I TUG at my collar as I follow my brothers up the drive to the frat house. Every lamp in the house must be on because light is spilling out like a jack-o-lantern, and I swear I can feel the bass of the music under my feet. As Cooper puts his hand on the door handle, about to pull it open, I stop him. I take a deep breath as I continue to adjust my collar.
I’ve had a lot of teammates over the years. It’s important to start off on the right foot, especially with the leaders of each group of players. I met most of them through the minicamp earlier this month, but that was formal. Work. They all knew where I came from and what I’ve accomplished, so we put our heads down and got started on season prep. But a social situation like this? That matters more. They might follow my calls on the field because they want to play a good game of football, but for me to actually get to know them and earn their trust, we have to connect socially. I have to get to know each of them, both as individuals and in connection to the team. What are they studying? Who’s going to join me in the league next season and who has other post-graduation plans? Who’s a rookie, who’s coming off an injury, who has a partner I need to remember the name of? I know I can prove myself to them on the field, I’ve been doing that my entire life, but this is a make-or-break moment. I don’t do many parties during the season, so this is it.
And right now, I feel like an ass in my suit.
“We look like a couple of mafia dons,” I say. “Are you sure this is the theme?”
If I go in there in a black suit with a black silk button-down, the top buttons undone and my hair slicked back, and everyone else is in shorts and t-shirts, I will murder my brother. He even convinced me to wear the gold chain I usually only bring out for special occasions. The one consolation I have is that he looks just as ridiculous.
Coop runs his hand through his hair and hits me with a grin. I have no idea how he manages that shaggy mess. He uses his status as McKee’s star defenseman to get away with pretty much everything. “You look good, I promise. What’s more devilish than a bunch of hitmen for the mob?”
“He’s not lying,” Seb says as he adjusts the heavy watch on his wrist. That clunker looks straight out of the 80s. “It is themed, like every other party this frat throws. It’s mostly to get the girls to dress as skimpily as possible.”
Coop claps Seb on the back. “And I for one am ready for some eye candy. Can we go in? Or do you need another moment to angst?”
I stand up straighter. “No, let’s go.”
As the door swings open, I’m hit by a wall of sound. There are people everywhere—and fortunately everyone is dressed as stupidly as we are. Beer pong, a dance floor, strip poker, a bunch of couples making out, a threesome getting going in the corner… seems standard, as far as frat parties go.
A bunch of dudes who must be from the baseball team wave to Seb, who heads over to the beer pong match. A girl wearing the tiniest skirt I’ve ever seen makes eyes at Cooper, who is more than happy to follow her onto the dance floor. If I had to bet, she’s a puck bunny who came to this party hoping to hook up with him specifically. Which leaves me standing in the doorway, scanning for anyone I know from the football team.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles when I realize someone is staring.
Fuck, she’s pretty. An angel in white, complete with feathery wings and a golden halo. She’s leaning against the far wall, watching the mob of dancers, a red solo cup dangling from one delicate hand. Her hair, a strawberry-blonde, falls in waves around her face, framing big, dark eyes. Her heels make her legs look long and supple. I almost take a step forward, magnetized by the way she’s looking at me, but then I hear my name.
I turn to look for the source of the voice, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl shift and head for the dance floor.
“Callahan,” the voice says again. I recognize it now; it belongs to Bo Sanders, one of the offensive tackles and a fellow senior heading into the league come fall. He’s so tall he practically towers over the rest of the partygoers. Case in point: I’m 6 foot 2, and I have to look up to meet his eyes. I can’t wait until he’s fucking squashing the opponents’ defensive lines. With him in my corner, I’ll have days to make my passes.
When he reaches me, he presses a beer into my hand and claps me on the back. “Nice to see you, man.”
“Sanders,” I say, clapping him back. “Fuck, you’re rocking the suit better than half the boys here.”
He’s in a deep red suit, complete with a handkerchief folded into his pocket. The color looks great against his deep brown complexion.
“This is my pregame fit,” he says. “Primetime, baby.”
“Forget pregame, you look draft ready. Everyone else here?”
“We’re in the next room playing poker.”
I groan. “Not strip, I hope.”
“Like you have anything to worry about,” he practically shouts over his shoulder as I follow him through the crowd. The music is thrumming inside me, loosening me up.
I’d like to say I’m beyond noticing every look we get, but I’m not there yet. It comes with the territory, being the number one ranked college quarterback in the country, not to mention the fact I’m good-looking. Most everyone knows my face and my skillset. And the female attention isn’t something to complain about. As we squeeze by a large group, a girl sticks a scrap of paper with what must be her number on it into my waistband.
