lived my whole life being careful. Do I want to be careful again? I think back to the agony I felt when I thought he’d betrayed me. Thought? As in past tense? Had I forgiven him? Was there anything to forgive? “My boyfriend?”
“Damn straight I am.” He squeezes me. “I’m buying a letterman’s jacket and you’re wearing it.”
I laugh against my will. Matty’s too good at finding the cracks in my armor—as if I even have armor against him. “They don’t have letterman jackets at Western.”
“It’s the internet age. I’m sure I can find some seller somewhere to whip me up one. We’ll have matching jackets. Mine can say ‘property of Lucy Watson’ and yours can say ‘property of Matty Iverson.’” He leans back again and looks off into the distance as if envisioning us in some weird Grease production wearing his version of promise rings. “I like that. You think you’d be open to getting a tattoo of my name on your ass?”
“No. No. And also no,” I reply firmly.
“Yeah, I thought that was a bridge too far. But I’m getting you that jacket and you’re wearing it and you’re going to like it.”
“I am, am I?”
“Yeah.” He looks down at me pensively, his grin fading away. “I’m really sorry for hurting you. This thing between you and…” He won’t say Ace’s name, and somehow his jealousy, no matter how wrong it is, soothes my battered pride. “It’s a tangle, but it doesn’t mean I don’t have genuine feelings for you or that we can’t be together.”
“When I saw my name and all of that stuff, I felt violated. I don’t want to feel that way again.”
“It was shitty. No excuses.”
“Don’t hurt me. Don’t make a fool of me.”
“I won’t. I’m not playing here. You’re not a game to me.”
I draw a shaky breath. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that until those words came out of his mouth.
He draws my stiff body against his and holds me there for a long time until I relax. He doesn’t make any move to take off my clothes or kiss me or try to use my attraction for him against me, and that goes further in soothing my hurt than even his words do.
“The Outland Trophy? Why not the National Championship?”
“Because the Outland Trophy’s an individual award. I can’t swear on a team achievement, Luce.”
Well, duh. I chuckle. He laughs, and it seems like we’ve weathered the storm.
27
Lucy
Matty convinces me to skip classes, which I rarely do, but I only have two today, and I’m über responsible every other day of the year. I’m wrecked emotionally from this morning and wouldn’t be able to pay attention anyway.
There are a few guys on defense I haven’t met before, and Matty introduces me around. Hammer tries out some web lists he’s working on after I tell him that “spa day” as a euphemism for sex doesn’t work.
“I’m working on an article about the top ten foods that look like dildos,” he says as he works the controller to launch a shot on goal. I block him easily. I played a lot of this with Ace when we were in middle school and junior high. I haven’t forgotten my skills.
“Ew, no. I’m not sticking a cucumber up my lady passage.” I dribble past him, break a few of his players’ ankles, and score.
“Sausage casing?”
“Gross.”
“Shit. How are you so good at this?” He looks over at Matty. “This isn’t fair. You bring a ringer into our house to stomp me?”