The sun is blasting down on the field, merging heat with adrenaline. Sweat with ambition. Searing energy with motivation and spirit. And I don't even care how lame that just sounded. I was born to play this game and today is a very special day. A very special practice.
A practice when I'm not just running random plays as a new member of the team, but a practice where the play involves a second wide receiver. And that second wide receiver happens to be me. As in, if it goes well, I might see some actual, real live field time on Saturday. As in, what's about to happen has the potential to be magic.
If only the other guy could remember the fucking play.
The ball is hitched to Rhodes. He's about to pass it to Trey Mitchell.
I'm running full fucking speed, ready to take the ball from Mitchell and trek my ass to the goal, my first real chance to show off my skills and speed. Only, Mitchell never sends me the ball. Because he can't remember the play. He's booking it to the endzone, leaving me in the dust. Looking like a fool, even though I did everything I was supposed to do.
"Mitch!" Coach Long calls a time out, running up on Mitchell within a half second. "What the fuck was that? It's a hook and lateral. First you hook," he shoves his shoulder before doing an enthusiastic sidelong passing motion in my direction. "Then you lateral. It's easy. Why can you never remember the fucking play?"
My hands hit my knees as I take in one deep breath after another, fucking beat. I was giving that run my everything and now I'm left trying to catch my breath for nothing. A perfectly good play, wasted.
As Coach drills into Mitchell, Wilkinson rolls up beside me, scrubbing a lazy hand down his chest as he snort laughs. "There's always one guy that never remembers the play," he shakes his head, giving me a good natured smack on the back. "Just be happy you're not that guy. Even if you just wasted a few perfect yards for nothing."
I give him a nod. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."
Yeah right. More like, I'll let it make me bitter. Because there's no way Coach will want to run that play any time soon if he can't rely on Mitchell for the biggest part of the task. But I don't mention that to Wilkinson.
He's a senior linebacker who doesn't give a shit what happens to me. He's just one of the guys riding out his last year, having already proven himself, and getting all the field time he deserves. The fact that he's even taking the time out to hit me with some encouragement right now should be motivation enough to shake it off and get over it.
The only logical thing for me to do is get over it actually. And I guess I can do that. I can do anything.
Except rely on Trey Mitchell to pass me the ball.
The team is rotated as Coach Long works on specialized tasks with the starting line. And I'm officially one of the guys on the side again, waiting for another chance. But instead of stewing about it, I decide to take advantage of the rare free time we have, chug down a supersized bottle of water, and think about how to improve my game.
Brandon shows up beside me, connecting his shoulder to mine with a nudge, our age old greeting. He lifts an impressed eyebrow in my direction and gives me an appreciative nod.
"I've never seen you run that fast, Gray," he says with a smile. And then, always for the dramatics, he wipes an imaginary tear and pouts. "I was so proud."
A laugh escapes now. There's nothing like some encouragement from your best friend. "I know, right? I felt like The Flash."
"Bro, you were The Flash meets Antonio Brown meets Sonic."
"Fuck yeah," I give him a shove. "That's my inspiration dream team."
After a well-earned fist bump, our eyes shift back to the field. Trying to soak in whatever we can, while half listening to the hum of conversation going on around us.
It's not long before we realize that literally no one else on the sidelines is watching the field at the moment. No one's even talking about football. Instead, they're all gaping at the stadium stairs. And when we turn to see what the commotion is all about, we realize it's not without good reason.
Dashing up the steps, with excellent time and precision, is an assemblage of prime athletic beauty. A siren call, a sight for sore eyes. Especially for those of us forced to spend the better part of our day surrounded by the ugly mugs of our sweaty and smelly teammates.
I've never appreciated the female body more than I do right now.
Decked in blue and gold, shorts short and ponytails high, a couple dozen co-eds are currently doing one of the worst conditioning drills known to man. And they all look really good doing it. There's just something about watching chicks work out. Something about the way they move, the concentration on their faces, how those ponytails bounce with every step.
No wonder the guys can't stop staring. I can't stop staring.
Especially when a head of pretty champagne hair catches my eye. And when I trail the body attached to that hair, over the perfect set of tits and long golden legs, right down to the vibrant blue shoes on her feet, I'm a complete lost cause.
Mia Hill.
The girl who can't stand me, but I can't seem to stop thinking about. Can't seem to escape her these days either, but she sure seems to avoid me like the plague anyhow.
That's not exactly surprising. I suspected she would try to steer clear of me once she found out we were here together, I just didn't expect it to bother me so much. And what doesn't help is being so thoroughly captured by the sight of her every time our paths cross, filling me with memories and sensations I really don't have time for.
Sawyer stands on the other side of Brand, half in a daze as he practically drools at the scene. He looks like an idiot, but I'm not sure any of us look any better. "Who are they?" he mumbles under his breath, sounding like a lovesick buffoon.
