“Stop trying to change your steps.”
Zeke’s voice was firm, but level, the way that of a wise old grandfather might be.
And still, it pissed me off.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You just did four medium steps again when you usually do two big steps.”
“I’m still lined up in the same spot.”
“No, you’re not. You’re overstretching your stride.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m tired. We should call it.”
“You going to call it during a game?”
I pinned him with a homicidal scowl that answered for me, but Zeke just smirked, cocking a brow.
“Get mad at me all you want. You’ll be mad when it’s game time, too. But you’re trying to make changes where none need to be made.”
“The results of Saturday’s game would beg to differ.”
He walked over, planting a hand on my shoulder and leveling his gaze with mine. “Your brain is on fire with anxiety right now, okay? And you have to fight not to listen to it.”
I loosened a sigh, knowing he was right even though I’d never admit it out loud.
“Again, you tie your worthiness to outcome instead of input. When you’re doing well, you feel great. When you mess up, you feel like shit. Therefore, when you had a bad game, your brain went into you’re a failure mode. Now, it’s trying to get you to fix what’s not even broken, because it wasn’t your set up or your steps that missed those kicks.” He tapped my temple. “It was your mental block.”
“But maybe if I—”
“If you start changing what has worked for you for years, you’re only going to end up more frustrated because it’s going to feel like nothing you try works. Consistency. Persistence.” He waited until I looked him in the eye again. “Execution.”
He raised his brows with a little nod, waiting until I returned it so he knew I understood. Then, he squeezed my shoulder and stepped back, jogging over out of the way to let me try again.
I thought I was going to regret it, making a deal with the devil that was Zeke Collins. But when we walked into practice on Monday after that loss and I felt that insurmountable pressure and guilt surrounding me from every angle, I knew whether I wanted to admit it or not that I needed help.
I was in my head, and as a Division One college athlete, that wasn’t a safe place to be.
I’d had my most mediocre week at practice so far, a mixture of good and bad drills, good and bad kicks, even good and bad reps in the weight room. It seemed no matter how I tried to shake off the loss, it was stuck to me like a piece of gum in the crevice of a sneaker.
But Zeke worked with me every day after practice, and the more he helped me, the more I felt that guilt chipping away and making way for the steadiness that once existed below.
My fingers wiggled at my side as I lined my foot up with the ball, taking two giant steps back and two over to my left, just like I always had. Another long inhale and slow exhale, and then I skipped forward, a one-two jog step before my foot connected with the ball.
It sailed right down the middle of the posts.
“Good,” Zeke said. “Again.”
He lined up another ball, and I repeated, getting the exact same result.
“Fantastic. Again.”
I did it again, and this time…
Doink.
The ball hit the yellow post and bounced off.
Before my shoulders could sag or a curse word could fly off my lips, Zeke jogged over and put another football down.
“Great job. Kick was solid, placement was locked in. Try again.”
I frowned, but didn’t have time to argue with his assessment before he was snapping his fingers for me to kick again. I lined up, took a breath, and repeated the same motion.
It was good.
“I think that’s where we call it,” Zeke said, holding on to the final ball we had left to work with before we’d have to retrieve the ones I’d kicked.
He walked over to me tossing it between his hands as I hung mine on my hips to catch my breath.
“This is where the difference is made — input versus output-based success. Sometimes, you do everything right and the result isn’t what you want. But, if you keep doing all the right things instead of letting one bad result make you question everything, that’s where the consistency comes in. And,” he added with a wink. “It doesn’t leave room for you to beat yourself up the way I know you love to do.”
I gave a guilty smile, shaking my head with my eyes washing over the posts. “I’ve got to perform better this game.”
“Let’s rephrase that.”
I frowned, facing him again.
“How about… ‘I’m going to give every kick my full attention this game.’”
I sat with those words a minute, with how they sounded as opposed to what I’d said. “I’m going to give every kick my full attention this game,” I repeated.
