Played: A Novel (Gridiron Series Book 4) Page 4

  “And you wonder why Nichole's mad,” I say.

  “I gotta see this,” Wyatt says.

  Remy eyes Wyatt's chip-coated fingers with mild disgust. “You're not getting in the door until you wash your hands.” As Wyatt shoves more chips in his mouth, Remy turns to me. “Heard your girl threw a pitcher of Bloody Marys in your face last night.”

  “It was a glass of water and it was this morning. Where'd you hear that?” I gulp down my drink.

  “Nichole heard it from somebody. You oughta be careful. One of your exes is gonna plant a story about you,” Remy cautions.

  “They've all broken up with me,” I protest.

  Remy looks up from his phone. Wyatt stops eating. Together they stare at me in disbelief.

  “What?” I ask, feeling a mite defensive. “It's true.”

  “It's true like the pool turning green after someone pisses in it is true,” Wyatt says.

  “Hey, now, all of them knew I was here to play ball.” I scowl into the bottom of my empty glass. I never lied to a single girl.

  Remy nods. “True. Lots of girls talk a good game, but once they're with you, it's always complaints about how you're missing things when they know you have to prepare. But”—he puts his phone down—“truth is that the bigwigs upstairs like to hear that you've settled down. Nothing gets them harder for a player than knowing you got a family and a mouth to feed. That way they know you aren't spending all your nights at the club or partying on some boat. Even if you didn't have a woman, you should lie and say you do.”

  Every year at the combine, along with all the physical stuff, you're required to take exams that test your general intelligence, and then you interview with the general managers or presidents of operations. These folks are spending millions of dollars on you. They want every aspect of your life laid bare.

  Remy's repeating the same thing Dana told me, so no doubt Remy's agent has given him the same lecture. The front office guys would like nothing more than to hear you're in a committed relationship to a girl you've known since you were five and that you plan to have three kids right away.

  These things scream stable family man who is going to be a credit to the organization instead of reckless rookie who plans to spend his new millions on flashy cars, flashy women and bottles of Ace at the club.

  “What are you planning on saying?” I ask Remy, because we spent an hour the other night looking for Nichole's ring after she screamed that she wouldn't fuck him if he was the last dick on earth.

  “We're on again. She's all in. I think she can smell the money.”

  “Frankly, I thought Rhyann would stick around for that,” I admit. Rhyann came on to me after Thanksgiving. She was pretty, polished, and came off fairly sophisticated. I figured she knew the score, but missing her birthday was apparently the last straw.

  “Oh shit, it's out,” Remy says suddenly.

  I hustle over to his side. He's swiping through the Josh London hashtag. The mentions aren't pretty.

  Dumbass. Call yourself an uber.

  What do you expect from a kid who spends his free time getting his head bashed in.

  Player you played yourself out of a few million dollars.

  But it's not the random fans on the internet that worry us. It's the sports reporters who chime in.

  NFL source calls London a “time bomb.” Not worth the first round risk.

  “Damn,” Remy whistles. “Out of the first round over a DUI?”

  “That's one source.” I lay my hand over Remy's and force the phone down to the counter. “No point in reading any more of that. You're going to give yourself an ulcer.”

  “I can't wait until the draft is over,” he confesses and flips the phone over because he's an addict and can't stop reading the bad news. “You should get yourself a girl.”

  “In four weeks? Should I put up an ad on the SU connections site? ‘Wanted, girl who doesn't care if I ignore her for four weeks but will pretend to be madly in love with me so NFL execs will give me good grades at the combine.’”

  “What about Ara?” Wyatt pipes up.

  I stiffen. Her juicy ass and long legs flash in front of my eyes. “What about her?”

  “She'd pretend for you. She's your best friend. Plus, she's smart and all so that would make them happy.”

  “She'd laugh her face off if I even suggested it.” Plus, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. My dick would explode from want.

  “Never know until you ask.”

  My response to Wyatt is lost when the doorbell rings.

