6. Colton

6

COLTON

“ D unn, Rogers,” someone calls across the field where we’re out with the Bulls warming up before the game in a few hours.

Looking up, I find a familiar face running toward us with a wide smile.

My teeth grind as he closes the space between us.

After all these years, I shouldn’t care. But apparently, some grudges never die.

“Sawyer, man. How’s it going?” Luca greets, pulling our old teammate in for a hug and thumping him on the back.

“It’s good. You ready for a repeat of last year?” he asks, a shit-stirring glint in his eye that I remember all too well from our college days.

“Nah, fuck that, Cooper. We’re going to be all over you this year. We’ll be sending you back to Boston with your tails between your legs.”

Both Sawyer and Luca’s eyes widen at the bite in my tone.

I don’t mean to. I just…I can’t fucking help it.

This fuck has riled me up from the first day of training camp for the Panthers, and he hasn’t stopped since.

“Yeah, well. We’ll see about that. I know both of your moves like the back of my hand, and so do the rest of my team. We’ve got you all by the nuts, and you know it.”

The banter continues for a few minutes before we cool it and catch up.

I might not like him all that much, but really, there’s nothing wrong with Sawyer Cooper. He’s a decent guy, everyone else I know loves him, and he’s a fucking kick-ass defensive player—and yes, one of the reasons they came out on top last year.

But I’ve always had one big issue with him.

It shouldn’t even be an issue, but no matter how much time has passed, I’ve never been able to forget it.

He had her first.

The reality of the situation is that if it weren’t for him, then I might never have met Ella. Yes, she was a jersey chaser at Maddison. But she wasn’t a shameless one who whored herself through the entire team.

She dated Sawyer her freshman year, and she’d often be hanging out with us. It shouldn’t have bothered me. The guys fucked and dated girls every day of the week. But from the first moment I laid eyes on her, I knew there was something different about her. Something that intrigued me, something that stopped me from looking the other way and allowing them to embark on their relationship like I would have done any other member of the team.

But it was her. And. I couldn’t. Fucking. Forget. About. Her.

And the situation hadn’t gotten any better when they finally broke up.

I needed her so fucking bad at that point that bro code had long been forgotten. So when she turned up to the first football party of the season of her sophomore year, there was only one thing on my mind.

Fuck her and get her out of my system.

I was convinced that I’d get my fill and then I could move on with my life.

I almost bark out a laugh at how fucking ridiculous that hope was.

Even now, years down the line and on the entirely opposite side of the fucking country, she’s still up in my head.

Once wasn’t enough to get her out of my system. Neither was any of the other times we were together after that.

The last time I saw her was the day she and my brother—one of her best friends—graduated.

I’d done my first season here as a Saint by then, but I promised West and Dad that I’d be there just like he was for me.

Seeing her again shouldn’t have affected me. But from the second my eyes landed on her, I felt that pull again. The one I hoped I’d severed. But it didn’t matter how many women I fucked my rookie year; my mind always took me back to her.

When I returned to Seattle after that weekend, I told myself that I was done. I had no desire to embark on any kind of relationship with her or anyone. I had a job to do here. One I’d spent my entire life dreaming about and working toward.

I went into my second season as a Saint with a clear head and one focus in mind. Winning. My life was on the field, and that was all I needed to think about. Women were nothing more than a relief.

And it’s worked. Until recently, when the charm seems to have vanished at the prospect of spending a few hours with nameless, faceless jersey chasers.

For whatever reason, thoughts of her, of our past, have started to worm their way back in. And having Sawyer fucking Cooper standing in front of me is the exact reminder I don’t need right now.

Our season has been good so far, but the Bulls have proved more than once that they have the skills and determination to derail us.

I need to be focused, to be thinking about the hours and hours of film we’ve watched in preparation for our first Monday night game of the season.

We’re going to have all eyes on us tonight, and we need to prove we’re good enough to take it all the way this year. We need the playoffs. We need the fucking Super Bowl.

We’re ready for it; I know we are. It’s in our grasp. All we’ve got to do is fucking take it.

“Ready?” Luca asks, dragging me from my musings, and when I look up, I find Sawyer has vanished and he and Kane are staring at me like I’ve just sprouted an extra head.

“What?” I bark when they both begin to smirk.

“I can’t believe he still gets to you, man,” Luca says, throwing his arm around my shoulder, leading me toward our locker room so we can get ready.

“He doesn’t,” I argue, but it’s weak at best.

“Whatever you say, man,” Kane adds.

“Did you hear the ego on him? They might have fucked us over last year, but they didn’t even make the playoffs.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s his ego you have an issue with.”

“He’s a prick.”

“Sure,” Luca mutters as we make our way down the dark blue hallways with the Saints logo stretched out along the long walls.

Music from the locker room gets louder as we take the final turn, and when we burst inside, we find Sanchez has his cell hooked up to the speakers like always. I’m not sure who decided he had the best playlists, but he seems to have taken on the role with ease.

Luca, Kane, and I all head for our lockers to start getting our heads in the game.

Before long, we’re all taped up with our pads and uniforms in place, ready for our final warm-up before the game.

Luca comes to stand next to me while Kane hovers by his locker with his cell pinned to his ear.