“And I’m going to focus on each step of the kick.”
“And I’m going to focus on each step of the kick.”
Already, my chest felt lighter, and I shook my head in awe as I folded my arms over my chest and looked at Zeke like I didn’t know him at all.
“Since when did you get this smart?”
The second the words slipped, I remembered our conversation in the library, and I shook my head, moving toward him with my hands out.
“That’s not what I meant. I just… how did you become so knowledgeable in this. I mean, it all seems common sense, but I never thought of it that way. And when you put it like that, it… clicks.”
Zeke smiled, tossing the ball between his hands still. His cut-off shirt was stuck to his damp chest, every centimeter of his biceps rippling with the movement. “I went through my own version of the yips in high school, and I knew if I wanted to go pro one day, I needed to figure out how to handle the mental aspect — and fast. Coach Ziegler helped me.”
I smiled with him at the thought of our old coach, at where it had all begun for me.
“Well, thanks for passing on the knowledge.”
Zeke lifted a brow. “Ah, hold off on the gratitude until you have to put up with my salty ass doing our homework later tonight.”
We jogged down to retrieve the balls I’d kicked, situating them in the large football-storage duffel bag we’d borrowed from the closet before we headed for the locker room.
“I know I asked you this in the library, and feel free to have the same response if you want to but… do you feel like maybe you’ve been a little more stressed out than usual?” Zeke asked as we walked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”
“You don’t think maybe you’re a little homesick, or feel off-kilter in a new place or anything?”
“I felt some of that during the summer, but now? I think I’ve just been so focused on football I haven’t had time to feel much else.”
Zeke stopped, and I did, too, facing him as he chewed his cheek.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing, it’s just… you’re a little tense in your reps. And you pop off at anyone who so much as looks at you wrong.”
“If I were a guy, you’d admire me for that.”
He chuckled. “I’m just saying… maybe focusing on football as much as you are is weighing on you. When we were in high school, you had your friends outside of football, and your family, and your room filled with all the things you love. You went to museums on the weekends, hung out with Gavin more… dated.”
My cheeks heated. “Not much.”
“You and Peter Garrett were pretty serious for a while.”
I rolled my eyes. “Peter Garrett took my virginity and taught me all the things I don’t want a guy to do to me in bed. That’s about the only purpose he served.”
Zeke’s eyebrows shot up at that, and my cheeks flamed more before I cleared my throat and waved him off.
“Anyway. I’m fine. The average amount of stress any college athlete has — that’s what I have.”
“Well, maybe you should think of ways to take the edge off. We put a lot on our bodies and our minds. It might help to…”
He paused, mouth still open like he was muted mid-sentence before he clamped it shut.
“To what?”
Zeke looked around before stepping closer, his voice low enough that I felt it rumble when he said, “Find a release.”
I frowned, shaking my head as I looked up at him. “Could you be any more va—”
The word was cut short when I saw the mischievous gleam in his eyes, the salacious curl of his mouth.
And at that, mine popped open.
I shoved him back. “Are you seriously telling me I need to… to…” I looked around, making sure we were alone before lowering my own voice to a whisper. “Have sex to get my game back?!”
Zeke shrugged on a laugh. “Not necessarily. Just… take the edge off. You know… with a friend or…” His eyes slipped to where my hand was curled into a fist at my side. “With yourself.”
My jaw dropped, and I shoved him again before stomping off toward the locker room with my neck a thousand degrees hotter than the cool fall weather rolling over campus.
“You’re a pig, Zeke Collins.”
He just laughed and let me go, and by the time he checked the footballs back in and made it to the locker room, I was on my way out and headed to the dorm.
But as I walked across campus, I couldn’t think about anything other than what he’d said.
And I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he was on to something.
Zeke
The night before our away game at New Hampshire University, Coach sent us to our dorms early and told us to get a good night’s rest. We’d be meeting at the stadium bright and early to load the buses, and he expected all of us to be on time.