Tempting, but the bigger part of me wants to go back to the dance floor, find that little strawberry-blonde angel, and ask her for a dance.
“Callahan!” someone else practically roars as Sanders nudges me forward. I recognize most of the guys in the room, which sets me at ease. There’s our kicker Mike Jones, and Demarius Johnson, one of the best receivers in the college game. Darryl Lemieux, another key receiver in my weapon arsenal. Jackson Vetch, the rookie who will be my backup QB.
Not that I’m planning on giving him a minute of gametime. He can take over next year when I’m in the NFL.
I settle down next to Darryl on the couch. He’s part of the poker game, but he’s not paying attention; he’s grouching about his girlfriend. Or wait—ex-girlfriend?
“You can’t help if she doesn’t want to be with your ugly ass anymore,” Sanders says, which earns a laugh from the rest of the guys. I agree; what’s the point in pining over someone who doesn’t want you anymore?
But Darryl is my new teammate, which means I’m on his side.
“I’m sure she’ll come around and realize what she’s missing,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t even worry about it.” I take a long sip of beer, relishing in the crispness. Even if everyone else gets shitfaced, this is the one drink I’m allowing myself tonight.
“You know what?” Darryl says. “Fuck her. She’s no better than any of the other girls I’ve had.”
“Her tits are nice,” says Fletch, one of the D-men.
“She was stuck up,” Darryl declares. “Always so fucking busy. It’s like she left me no choice but to look elsewhere.”
I hide my displeasure behind another sip. I don’t want to rock the boat, being the new guy here, but assholes like him raise my hackles. Bo catches my eye and shakes his head slightly.
Okay, so there’s something deeper at play here. I take the cue to back off. “Anyone going to cut me in?”
Darryl grabs the deck of cards and shuffles them sloppily. “She’s a stubborn whore bitch, Fletch. You don’t want to fuck with that.”
Shit. We’re doing this.
“Hey,” I say. The edge of seriousness in my tone must be evident, because Fletch freezes halfway to reaching for his beer, and Demarius looks up from his phone. “I don’t know what things were like around here before me, but on my team, we respect women.”
Darryl opens his mouth. I put up my hand to stop whatever stupid shit he’s going to say next.
“Even if she’s your ex and you think she did you wrong.” I look him right in the eyes. “You got that?”
Darryl glances around the group, rolling his eyes. “Got what, exactly?”
“Need me to repeat myself?” I set my beer down, deliberately slow, and lean back in my seat. “You should know I don’t like saying the same thing twice.”
Darryl stands. His shoulders are set, his fair face flushed with anger. On the field, I’m going to have to watch to make sure our competitors don’t bait him with the wrong taunt. He’ll draw penalties with a temper like this. “You got something to say to me, you tell me to my face. Don’t tip-toe around, Callahan, it’s not cute.”
I stand too. Maybe it’s dumb, but I’m pleased I have at least two inches on the guy. I lean in close, until we’re almost touching. “Fine. Call a girl—any girl—a name like whore or bitch again, and I’ll fuck you up.”
He scoffs. “Like you’d fight me.”
“I won’t fight you.” I look around at our teammates, who are hanging on every word of this interaction like we’re WWE heavyweights in the spotlight. “But I won’t throw to you.”
The threat practically echoes around the room. Sure, I won’t punch him, even if he deserves it. But if I make him invisible on the field? That’s worse than being sidelined. Darryl knows it, I know it, and so does every guy in this room.
“Oh shit,” Demarius says. “He’s serious.”
“You can’t do that,” Darryl says. “I’m one of the best receivers on this team. You need me.”
“You think I can’t?” I tilt my head to the side. “Why do you think Coach recruited me? To be a good little soldier or to be a fucking leader?”
Darryl’s mouth snaps shut.
I glance around at the rest of the boys. “What do you think? Why am I spending senior year here?”
“To win us a fucking national championship,” Bo says.
“Yeah,” says Fletch. “National champs or bust.”
I snap my fingers as I point over to him. “Exactly. And if you want that, you play by my rules. You got that?”
My demand hangs in the air for a long moment. I can hear the music in the background, thumping the beat into the walls. This is the make-or-break moment. Not what I expected it to be, but here it is, and if I don’t get the boys on board now, this season is going to be hell.
Then Bo says, “Hell yeah,” and everyone else is nodding and voicing their assent. Someone claps my shoulder, but I don’t tear my gaze away from Darryl, who is looking very much like he wishes he could take a swing at me.
“Got it,” he says finally. He shoulders past me roughly, heading out of the room.
Christ, I feel bad for the girl that had the misfortune of dating him.