  “You get it,” Remy begs us. “And if it's Nichole, I'm not home.”

  With that, he runs upstairs.

  “Coward,” Wyatt yells after him.

  “Yup,” comes the cheerful response. Nichole has that boy by the balls.

  “You heard the man—get the door.” I grab the blender and make a big show of cleaning up.

  Wyatt huffs his exasperation but goes to see who's visiting. It's not one of our teammates. They'd walk in. Ara, too. So it's gotta be a girl.

  A high-pitched voice reaches me. A high-pitched familiar voice. Oh, hell. I wipe my hands on the towel and go out to rescue Wyatt.

  5

  Ara

  Just before dinner, I get a text from my roommate, Fleur Emerson.

  Her: Heard Ty got in a huge fight with his girlfriend.

  Oh, he's gonna love this. Not. I try to downplay it, because Ty hates being the topic of social media and, for the most part, he's been able to avoid it.

  Me: She threw water at him this morning and he wiped it off. Not much of a fight.

  Her: This morning? It happened 5 min ago. Shouting at his house. It's all over campus.

  Oh no. I pull up the campus app where everyone posts anonymously sourced shit. It's a rancid place full of hateful people, but if you want to know what people at SU are gossiping about, Whistle is the place to go.

  Masters got faced at his own house.

  Nah. Jessica Rabbit got eaten.

  I'd give my entire student loan check to smash her ass. What's his problem?

  I'd give my ovary to smash Masters.

  She's a dumb bitch anyway.

  Wonder if this'll hurt his draft stock.

  Isn't she his sixth girlfriend in the last month?

  Those aren't girlfriends, they're cum depositories.

  I close the app after that last one. Like I said, rancid place, hateful people.

  I throw on a sweatshirt over my jogging shirt, shove my feet into a pair of sneakers, and jog the five blocks over to Ty’s house.

  When I arrive, I find him sitting on one of the lawn chairs set up on the front porch. His long legs are stretched out in front of him and his head is tipped back. A bag of ice rests on his forehead.

  I drop into the empty chair beside him. “Was it a frying pan? That seems cliché.”

  “The remote. That sucker is harder than it looks.” He sticks one of his legs under mine so that my calves dangle across his shins. I guess he thinks I need an ottoman. My legs are way shorter than his.

  I reach over and lift the bag of ice. There's a slight gash above his eye and a mottled redness surrounding it. I wince. “Looks bad.”

  “Worst injury I ever suffered,” he jokes. “I may have to drop out of the draft.”

  “If it scars, at least make up a good story, like ‘I was wounded fighting off four thugs who were trying to rob a poor old lady. I managed to save her, but the last attacker got in one good kick, leaving this mark.’” I lightly poke one side of the rapidly forming bruise, and Ty makes some indistinct sound. I ignore it and press on the other side. It looks tender and sore.

  “Let's up the number to ten and say I'm saving a litter of puppies. Remember how upset your classmates were when you killed off the horse last semester?”

  “Crazy how animals are more sympathetic than grannies.” Last year I took a creative writing class and one assignment was to write a short story that delivered pathos. I wrote about a girl who we
nt riding with her pony across a frozen pond. They came upon a weak ice patch and the girl fell into the cold water. The pony sacrificed his life for hers.

  The class crucified me. To his credit, Ty thought my idea was terrible and didn't hesitate to tell me so in long, ranting terms. If only I'd listened to him. But, at the time, I thought, what does he know. He's a finance major, not a creative thinker.

  Oh, how wrong I was, and Ty never gives me a moment of peace about it.

  “Say ‘I told you so’ one more time and you'll have a matching scar above your other eye.” I drop the bag of ice back onto his forehead.

  He groans. “Ouch. I'm a wounded man. Be careful with me.”

  “Why'd she come back? I thought she was done with you in the morning.” Absently, I finger comb his hair, enjoying the silky feel of it against my skin. When he leans into my touch, my entire body sings.