"I don't know yet," Dean Porter, the Bruins' resident man-whore and complete jackass, answers right away. "But I'm working on it."
"It's the girls softball team," I say without thinking.
A dozen heads spin in my direction.
"How the fuck do you know that, Adler?" Porter inquires, his voice as sour as expired milk, and a face to match it. As a fucking douchebag that prides himself on having the lowdown of available pussy on campus, he sounds a little bitter that I have some info he hasn't gotten a hold of yet. "You got some kind of inside scoop you haven't bothered to share with the class?"
I don't answer him. He's not worth answering. A couple days ago, our residence hall was woken up in the middle of the night by a hysterical woman screaming and crying outside his door, claiming he kicked her out before letting her grab her shoes. Or her underwear. Sick fuck.
I let my eyes drift back to Mia. Watching her muscles flex as she books it up the stairs, holding perfect form despite the fact that I know every part of her body must be on fire right now at the speed she's going.
Fuck, she looks good. Hot, agile, an insufferable distraction.
Why does she have to be here? Why is she everywhere? Every time I turn around? Like it isn't hard enough to see her getting coffee from the same cart as me every morning, seeing her in psych class, or getting lunch at the same time. Now she's at the stadium during practice?
I wouldn't mind it so much if she'd give me more than a wordless nod of acknowledgment as she breezes past me everyday. But she's been less friendly and more ice queen than usual ever since I made my presence known to her a few days ago in class. I know I caught her by surprise, but it's not like I had any clue she'd be here. It's nothing short of a humorous misunderstanding from where I'm standing, but she seems to think I schemed against her or something.
I mean, dramatic much?
"Make sure they're invited to the Luau this weekend."
My ears start buzzing at the sound of Porter's deviant voice going off, and I quickly become aware of the conversation going on around me again. He's addressing one of his fellow juniors, a lineman we all call Tubs. Partly because his last name is Tubman, and partly because he's three hundred solid pounds of beefy defense.
"You got it, boss," Tubs replies, rubbing his hand across his belly as he sucks in, straightening his shoulders up. He tips his chin in the direction of the steps, a shit-eating grin on his face. "I call dibs on blue shoes."
That sound in my ears is no longer a buzz, it's a fucking loud ass alarm bell, ringing all around me. Because there's only one girl wearing blue shoes out there. And while I don't think anyone has a right to call dibs on a person, I don't want Mia anywhere near these sleazebags. Now that I've heard the sounds she makes when she's lost in euphoric pleasure, I'll be damned if one of these assholes gets the chance to experience that same pure and utter delight.
"Like fuck you do," I say to Tubs. Beside me, Brandon snort laughs, but my attention is fully on the guy eyeballing Mia right now, trying not to gag at the thought of them together, no matter how implausible it truly is. "You trying to kill her?"
"Hey!" Tubs busts out laughing, giving me a shove. "It's the teddy bear physique. Chicks love it. And it's been awhile since I fucked a blonde that hot. All I'm scoring lately is brunette fours."
My stomach curdles at the thought of him being within even a ten foot radius of Mia, let alone having sex with her. I shoot him a look. "That's a fucked up thing to say."
Tubman just shrugs.
"Adler's right, man," Sawyer cuts in. "We call you Tubs for a reason, you fat motherfucker."
"Yeah, stop sucking in your gut," Porter finally chimes in. "And leave Blondie alone." His voice is all smug and disgusting as his eyes shift over to me. "It seems she's already spoken for."
"She's a family friend," I say to him, the words coming out with almost no conviction.
"I bet she is," Porter smirks, smacking me on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Adler. I'm not into blondes. That one's all yours."
Yeah, if only it were that easy.
I don't bother mentioning that I've already had this particular blonde. Or that she wants nothing to do with me. But hey, it's early days. She's got plenty of time to come around, and I'm running on nothing but hope.
As Dean walks away, the rest of the guys follow, shuffling back onto the field as the whistle blows, calling us back. But I don't go right away. Instead, my eyes travel back over to the team on the steps, finding Mia, and my timing is perfect. Just in time to see her glance over here and meet my gaze head on.
Her shoulders are heaving as she catches her breath, hair blowing in the wind, t-shirt clinging to her skin. She looks like a vision of untouchable bliss, and all I can think about is how it felt inside her. Which is the last thing I should be entertaining in these tight ass pants right now. I'm about to be really uncomfortable for the last stretch of practice if I'm not careful.
Holding her eyes, I give her a smile, and one of those nods that most girls love. Most being the operative word here, because Mia doesn't seem to find it nearly as attractive as other girls do.
And if I'm being honest, I think I like it that way. But what I wouldn't give to see her smile at me in return one of these days.