Our poor new QB1 looked like he was ready to shit himself.
The sun beating down on us only made Blake Russo sweat harder as he looked around at the team waiting for him to tell them what to do. It’d been another long summer day for all of us — a two-hour workout in the morning consisting of weightlifting and conditioning that made us all want to vomit, followed by classes. And now, those of us who wanted more torture were on the field for player-led skills and drills.
Except, typically, it was the quarterback who led us.
Holden wore leadership like it had been infused into his DNA at birth. Blake, who was stepping in to take his place this season after impressing all of us when Holden was injured last year, was getting there. He was working on it.
He just didn’t quite have the same demanding severity that our old Captain did.
I grabbed a water bottle and squeezed it over my head, cursing at the bite of the cold but loving it all the same. Riley grabbed it out of my hand next and did the same, shaking the water off her hair as she looked from me to Blake across the field.
“Think we stand a chance this season?”
“What kind of thinking is that, Mighty Mouse?” Zeke asked, smacking her ass from behind as he joined us. She swatted him away.
“I’m just being realistic. We’re a championship team with a target on our back now,” she said.
“And he’s not Holden,” Clay finished her thought, folding his arms over his chest. We stood there just like that in a line of cautious stares aimed across the field at our new quarterback.
“He kicked ass last season,” I reminded them. “If it weren’t for him stepping in when Holden was injured, we wouldn’t have even made the championship bowl game — let alone won it.”
My teammates made various faces that said fair point.
For a moment, I watched them with an uncomfortable nostalgia swimming in my gut. We’d all walked onto the team as freshmen together and had been through so much the last three seasons, I knew we had the kind of friendship that was forged in fire.
I could still remember when Riley walked into our locker room that first day of fall camp like she had something to prove — and she did. I remembered her slowly gaining our trust, kicking Kyle’s ass in a game of five hundred that would go down in our team’s history, and finally giving in to her feelings for Zeke.
Zeke, who had the highest returning yards of any special teams punt returner in the last season. On top of that, I’d watched him go from a kid who struggled so much in school that he just wanted to give up on it completely, to one who tutored the freshmen we had now who were in the same position he once was.
Clay had always been a beast on the field, and he’d had that same easy ability to lead just like Holden. But in the past year, he’d dedicated himself to weights and conditioning, to his diet, and he now had the build of an NFL player. He didn’t look like a kid anymore, like a college athlete. He looked like a pro. And I knew by this time next year, he would be — just like Holden.
My thoughts drifted to Coach Lee, to the look on his face when he showed me that stupid fucking article.
When he thought of us, of our crew, where did he place me? Did he see my growth, my potential?
Or did he only see wasted talent?
“I think he just needs a little support,” Clay said, and he clapped Zeke on the shoulder, stepping forward like he was about to jog over to where Blake stood with the team.
“Wait,” I said.
He turned, his eyes meeting mine along with the rest of them.
“I got this.”
Clay and Zeke exchanged looks before Clay waved his hand over the field as if to say after you.
I nodded, jogging over to where Blake stood. I nudged his arm when I reached him. “You good, Cap?”
Blake tried to smile but it fell flat. “I’m not captain yet.”
“And you won’t be if you keep acting like you don’t belong in that QB1 spot.”
“Maybe I don’t,” he said, his eyes snapping to mine. He was shorter than Holden, softer somehow — and yet, I had seen what he could do, what he was capable of when he turned his brain off. “Coach brought in a freshman QB, remember? Maybe he’ll be the one out here once fall camp starts.”
“Is that what you want?”
He hit me with a look that said what do you think?
“Stop acting like he’s already here, like he’s already better than you. You haven’t even seen him play. Besides, you are the veteran,” I reminded him, pointing my index finger into his chest. “You are the one who led us to a winning season last year. That kid might have talent, but he doesn’t have anything on what you have.”
“Which is?”
“La experiencia,” I answered easily. “Experience. Skill. And a whole team who has your back.”
Blake nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You’re right.”
“Aren’t I always?”
He laughed at that, and I clapped him on the back before turning my attention to where the team had been resting and waiting for direction.
“Alright, fam. You know the drill. You’re here because you want to get better, because you don’t want to waste a single second of this summer while our opponents are out there training for their number one goal — to beat us. They want to see us lose. They want to see us tuck our tails and limp back out of the spotlight where they liked us. But is that what we’re going to do?”
“Hell no!” Clay said from the back, and the rest of the team shot out various agreements.
“Hell fucking no,” I echoed. “No one is here to hold our hands. Coach can’t work with us over the summer except to direct our strength and conditioning staff to get us into shape. But we all came here to work together, and we know what to do.” I grabbed a ball off the field and shoved it into Blake’s hands. “Blake will take offense. Clay, get your defensive players on the backfield. Zeke and Riley, work with special teams and the kicking unit. And if you’re training and you think of something we need to work on, speak up,” I said to the rest of the team. “I don’t care what year you are or what experience you have. In fact, usually, you see more when you’re on the sidelines. So let’s work together. Let’s get better together.”