  God, this guy. He’s so gorgeous. And being with him is so…easy. Our friendship is probably the most important relationship in my life, and I like to think it’s that way for him, too. He’s never come out and said Ara, you’re the bestest BFF ever and I couldn’t live without you.

  But some things don’t need to be said. I know Ty values what we have as much as I do.

  “She had a sweatshirt of mine and was doing me a favor by returning it, or so she said.”

  I smile wryly. “How long was she hoarding that so she could use it as an excuse to see you again?”

  “I don't know. I don't remember giving her anything to wear. I mean…” He trails off.

  I wait for him to finish and when he doesn't, I tug on his hair. “You mean what?”

  He slumps a little lower in the chair. “We never slept together.”

  I bolt upright, knocking the bag off his head. “What?”

  “You okay there, Screechy McScreecherson?”

  “You never slept with her?”

  He gives a quick glance toward the front door and then the sidewalk. “Can you say it louder? I don't think the guys at the end of the street heard you.”

  Guilty, I lower my voice. “I thought, well, why'd you date her in the first place?”

  He reaches down and picks up the bag of ice. It's nearly melted, but he resettles it on his forehead before leaning back again. “Who knows. Knox and Ellie are pretty happy. I thought maybe it was time to find someone.”

  “But you never slept with her?” This is mind-blowing to me. Ty's such a physical creature. He loves physical contact. When we watch a movie, he's got his head on my lap. When we walk, he often slings an arm around my shoulder. He has no problem being affectionate with his teammates. The asses Ty has slapped number in the hundreds. I've always assumed he's slept with every single one of his girlfriends and then some.

  Then again…his brother was a virgin who saved himself for marriage. Could Ty be? No. No way.

  I open my mouth and then shut it. Then open it again. Then shut it. If Ty's a virgin, that's his business, not mine.

  But he's my best friend. Best friends share things like that.

  Granted, I've never told him about losing my V-card, so why would I expect him to divulge that information to me?

  “I can hear your gears grinding,” he says with a chuckle.

  I glance at his beautiful face. “Were you not attracted to Rhyann? Is that even possible? She's so beautiful she'd turn straight girls bi.”

  The eyebrow not covered by the plastic bag shoots up. “Is this your coy way of seeing if I'll give you permission to pursue Rhyann? If so, be my guest, but I want to be able to videotape any and all of your sexy times.”

  I dig my heel into his shin to punish him. “No, I don’t want to pursue your ex-girlfriend, thank you very much.” I shake my head. “I still can't believe it, though.”

  “What’s so hard to believe? I’ve been busy. It’s probably why she wanted to break up in the first place.”

  “That and you forgot her birthday.”

  “Indeed.” He does not sound broken up about this in any way. “She’s better off with someone else. The thing is, I don’t get why she’s mad at me. She accused me of cheating on her.”

  “Did you tell her that she was only ever the mistress, never the wife?”

  He jiggles my leg. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug. “It means that you, like my dad, have a first love and it’s not a girl or woman. For you, it’s football. For Dad, it’s his art. No mere female could ever compare.”

  Do I sound bitter? I hope not. I’m resigned.

  “How is your dad, anyway?”

  “Good. He says hi. As I suspected, he and Holly have broken up, but, good news. He’s been inspired to create a new iron piece that will sell for a gazillion dollars.”

  Ty looks amused. “Your dad is the only man I know that gets richer with every divorce instead of poorer.”

  “This isn’t a good trait.” I kick Ty again.

  He pretends like it hurts. “Okay, then. Should we talk about something else?”

  I guess I do sound a little bitter. “Yes, like, how are you going to deal with the Rhyann thing? It’s all over Whisper.”

  Ty groans and slides the ice bag down until it covers both his eyes. “Fuck. I don't even know why she was so angry. I figured she'd gotten it all out of her system at the Row House.”

  “She probably went home, stewed about it, thought up a dozen more things to say and wanted you to know them all.”

  “That sounds about right.” He sighs deeply.

