PRACTICE IS long over and I’m throwing on fresh clothes after taking a quick shower when our head coach makes his way over to my locker.
“Maguire, a word?”
I’m about to answer when he turns and walks away, fully expecting me to follow after him.
The locker room goes quiet, everyone sharing curious looks as I shove the rest of my stuff in my backpack before slamming my locker door shut. I make my way to his office, where he left the door open for me, then requests I close it when I’m about to walk inside.
I do as he asks, settling into the chair across from him, trying to ignore the way my stomach churns with nerves. Doesn’t help that Coach Mattson just stares at me, his gaze steady. Intense. Like he wants to freak me out.
Well, he’s doing a damn good job of it.
“Looking good out there today.”
That’s all he says.
“Thank you.”
“How’s the knee?”
Hurts like a bitch, but I don’t want to admit it. “Fine.”
His brows lower. “When y’all say fine, it means it hurts.”
“I can live with it.” I shrug.
“You should get some PT for it.”
Again. I’ve done this before. Blowing out my knee halfway through my freshman season was devastating. My stats went to shit. I was afraid someone else would come in and show me up, pushing me back to second string. Threatened with my college football career ending before it had barely begun, I threw myself into action, doing whatever I could to ensure I’d play football again as soon as possible.
I had surgery and once I was ready, started physical therapy four times a week, and I never missed a session. I worked hard to get my strength back. Trained harder. Made sure the knee was healed. That I was stronger, both physically and mentally. I’ve been going nonstop ever since, and now that it’s my senior year, my last chance to prove myself before I attempt a go at the NFL, of course my knee decides to give me trouble.
“You really think I need it?” I definitely need it, but man, my class schedule is heavy this semester. Along with practice and games and everything else that comes with my life, that won’t leave much time for socializing.
Specifically with women. Not that I’ve been “socializing” much lately anyway.
Coach nods, grabbing a notepad and scribbling something across it with a pen he snagged from his polo shirt pocket. “Definitely. I’ll make it happen, and you make sure to coordinate with your schedule, so it doesn’t interfere with your classes.”
“Okay.” I nod, hating the idea of adding one more thing to my plate.
I handle a lot of shit, day in and day out. I’m exhausted. And school has only barely begun.
“How’s class going?”
“Fine.” My tone is clipped, and he lifts his head, noting it. I’m defensive when it comes to school.
I’m not that good at certain subjects, and he knows it.
“You finally in that English class?” He raises his brows.
The one subject that gives me trouble, the class I’ve been avoiding until I can’t avoid it any longer. It’s a first-year level class that my academic counselor pushed back for me, doing me a favor, until finally, I was forced to take it this semester.
I’m not great at writing papers, spelling, reading. In fact, I suck at it. I was diagnosed with a mild case of dyslexia in elementary school, and I’ve been struggling with it ever since. My father told me he wasn’t much good at English either and needed a tutor when he was in college.
His tutor just so happened to be my mother. That’s how they met.
“Yeah. I am.”
“How’s it going?”
“I’ve only had the class twice.” I shrug, wanting to avoid this subject. “That math class I have is going to be a bitch.”
And I actually like math, so that’s saying something.
“Is it going to give you trouble?” The concern in his voice is obvious. He doesn’t want any of his seniors on the team struggling with classes. And whenever risks pop up, he wants to take care of them, including our class load.
I shake my head. “I’m good at numbers.” Comfortable with them even.
The English language though? Forget it. I can’t spell. I can’t write. Well, I can write a bunch of nonsense. I have trouble reading sometimes, and that’s just embarrassing. I make sure and take home the various playbooks every season, so I can pore over them. Memorize them. That way, no one on the team can figure out that I’m not good at this reading thing.
“If you need any help, don’t hesitate to tell me, okay? We want to keep you sharp, on all fronts.” His expression is dead serious. “This is an important time for you. We can’t fuck anything up. All eyes are on you now through the rest of the season.”
I break out into a literal sweat at his words, and the ominous meaning behind them. No big deal. I’m not intimidated or anything.
“Right.” I nod. “I’ve got this.”
My voice is firm, as is my resolve. I’ve definitely got this. I can’t slip and mess anything up.
“Good to hear.” Mattson leans back in his chair. “Get on out of here. I’m sure you have homework to do.”
“I do.” I rise to my feet, relieved to be dismissed. “See you tomorrow, Coach.”
“Later, Maguire.” He picks up his phone and makes a call before I’m barely even out of his office.
“What the hell was that about?” is how I’m greeted by my best friend, our QB, Camden Fields.