Clay barked deep and loud like a dog, and the rest of the team beat their chests and nodded and bounced up and down like they were ready to kill.
“Hands in,” Zeke called, and everyone piled their hands one on top of the other. “Family on three. One, two—”
“Family!”
As soon as the word was chanted, the team broke out into the various parts of the field, ready to work.
Blake grabbed my shoulder, squeezing with an appreciative smile. “Thank you,” he said, and then he leaned in a bit closer. “Keep acting like that, and it’s going to be you wearing the Captain badge on your jersey this year.”
I shrugged him off with a joke before we jogged side by side over to work offense together.
But in the back of my mind, a new goal bloomed.
One I would pursue relentlessly.
I was in just as much disbelief as the rest of the team when I turned down the offer to go out after we wrapped practice. They swore it was just to grab pizza and a couple beers, but I knew how quickly that could turn into being out all night long and dragging ass into conditioning in the morning.
For the first time maybe ever, I didn’t want to.
I was tired, and sore, and smelly as hell. I knew I could have a girl in my bed by the end of the night if I went with them, that I could take out some of my pent-up frustration and have a little fun. But it wasn’t just the article and Coach’s words in my ears that stopped me.
I felt focused on football, on my classes, and now — on leading our team.
So, I did what Holden would do. I listened to that smart voice inside my head that said go home, get some rest. And I didn’t feel like I was missing out. In fact, I was relieved.
All I wanted was a shower, sweatpants, tostones, and a night to unwind before I woke up at five thirty tomorrow morning to do it all again.
The house was quiet when I threw my bag onto the bay window. I did a double take, though, because for once, I wasn’t adding it to an already-steeping pile of shit. Instead, it was empty — and there was a new, thick, navy-blue cushion with a stack of books in the windowsill. One glance at that book stack let me know they had to be from Giana’s collection, and I smirked, wondering if Mary read them, too.
With that smile still in place, I lugged my bag back onto my shoulder and hiked it up to my room, instead.
I could have stayed in the shower for hours, letting that hot water massage my sore shoulders and back. After a while, I ran it cold, knowing that was likely what my body needed more than heat, anyway. Then, I toweled off and tugged on my NBU sweatpants, hair still a little wet as I padded down the stairs.
I flicked on the television as I passed through the living room, turning on ESPN before I swung into the kitchen and pulled out all the ingredients I needed: plantains, garlic, vegetable oil, olive oil, salt, tomato, parsley, and freshly cracked pepper.
Baseball highlights played loud enough for me to hear as I peeled and sliced the plantains, but once I did, my mind floated away from the present and into the memory of making tostones with my mom. She had me standing on a stool next to her in the kitchen and learning her recipe before I even played football — which was saying something, since Dad had me in pads at the age of six.
The sound of the oil popping when I dropped the first plantains in made me smile, my stomach growling as I got out a bowl to mix the dipping sauce. I was so focused on the recipe that I didn’t hear Mary walk down the stairs, didn’t notice her at all until she was leaning through the window that separated the kitchen from the living room, her eyes closing on an inhale.
“Holy fuck, it smells good in here.”
“Careful — don’t get popped by the oil,” I warned.
“Yes, Daddy,” she teased, sliding onto the barstool on the other side of the window and resting her arms on the ledge. I had to contain my smirk and the way I fucking loved when she called me daddy — even if it was a joke.
I wondered what it would be like if it wasn’t, if I had her pinned beneath me and obeying my every command to get the relief she so desperately wanted.
My cock twitched at the thought, and I pressed my waist against the kitchen counter to hide it as I focused on the sauce.
“What are you making?” she asked.
“Tostones.”
She sighed reverently, her chin balanced on the palm of her hand as she looked longingly at the saucepan. “Really makes the bologna sandwich I was about to make seem like dog food in comparison.”
I chuckled. “You can have some, I’m making enough to feed a football team.”
I peeked up at her just in time to see her face fall, and she plopped a notebook down on the counter in front of her, opening it to a blank page and popping the lid off the graphite pencil in her hand. “No, it’s okay. I don’t want to eat your food.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Because I didn’t pay for it.”
“So?” I shook my head on a smile. “Stop being weird and just say thank you.”
I thought I saw her smile, but her eyes were so laced with concern when she looked at me again that it was hard to say. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. Besides, tostones are meant to be shared. My mom would smack me upside the head if I kept them all to myself.”
I finished stirring up the garlic dip and set it aside, still watching Mary curiously. I could only see the oversized t-shirt she wore, and her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head as her hand started moving over the page, a charcoal gray filling in the white.
I wondered if she was wearing those tiny fucking boy shorts again, if I was going to have to sit on my hands to keep from tracing the dark ink that lined her thighs.
It had been enough to make me want to burn my eyes out, seeing her walk around without a bra and barely anything covering her ass over the last week. Not because the sight was one I didn’t want to see, but because it was driving me absolutely insane to see her like that and not be able to touch her.
She was our fucking roommate.
She trusted us to make her feel safe and comfortable, not to ogle her when she was in her own home. I’d smacked Kyle more than a few times this week and reminded him just the same, but he pinned me with a glare that told me I didn’t have room to talk with how my eyes followed Mary every time she passed by us with her nipple piercings pressing against the fabric of her thin tops.
