8. Chapter 8

"Hell of a game today, boys!" Coach calls from the front of the locker room. "It feels pretty damn good to be five and oh!"

Cheers and hoots erupt.

Truth is, it does feel pretty damn good to be undefeated. Our season is halfway over, and next weekend is a bye week.

"It's a bye week. While we don't have a game, there are still some things that we need to work on. But, if we work hard this week, I'm prepared to give you Friday through Sunday off from practices. Just do some kind of workout on your own. Check your emails for the updated practice schedule for the week. Now, hit the showers and get the hell out of here."

More cheers come from the team. Turning to my locker, I strip out of my uniform and grab my toiletry bag. The game was an early one, which means we have the rest of the day to kick back.

"What's the plan for the day, Q?" Grant Campbell asks, following me toward the showers.

I enter my stall, turning on the faucet to let the water heat up.

"No idea, man. I think I'm just gonna chill." Standing under the faucet, I let the hot water pour over my body. I'm starting to feel some aches and pains. I need to meet with the team's PT for a good full-body massage. There's still a lot of season left, and I can't get injured.

Yesterday, I had a call with my agent Eliza. She likes to call every couple of weeks with an update on the draft. Even if she doesn't have anything major to talk about, she still likes to check in and let me know that she's watching my games and recognizes the year I'm having.

It's nice to have these kinds of conversations with her.

The firm that Eliza works for is based out of New York, and they are pretty amazing. Some of my previous teammates had put me in contact with them, and it's nice to know that my dad didn't find them for me. He tried to push me on a firm that I knew was just going to kiss his ass, do whatever he wanted, and not what I wanted. That's why I chose to work with Eliza.

At our first meeting, my parents came, of course. When Dad started to showboat and talk about himself, Eliza put him in his place, telling him this meeting wasn't to discuss a former athlete, but the potential of someone who's going to be bigger and better than him. He shut up real quick, sitting with his arms folded, pouting, the rest of the meeting. A tiny smile had my lips turned up the remainder of our appointment.

That was the day I signed my contract to work with Eliza. I didn't need to hear anything else during that meeting. If a woman, a woman barely over five feet no less, could stand up to Howard Boyd, I knew I needed her in my corner.

She hasn't let me down once.

"Quinton, mate, things are looking good this year!" she exclaims on the phone in her thick Australian accent.

"Thanks, Eliza," I reply. "What all have you been hearing?"

Pacing around my bedroom, I can't help but let my mind wander.

Going pro has been a dream for as long as I can remember. As a boy, my dream was to be like my dad. What boy doesn't look up to his dad? Then in junior high, I fell in love with the dream even more. As a sophomore, college scouts started coming to more and more games. I always thought it was a favor to my dad, until I realized that I actually had the potential to go pro.

That was all on me. Not my dad. My numbers spoke for themselves. I kept my head to the turf, got good grades, and busted my ass.

Interrupting my thoughts, Eliza continues. "Mate, I'm tellin' ya, things are lookin' good. First round, good. Especially at the pace you're going."

"Damn, Eliza. Are you serious?" I ask in disbelief, rubbing a hand down my face.

"Darlin', I don't joke," she says.

Eliza is tough. She has to be tough to work with hard-headed, arrogant athletes. I don't think I've ever heard her crack a joke, or hell, even laugh. She's as professional as they come.

"Let's just say, your top three teams are looking at you."

"Holy shit," I mutter as she continues.

"That's all I've got. Just wanted to check in and letcha know you're doing a great job."

Shaking my head in disbelief, the reality starts to sink in. There's a really good chance I'm selected early in the first round for one of my dream teams.

"Thanks, Eliza. Talk soon." She disconnects the call without a goodbye.

"Yo, Q," Grant yells from the stall next to me. Lost in the memory of yesterday's phone call, I had completely zoned out. Eliza is the only one I can talk to about the draft. Making the decision to stay or go has been incredibly difficult. I know I'll have the support of my teammates and coaches, but the truth is, I'm not ready to announce. I want the focus to be on this season, not next season. For now, I'm keeping this secret between me and Eliza.

Rinsing the soap off my body and grabbing my towel, I dry off before wrapping the towel around my waist and stepping out.

"Sorry, man." I step out of the stall with my toiletry bag in hand, getting out of the way for the next guy. "What were you saying?"

Grant chuckles. "I was saying, Dad and I are heading to Arizona over the bye weekend to see my sister. She hasn't been home since Christmas, so Dad and I are going to surprise her."

"Surprising her? Dude, is that a good idea?"

Reaching my locker, I slip on my boxer briefs, tossing the towel across the room to the laundry bin.

He just chuckles before responding. "I tried to tell Dad that, but he doesn't see what the problem could possibly be."

I'll never understand why people surprise others. Nobody likes to have someone show up out of the blue, or have people jump out and shout at them. Growing up, I hated going to surprise parties. Once in elementary school, a classmate had a surprise party. The kid was terrified of his own shadow, but his parents thought it'd be a great idea to invite his whole class to a surprise party. He shows up, we all jump out yelling "surprise," and the poor kid pissed his pants, right there in front of the whole class. He never lived that shit down. People still talked about it through high school. No thanks.