“Nothing. He’s just checking on me.” We exit the locker room together, and I’m grateful it’s mostly empty. That no one else is questioning me about why Coach wanted to talk to me.
Cam is the only one I tell everything to. We’ve grown close over the years, to the point that we also live together at one of the apartment buildings near campus. Most of our team is in that building, all on the same floor, which means we are together constantly. And most of the time, I like it.
Right now, I’m wanting to retreat. To hide away for a few hours and nurse my wounds. I don’t like the twinge I’m currently feeling in my knee. Or the fact that I have to take that damn English class this semester. Physical therapy on top of that is going to really eat into my study time, something I can’t afford to lose.
“Something’s bothering you,” Cam says as we head for the parking lot. While we do live near campus, said campus is fucking huge, which means we drive over to the field every afternoon for practice. Today, we took Cam’s car. “You look ready to chew through steel.”
A ragged exhale leaves me. “Coach ordered PT for me.”
He’s quiet for a moment, absorbing what I said. “For your knee?”
I nod.
“I’m sure it’ll be good for you.”
“I’m sure it will,” I agree as we both climb into his Dodge Challenger. “But I need every spare minute I can get to do homework.”
“You’re worried about that English class, huh?” Cam fires up the engine, giving it gas, making it roar.
Show off.
“I’m going to fail.”
“With that kind of attitude, hell yeah, you will.”
I glare at him. “Thanks for the encouragement.”
“I’m just speaking the truth. You’re so negative lately. Where did our happy, go-lucky Knox go? I miss him.” Cam throws the gear into reverse and glances over his shoulder before backing out of the parking space, the engine rumbling. “It’s our senior year, man. We should be on top of the world. Having a good time.”
“The pressure is getting to me,” I mutter as I slump in the seat.
“You need to use that pressure to your advantage.”
“Right, like you do?” I send him a look. The guy is always cool. Like nothing ever gets to him. It’s infuriating.
He completely ignores my comment.
“You need to go out.” Cam keeps his eye on the road, his lips curving into a barely-there smile. “You need to get laid.”
“Tell me about it.” It’s been a while. I’ve been so damn busy with football. From the moment I returned to campus six weeks ago, I’ve hit the ground running.
Shit. That means I haven’t had sex in at least…six weeks.
No, make that eight weeks. Shit, that’s two months. Pretty sure that’s some sort of record.
“Saw your sister today.”
Now it’s my turn to glare.
“Where the hell did you see Blair?”
It fucking kills me that my sister is going to the same college as me. She’s a transfer student and is starting her junior year here, and while it’s nice to have family close by, it’s also a little frustrating. She’s so damn nice and smart, and I don’t want a single motherfucker from the team to even look in her direction.
Even my best friend. Who would never do anything like try and make a move on my little sister, but still.
“Chill, man. I saw her in the library. She’s the one who approached me first.” He shrugs. “See how uptight you are? Like I said, you need to get laid.”
“Sorry. I get defensive about Blair. None of you deserve to breathe the same air as she does,” I mutter.
“Tell me how you really feel,” Cam says sarcastically.
“It’s nothing personal. I know you’d feel the same way if you had sisters.” I have two, and I’m so overprotective of them sometimes, I even annoy myself.
And I know I definitely annoy my sisters. They’re always rolling their eyes and telling me to butt out of their lives. Don’t they see I’m only watching out for them?
“Thank God I don’t.” Cam glances over at me when we come to a stop at a red light. “Let’s go out tonight.”
“No—”
“Yeah, it’s happening,” he interrupts, gunning the engine yet again before he glances over at the car sitting next to us. It’s full of girls, who are all watching us with blatant interest in their gazes. Cam grins and hits a button, his window sliding open. “Hey ladies.”
“Camden Fields!” they all shout, their voices getting louder when they notice me. “Knox Maguire! Oh my God! Can we have your autographs?”
Cam laughs. “How about you tell us where you’re going later tonight and you can get our autographs then?”
They squeal in delight, the driver rattling off the name of a local bar we frequent that’s downtown.
“See you then,” Cam calls, punching the gas the second the light turns green, his tires screeching.
“You’re unbelievable,” I say with a shake of my head as we speed down the street.
“They fucking love it. So should you. I can guarantee at least one of those girls will be flirting with you in the next couple of hours. Maybe you could sweet talk her back to our place and even convince her that you last longer than five minutes in the sack.”
“Fuck you,” I say good-naturedly, making Cam laugh.
I have an English assignment that’s due by midnight Wednesday, but hell, I’d rather go out tonight.
There’s always tomorrow.