The fact that she seemed slightly less annoyed by me now only made me want to press my luck, to sling one of my cheesy lines at her but with a little more intent. I wanted to make her laugh without rolling her eyes.
Almost as much as I wanted to see what she looked like when she came.
I scrubbed my jaw with an angry hand before pressing my hips even more into the counter before an erection could spring. “Can I ask you something?”
Mary didn’t bother looking up from her sketch. “Hmm?”
“What’s the story with your family?”
She blinked at that, the pencil falling limp in her fingers as she looked up at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, when all this happened with the house,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the direction her house was. “You didn’t have anyone to call. Or if you did, you didn’t want to.”
“That’s kind of a rude question,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I’m an asshole, remember?”
“Or so you want the world to think.”
Her words weren’t sharp, but they hit me like a dart all the same. I didn’t want to analyze how it felt that Mary possibly saw past the cocksure attitude to the real me.
She sighed. “I could have called my parents, but to do so would mean submitting myself to long, tear-filled lectures from my mom about how I’m wasting my life and good fortune.”
I was still a bit shaken by her previous comment, but I blinked it away. “Why would she say that?”
“Because I’m pursuing a career as a tattoo artist instead of an acquisitions manager like my dad and older brother.”
I let out a low whistle, pulling the plantains from the oil to work on flattening them with the tostonera my mom gave me when she moved me to NBU my freshman year. She considered it an essential. I didn’t disagree.
“So you’re rich rich, huh?”
“My parents are,” she corrected.
“Does your dad feel the same way?”
“Kind of?” she answered with a sigh. Her sketch was taking shape now — two faces facing opposite directions but connected by the dark lines that made them. “He isn’t as vocal as my mom, and I think he wants to try to support me. But I also think he secretly hopes it’s a phase I’ll grow out of.”
I nodded. “That must be hard.”
She paused over the nose of one of the faces, glancing up at me. “I could say the same for you.”
“Me?”
Mary nodded. “I’m sure you feel pressure from your dad to follow in his footsteps, too.”
“How do you know about my dad?”
Her mouth parted like I’d caught her red-handed in a burglary, but then she waved her hand over the page. “Come on, everyone knows Nick Parkinson.”
“Everyone who follows football, yeah,” I said, placing the plantains back in the oil to fry once they were flattened. “I just didn’t peg you for one of those people.”
She wrinkled her nose, focused on her drawing again. “I’m not, trust me. I hate football.”
“That’s just because you haven’t played.”
Mary cocked a brow at me.
“When these are done, I’ll show you,” I said, nodding to the pan.
She just shrugged, watching where her fingers sketched.
“I love football so much that it doesn’t feel like pressure, really,” I said after a moment. “It did when I was younger, but now, I feel like I have my own path.”
“What changed?”
“I came to NBU instead of going to his alma mater in Alabama.”
Mary paused at that, silence washing over us.
“You didn’t want to go where he went?”
“No,” I said with a heavy breath. “But I also didn’t want to disappoint him. He loved his school, but I grew up here in Boston. We had Southern Alabama on the TV every Saturday when I was at his house, but Mom took me to my first college game, and it was NBU. It was one of those perfect fall days, you know? Cloudy and gray, cool with a breeze that rustled the leaves. I fell in love.” I shrugged. “I just didn’t know how to tell my dad that.”
“What finally gave you the courage?”
My chest nearly caved in on itself. “Wise words from a friend,” I said, almost whispering.
I dropped the conversation there, shaking off the memory as I plated the tostones for each of us, along with a side of the garlic sauce. I carried them into the living room, and Mary abandoned her sketchbook, plopping down next to me on the couch.
She was wearing leggings, thank the fucking Lord.
“De la panza sale la danza,” I said, setting up the feast on the coffee table.
Mary tilted her head. “Did you just curse me out?”
“No.” I chuckled. “It’s just something my mom would say before we ate sometimes. From the stomach comes the dance. It basically means eat up to grow strong, or like…” I considered how to translate it. “You gotta eat well to live well.”
“That explains why I’m a terrible dancer,” Mary mused with a smile. “All the Easy Mac I’ve been eating.”
“Still hot,” I warned as she picked up a golden morsel, but she didn’t seem to care as she skipped the sauce altogether and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes rolled back, a deep moan coming from her that made me grab a pillow and pull it into my lap. I pretended it was to use it as a table for my plate.
“Good, huh?” I teased.
“Sofuckinggood,” she said around a mouthful.
“Try the sauce.”
She did, and that damn moan broke through again.
“Your mom taught you how to make these?” she asked.
I nodded.
“She’s an angel. Please thank her from this starving artist.” She dipped another plantain before looking at me. “And thank you, too.”
I crooked a smile. “Anytime.”
I could have watched her all night with that happy glow on her face as she ate my cooking, but I had a mission.
“Alright,” I said, wiping my hands on my pants before I switched the TV over to Xbox and cued up Madden. “Eat up, and then I’m going to make you love football.”