So, of course, Ramirez, Sanders and I went out to the bar.
Leo was trying to hook up with one of the cheerleaders, and Clay wanted to have a beer, and I just wanted to unwind a little. We all knew we couldn’t be out too late, otherwise we’d be paying for it tomorrow — both on the field and off it if Coach caught on.
And as much as we liked to party, we loved football more.
So, we decided before heading out that we’d make it an early night. I was just happy to have a night of rest after another grueling week.
“So, you really think it’s serious, huh?” I asked Clay, taking a sip of my drink. Leo was already making out with Mindy in the corner, and Clay was in the middle of telling me how amazing his girlfriend was.
“Yeah, man. I really do. I could see us getting married.”
My brows shot up at that. “Whoa. That’s serious talk for a nineteen-year-old.”
He shrugged. “She’s the real deal. She’s the kind who sticks by your side through the ups and downs, you know. The one you take pro with you.”
I smiled, but couldn’t help the suspicion that washed over me. I’d met Clay’s girlfriend, and even though it was only once, and it was just a small get together after our first home game, I didn’t get that vibe from her.
Maybe it was the way she was watching every other football player at the party, or the way she subtly shifted away from Clay when he reached for her, but something told me she had other things on her mind than marriage.
Still, it wasn’t my business, and I didn’t know her enough to say shit about her. For all I knew, she could have just been having an off night. She could be the best girl in the world and they could be the future all-American couple.
“I’m happy for you, man,” I said, holding up my Sprite for him to cheers. I even had the bartender put a lime in it to make it look a little more like a cocktail. Sometimes I longed for a beer, or a mixed drink, but not enough to make me forget every reason why I always chose to stay sober now.
“Thanks.” We clinked glasses, Clay chugging a big gulp before he swallowed and spoke. “What about you? Going to tell Novo you love her by the end of the season or what?”
I nearly spit out my soda, but it got lodged in my throat when Leo clapped his hand hard on my back and interrupted the conversation.
“Well, fam, I hate to cut this short, but we better get some sleep or Coach will have our asses tomorrow.”
I was still coughing as Clay nodded, signaling to the bartender for our tab. He then used that same finger to wipe a smudge of pink lipstick off Leo’s face, which made Leo grin.
We paid quickly and headed across campus, talking about football and not about Riley, Thank God.
Still, Clay gave me a knowing smile when we got back to the dorms. “Goodnight. Tell your roomie I said hey.”
He smirked even more at the word roomie, ducking inside his own door before I could nip that joke in the bud. I’d just barely gotten Riley to talk to me. The last thing I needed was her to hear there were any sort of actual rumors about us being together.
Our dorm was at the end of the hall, and when I unlocked the door and pushed inside, I was met with the sound of singing muffled only slightly by the downpour of the shower.
I paused, holding still to see if she’d heard me. But as she belted out the second verse of “Could’ve Been” by H.E.R., I knew she hadn’t.
I bit back a smile, closing the door behind me as quietly as I could before tiptoeing over to the double sink vanity that was right outside the bathroom door. The toilet and shower were separated by a thick door, but the walls were so damn thin, I could hear the water slapping on the tile floor of the shower in-between the words she sang.
Damn, she actually has a pretty decent voice.
I smirked, leaning a hip against the sink and crossing my arms as I listened. I planned to stay right there in that place until she came out, just to see the priceless look on her face when she realized I heard her getting all soulful with her R&B.
But after a while, her voice got quieter and quieter, the words turning into a soft hum. I was just about ready to give up and go play video games when something… changed.
Her hums died altogether, and it was as if she was standing completely still in the shower, the water making the same sound repeatedly instead of a chaotic rhythm like it did when she was washing herself.
I frowned, wondering if maybe she’d heard me or something when suddenly…
A moan.
It was soft, delicate, almost like a gasp more than anything, but it struck me like a rod of lightning, my spine going stiff.
Along with another part of me as another moan followed behind it.