“Letty?” I ask. I’ve no idea why I bother; we all know it’s her. It’s part of his pre-game ritual. She’s his good luck charm, apparently, and short of smuggling her in here for a pre-game fuck, a phone call is the best he can get.

“You know it,” he confirms, watching our friend with amused eyes. Fuck knows why; he’s just as whipped.

“How do you do it?” The question is out of my mouth before I’ve managed to catch it.

Luca’s eyes turn to me, the black on his cheekbones making the green of his irises seem brighter under the electric light of the locker room.

“Do what?” he asks, not following my train of thought. And honestly, why should he? I’ve made it more than clear what I want out of life—or more so, women—over the years. I don’t even know why I’m asking. It’s not like I have any intentions of changing things anytime soon.

Morbid curiosity, I guess.

“Forget it. It was a stupid question.”

I push from the bench, ready to leave this conversation behind, but his hand wraps around my shoulder, dragging me back.

“What did you mean?”

I sigh, raking my fingers through my hair, pulling until it hurts.

“Letty, Peyton. This life,” I say, gesturing to the guys and the locker room around us. “How do you do it?”

He studies me, his eyes bouncing between mine as he attempts to read between the lines.

“It’s…I dunno.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Normal, I guess. They’ve both been with us since MKU, so they know what this life is like. How demanding it is during the season.”

“Don’t you worry about being away too much? About missing stuff? Not knowing what they’re doing?”

“I trust Peyton completely, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he says with a scowl.

“No, that’s not…I don’t know what I’m getting at,” I confess, ripping my eyes from him in favor of staring down at my cleats.

I should be focused on the game. On the season. But for some reason, my head is full of all this shit that has no place there.

“Have you met someone?” Luca asks suddenly.

“What? No.” Silence falls between us, although the excitement surrounding us doesn’t lessen.

“But you…want to?”

“Fuck no. I dunno, man. Seeing Sawyer again…I guess it’s just taken me back.”

“Ell—”

“Don’t. Just…don’t.”

“What’s going on?” Kane asks, his brows pinched together as he looks between the two of us.

“Nothing,” I spit. “I need to get my fucking head in the game.”

This time when I get to my feet, no one stops me. I start pacing back and forth in front of my locker, focusing on Sawyer’s smug-as-fuck face and the bullshit he spewed at us earlier.

They’re not going to win today. He is not going to win. He might have got in there first, but I’m the one who finishes things. And I always fucking finish.

Movement over my shoulder catches my eye, and when I look back, I find Kane and Luca watching me with matching smirks again.

“What?” I snap, coming to stop in front of them with my fists curled at my sides.

“Take that anger out on the field, Rogers. Something tells me we’re going to need it,” Luca instructs, slapping me upside the head before Coach marches into the room, commanding all our attention.

Get your fucking head in the game, Rogers. The rest of the bullshit can wait.

F rom our very first play, we fucking owned it. We played like a well-oiled machine of savages. The Bulls didn’t stand a chance, and every time Sawyer’s eyes locked on mine, he stoked the determination burning bright within me.

We had their defense running circles around themselves as we scored over and over. It was fucking majestic, and exactly what I needed to remind myself of what I was doing with my life.

As the fans roar in the excitement in the stands around us, I close my eyes for a beat, feeling the steady thrum of my heart in every inch of my body.

Last play of the game and the chance to put the final nail in the Bulls’ coffin.

We line up, the adrenaline of the win already coursing through our veins.

Luca calls the play as I glare Sawyer dead in the eyes, promising him a world of pain for the dirty tackle I can see him planning.

I shake my head, warning him against it before the whistle blows and we spring into action.

Luca fakes a throw in Kane’s direction. The Bulls’ defense follows it—well, all but Sawyer. His attention is still locked on me as Luca passes off the ball and I take off running.

My catch is flawless, and I tuck it under my arm as Sawyer attempts to take me down. But I’ve already got him, and we both know it.

The roar of the crowd rises to astronomical levels as I make the touchdown—but in only seconds, it becomes a blur as my teammates dive on me in celebration.

“Fucking yes,” Luca screams in my face, bumping our helmets together as he holds the sides of my neck.

The last few seconds count down on the Jumbotron before the Saints’ fans lose their shit once again over our epic win.

With Kane and Luca on either side of me, I’m turned toward the crowd, or more specifically the seats where Letty and Peyton sit for every single game we play.

They’re both dressed in their boys’ jerseys, jumping up and down, screaming in celebration. Even Kyan is beaming, his little chubby cheeks red with excitement as if he knows his dad is a fucking legend, in more ways than one.

But it’s not my teammates’ wives or cute little Kyan who catches my attention.

It’s the woman standing right in the middle of them.

Wearing. My. Fucking. Number.

As if she can feel my attention, her gaze finds mine.

It’s been years since I laid eyes on her. But the second our gazes meet, my dark to her honey, it’s like no time has passed.

That tether I’d thought I’d finally managed to sever pulls between us. It’s just like I remember. No. It’s worse than that. It’s stronger. More powerful.

And as I stand there locked in her stare while everyone around me celebrates our win, there’s only one thought in my head.

I’m fucked.

Totally fucking fucked.

I’m jostled to the side before Kane leans in closer.

“Surprise, Rogers. Looks like your night just got even better.”