"You have plans for next weekend?" Grant asks.

Both of us finish dressing and turn to walk out of the locker room.

"Yeah, I'm going to Chicago with Brynn. She's got some family stuff at home, and her parents suck. No way in hell I'm letting her deal with them on her own."

Grant just looks at me.

We've been buddies since the beginning, when both of us lived in the same dorm on campus. Our rooms were next to each other. Whenever we had down time, we were chilling together. Madden tournaments on our floor were weekly occurrences. He chose not to live in the Football House our sophomore year, opting to rent a town house in the same complex that Brynn lives in.

Last year, after a wild party, I might have drunkenly confessed my feelings for Brynn to Grant. Yeah, I spilled all the dirty details. Mostly, that I have more than friendly feelings toward the one girl who is supposed to be my best friend. Grant, being the good guy that he is, has never once called me out on it, aside from acknowledging it the morning after my drunken tirade.

But judging by the look on his face, he's going to bring it up.

"Don't look at me like that, man."

The locker room door shuts behind us. Neither one of us has anyone waiting for us this week. As we head toward the exit, the only sound is our shoes on the linoleum. He's not saying anything, but the look on his face tells me enough. Grant has been rooting for Brynn and me to get together since we all met, even before the words spilled past my lips.

I just can't. I can't bring myself to risk our friendship. Brynn isn't the relationship kind of girl. She likes her "no strings attached" relationships, and I can't say that I blame her. College is for fun times, for flings, for finding yourself, especially when you have no idea where you're going to be after graduation.

"Look, man." Grant grabs my arm, stopping me from climbing into my car, interrupting my thoughts. "We've never talked about that night, but I'm just going to say this once. I've never seen you both smile bigger, laugh harder, and just be yourselves like you do when you're both together. Don't let her slip through the cracks."

Nodding, I brush past Grant and climb into my car.

Don't let her slip through the cracks.

After parking in the garage, I grab my football bag and takeout bag from my favorite barbecue place, Hog Heaven. I'm starving after that game, but nothing that a Hog Heaven sampler platter—pulled pork, brisket, ribs, and all the sides—won't fix.

Football and barbecue are two of my favorite things.

Although Brynn is starting to make her way higher on my list. Don't get me wrong, she's always been at the top of my priorities, but lately she's consumed more and more of my headspace. The girl drives me wild.

Can I keep these feelings to myself? Does she feel them too? Does her body spark with awareness when I walk into the room like mine does to her? Do her fingers twitch with the need to touch me when we are sitting side by side? When she closes her eyes at night, does she picture me lying next to her? As her hand trails down her tight stomach, slipping inside her—

My phone buzzes in my pocket, the vibration snapping me from my thoughts. But I don't pull my phone out. Instead, I sit down at the bar and pull out my food, forcing myself to stop thinking about Brynn lying in her bed.

As I dive into the perfectly tender ribs, my phone buzzes again. Knowing it's probably my parents, I ignore it. But I secretly hope it's a feisty blonde.

What's with you, Boyd? You're like a damn teenage girl with her first crush.

Brynn isn't my first crush, she's far from it, but she's the first girl that I can picture having a future with.

Whoa, where'd that thought come from?

I don't date. Ever. I've never had a serious girlfriend. Football has always been my first love. But Grant's parting words come rushing back to me like a tidal wave.

Don't let her slip through the cracks.

What will I do if she starts dating? What if I blow the only chance I have with her? But what if I take a chance, and she doesn't feel the same way? Will our friendship be forever changed? Why is she avoiding me?

This week we had a breakthrough, and she actually showed some of her cards, but there's still something she's not telling me. Laying in her bed, trying to cheer her up, I could tell there was more on her mind than going home the next weekend.

Stabbing my fork into the pulled pork, I take a huge bite. The smokey flavor and rich barbecue sauce explode in my mouth. Goddamn, this is good. I take the next several minutes going from pork to brisket to ribs before diving into my sides. Good barbecue requires good sides: homestyle macaroni and cheese, green beans and ham, and sweet spoonbread. Nothing better.

Pushing the empty containers aside, I pull my phone out of my pocket and thumb through the notifications. Three missed calls—one from my dad, one from Grant, and one from Brynn, too many social media notifications, twenty-two texts—friends and family congratulating me on the win, and five text messages from Brynn. Brynn's are the only ones I care about at the moment, the others can wait. Tapping on her name, I bring our conversation up.

I type out a quick reply, taking a sip of my water.

Before I even get a chance to sit my phone down, it's buzzing with multiple texts. I chuckle at the onslaught of messages. Brynn is the short-multiple-text sender, rather than the long-paragraph sender. And the girl gets pissed with one-word answers. I learned that the hard way.

Stuffing my mouth with the last bite of spoonbread, I shove off the bar stool and head to the third-floor game room to park my exhausted ass down for endless hours of football.

And that's how I spent my remaining Saturday and all of Sunday.

Sunday night, I fell asleep with an assortment of images of Brynn doing things best friends don't do.

Fuck, I'm screwed.