The water pattern started to change, and there was a soft thunk before I heard her hiss, a little whimper sneaking out next.
Fucking hell…
She’s touching herself.
I swallowed, and though I knew damn well what I should have done was high-tail it to my bedroom and turn up music or the TV as loud as I could so I wouldn’t hear her — and so she would know she wasn’t alone — I didn’t.
I only crept closer, my heart thundering in my ears as I pressed my back against the door and strained to hear more.
“Oh…” She sighed, her breaths heavy and shallow between the song of water spilling onto the tile. “Ha… oh… yes.”
I stifled a curse, my cock throbbing at the sound like a fucking monster coming to life at her command. I ran my hand over my face, trying to make my feet move me away from the door, but they stayed rooted.
And then, my hand traveled down, diving under the band of my shorts and my briefs at the same time to grab my aching cock.
The groan I released was muffled by another of Riley’s, hers more high-pitched and so fucking sweet that I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, imagining what was happening on the other side of that door.
I imagined the hot water, steaming and turning her tan skin bright red as it crested over every naked inch of her. I imagined the slight swell of her breasts, the lean, toned muscles of her abdomen flexing with every pant as her fingers worked between her legs.
Fuck.
Her breathing intensified, moans more untamed as she worked toward her release. And after only witnessing her poised and focused and tuned into football, it was so fucking sexy to hear her untamed.
I stroked my cock in time with the wild sounds escaping that shower, imagined bursting through the door and catching her surprised gasp with my mouth on hers. I squeezed my eyes shut more, imagining what she’d taste like, what her ass would feel like in my hands as I hoisted her up and pinned her against the slick wall, how her pussy would open for me as I flexed inside…
“Oh, God… oh… ffffuu—”
Her curse was cut off by erratic pants and moans as she found her release, and I stroked faster, right on the brink of toppling over the edge with her.
When suddenly, the faucet cut off, the silence of it snapping me back to reality as my eyes shot open wide.
The sound of the shower curtain flying open was the only warning I had to put my dick back in my shorts. I tucked the tender tip of it under the waist band, hoping that along with my baggy t-shirt would hide my erection as I quietly slipped away from the door and over to the sink, my heart still hammering loud and unsteady.
I’d just turned the faucet on and started washing my hands when the door swung open, and there Riley stood wrapped in a white towel, her collarbone and shoulders and arms glistening, her cheeks flushed, hair sopping wet where it fell down her back. Her eyes went wide with shock at the sight of me, and she stood like a statue in the doorway.
I caught the glimpse of her in the mirror, but somehow managed to pull my eyes down to where I was washing my hands before she noticed.
“How long have you been here?”
I arched a brow at her as I turned the faucet off and reached for the hand towel, leaning my hip against the sink like I had been before. “Just got back from the bar.”
And I couldn’t help it.
I smirked, letting that brow climb even higher as I asked, “Why?”
“No reason,” she answered quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear even though it was already there. “I just… I… uh…” She wet her lips, forcing a smile and meeting my eyes only a brief second before she was staring at my knees again. “I was going to go study. You should come.”
Liar, I wanted to say.
I wondered what she’d do if I did, if I stepped right up to her heaving chest, peeled that towel open and let it fall to the floor and asked her if she was sated or if she wanted more.
I sniffed instead, pushing off the sink and hoping like hell my erection was contained enough that she didn’t see it. “We have a game tomorrow.”
She swallowed. “Yes. But we also have a test next week — me in Art History, you in Psych. We can hit the library for an hour and still get a good night’s sleep.”
The thought of that library killed my boner, which I was oddly thankful for as I blew out a breath on a smile. “Whatever you say, Mouse. I’m yours to torture.”
She glared at me. “Don’t call me that.” Then, she squeezed past me and into her room, shutting the door before she called. “We leave in ten.”
Ten minutes.
I let out a breath of my own, thinking that was just enough time to work off my own frustrations before we went.