  The rise and fall of his chest grabs my eye. Ty's body is like a work of art. I'm observing it purely from an aesthetics point of view. Purely. Not sexually. Not as in, I'd like to rip his well-worn, fitted T-shirt in two and expose his slabs of hard muscle. Nothing like that.

  I sigh, too.

  “I thought she was a cool chick,” he says. “She told me she understood that I was busy and didn't need to be babysat.”

  “She wanted in your pants. She would've said anything.”

  My eyes drift down to said pants. He's wearing athletic shorts that do very little to disguise exactly what Rhyann was so attracted to in the first place. My body tightens and I force another heavy breath out. I know from firsthand experience the glory of the package beneath those shorts. The night of the Bowl game, I had my hands all over him.

  Worse, his hands were on me. I cast him a speculative glance. Does he remember a thing from that night? He must not because he's never said a word. His attitude toward me has never changed. He's never treated me with anything but sincere fraternal affection.

  So, no, he doesn't remember that his hot mouth was plastered against mine. That his long fingers stroked their way from ankle to thigh. That his firm body rubbed against mine in ways that still wake me up sweating in the middle of the night.

  “I guess.” He shifts as if he can feel my gaze. I avert my eyes and he thankfully changes the subject. He pushes to his feet, catching the bag as it slides off his face. “Let's go eat,” he suggests. “There's a plain, skinless chicken breast inside that has your name on it.”

  “Wow, that's so enticing. I'm crushed that I have to say no.”

  “Come on,” he wheedles. “Besides, I need you to tell me what they're saying on Whistle. You can read the bad posts to me while I cook. I'll even use butter for you.”

  “Oh, well, for a pat of butter, I'll definitely stay for dinner.”

  He grabs my hand and drags me inside. “How bad is it out there?”

  He's not talking about the weather or the campus. He's referring to the social media. These days, stars like Ty can't even fart without some online asshat wondering if he's eating too many beans, and if so, is that going to reduce his speed at the combine? Or worse, does it mean that he's not dedicated enough to the sport to avoid doing stupid things?

  “It'll be fine. You know how people get. It'll all blow over by the end of the day. Besides, most everyone is talking about that kid who got the DUI charge.”

  Ty makes a fa
ce. “That stupid asshole.”

  But his tone is more sympathetic than judgmental. I stroke a hand down his back, telling myself that it's a friendly soothing gesture rather than my desire to lay hands on his body again. His anxiety level is creeping up.

  “You really think Rhyann's right about me being a bad boyfriend?” Ty asks as we reach the kitchen.

  “Yes,” I answer immediately. “You're a terrible boyfriend.” I drop my hand. It's wrong of me to be touching him like this.

  “Damn.”

  His response to his umpteenth breakup seems so uncharacteristic for Ty, particularly since he never slept with this woman.

  “I can't tell if you're upset about getting dumped again or whether you're upset you got dumped by Rhyann.” I rummage for a pan and set it on the stove.

  “Dana says I should be dating someone. Remy, too.” He reaches into the fridge and grabs the chicken. “What do you think? Should I find a girl before the combine?”

  Absolutely not. I like it when you're not dating anyone. I don't enjoy images of other girls touching you, loving you swimming around in my head. It's easier for me when you're single. But then it's hard, because I think about all the what ifs and possibilities that really should never, ever see the light of day.

  I don’t voice a single one of those thoughts. “I don't know. If you want to be in a relationship, then you need to work harder at it. Like football.”

  “Way too much effort.” He seasons the meat and flops it onto the waiting pan.

  I grow exasperated. “Are you really thinking about going out with someone because of the draft?”

  He scratches his nose and then looks down, pretending to be engrossed by the cooking food. “Maybe not just for the draft. But it does make sense to find someone here at college, right? That way we know she likes me for something other than the size of my wallet.”

  I offer a dry laugh. “You think girls are dating you because of your sparkling personality? They already see you as a meal ticket, Ty.”

  “That's grim. Could you at least pretty up the truth and tell me that the girls are dying for me because of my ripped body?”