“You played really good out there, Henry. I’m sure that’s all the coach wants to tell you,” Hunter says.
“Doubtful. But tell him I’ll be right there.”
“Sure.” Hunter disappears, and I remove my shoulder pads, trying to calm myself. It won’t do me any good if I go in there ready to pick a fight that should’ve been left outside with that irritating chick.
I reach into my bag for my clean clothes, and out falls my lucky ring. I found it on the field right before my first game here at Austin U. I had put it in my pocket, and we won. Ever since then, I wear it taped to my chest during games for good luck. Well, I used to until I started making us lose last month. After a few weeks, I just put it away. Maybe the magic wore off. Not that I’m superstitious or anything.
Shirtless, I go into Coach’s office, which has room enough for his desk and a small couch. On the wall behind him are pictures of the team, of him holding a championship trophy from last year—a trophy I helped bring home—and of his wife and daughter during some costume party. They remind me of the little people from The Wizard of Oz, short and dressed like they’re from another world.
“Hey, Coach, what’s up?” I ask.
Shuffling some papers, he looks up from his cluttered desk. “Close the door and take a seat, Walton.”
I quickly eye the old plaid couch with mystery stains—some brown, some white, none of them good.
“I’m all sweaty. I’ll stand.” I shut the door behind me.
“Fine. Suit yourself, Walton. But I wanted to have a frank discussion about what happened on the field out there today.”
“What happened was I played like a rock star.” True. Yay, me.
He holds up one sausage-like finger. “One practice. You played one lousy practice. I wanna see you play like that during a game.”
“I will.”
“That’s what you say, but I can’t risk it. We’ve got less than a month left in the season. If we lose one more time, we’ll be shut out from the play-offs. I’d be irresponsible to let that happen.”
“Then let me play, and if you see one mistake, pull me. Hell, I’ll bench myself.”
Coach shakes his head and runs a tiny hand over his chrome dome. “I don’t know, Walton.”
“Look. We are not going to lose a game because I make one small mistake.”
“You don’t know that. Some games come down to one bad play.”
“Or a good one. I won’t let you down.” I hope but don’t really know. Still, “You owe me just one more shot.”
His brown eyes narrow and twitch in contemplation. “Fine. But one wrong move, you’re out.”
“Deal.”
“And you won’t give me a hard time?” he adds.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ll even take the heat off you with the board. I’ll make sure they know I support your decision to pull me. If it comes to that,” I add. “But it won’t.” I fucking hope.
Coach Newton nods. “Okay, Walton. Take this week and get some rest. We have a big game after the break and I want to see your best playing.”
I nod. “Thanks, Coach.”
He grumbles something under his breath, and I reach for the door handle.
“Hey, Walton, what made you change out there today? It’s not like that was the first time I’ve yelled at you.”
I stop and think about it. “I’m not really sure. I guess I really just wanted to play.”
“Are you saying you didn’t want that before?” he asks.
“No. Of course not.”
“Then I suggest you take a good hard look at what got your head back in the game. Had to be something.”
He’s right. It did have to be something. But what? I didn’t change anything. I played liked shit, felt like shit, the coach yelled at me, I yelled back, and then I played like perfection. Like everything was right in the world and nothing could stop—
Fuck. It hits me like a gas station sushi. I saw Elle. She was the only new thing.
“Feeling sick, Walton?” the coach barks.
“Uh, no. I’m fine.”
“Then why do you look green?”
I blink. Because I think I know why everything went south on me. It all started after nerd queen dumped me. And then, just like that, she shows up and I’m fine.
No. No. No. Ohellno. She can’t be my lucky charm. I refuse to let it be her.
Sadly, however, all facts point in one direction. And dammit, she’s way too big to strap to my chest during a game.
No, man. Don’t go there. There has to be some other reason I played so well. Besides, Elle was nothing but a fling. A few fun fucks.
But if that’s true, then why am I feeling like this? Like she somehow got under my skin and I never realized it until now.
Five weeks earlier.
Lying naked in my bed, the noise of my frat brothers all around us—loud music, laughter, and the tapping of a Ping-Pong paddle against a little plastic ball downstairs—Elle lets out a satisfied sigh. We just fucked. Hard. And the look on her oval little face with those glossy brown eyes tells me she really liked it.
Of course I have to hear it, because, well, I’m a guy.
“How was it?” I ask.
She snuggles her warm body against mine, pressing her breasts against my ribs and laying her cheek over my pec. “It was satisfactory, I guess.”
What? I look down at her smirking pink lips, all swollen from kissing. “Satisfactory, huh?”
“Yeah, adequate. That’s what I’d call it. Or maybe tolerable is a better word.”
She’s messing with me. I had her squealing for three whole minutes. I’m pretty sure the guys downstairs thought there was a mouse in my room.
Or a drowning cat.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” I say. “Tolerable fits.”
With a little laugh, she glances up at me, leaving her head resting on my chest. I like the way we feel together. It’s like her little parts were made to fit perfectly with all my big parts, except down there. It takes a while to work the old sledgehammer inside so he can pound out those Os.
“Henry?” she asks with a sweet voice.
“No. I’m not ready to go again.”
“I wasn’t going to ask that, but darn. I’m in the mood for another round.”
“Give me thirty minutes.” That’s code for another hour. Maybe two. She’s tapped me out, and after the game today, I need my rest. “But what did you want to ask?”
“Remember when we first met at your fundraiser thing?”
How could I forget? I had just done the charity keg run, which is where we all race around a track, carrying kegs of beer. Everyone bets on which guy from our frat will win. The person who picks the winning horse gets their name put into a drawing for a date. With the winner. And, of course, I won. So when they drew the lucky ticket, I had expected some hot cheerleader from the Gamma Nus to come up and claim her prize: me. To my surprise, though, this little blonde chick with pigtails and chunky glasses, wearing a T-shirt with Elvis riding a dinosaur, marched right up to me.
“I won.” She handed me the ticket.
“Errrr…”
“Here. Check the number.” She shoved the ticket in my face, and I took the thing, but didn’t look at it. I mean, no one else had come to claim the prize and this girl clearly meant business.
“Okay. So…let me get this straight. You want to go on a date? With me?”
She crinkled her perky little nose. “I’m cashing in my ticket, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But what? You too good to take a nerd on a date? You afraid of smart women?”
No. But I’m afraid of you. She was like a little pit bull. In overalls. I kind of liked it. “Just as long as you’re not intimidated by my love of sports and…what’s your major?”
“Physics.”
Of course it is. “Just as long as you’re not intimidated by my lack of interest in physics.”
She laughed, but it wa
s more like a squeak, followed by a snort.
Is this chick for real? I mean, she was a cliché from every nerd movie I’d ever seen—Revenge of the Nerds (Parts I, II, III, and IV), The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Never Been Kissed (my older sister, Michelle, made me see that one), Napoleon Dynamite, Super Bad, Breakfast Club (another Michelle film), Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, and Weird Science.
Her very strange laughter died down, and she placed her hand on my arm. “Silly boy. You can’t intimidate me, and I have no interest in talking.”
“Then what do you want to do on our date?”
She pulled a pen from her pocket protector, which was inserted into the front pouch of her overalls, and then grabbed the ticket from me. She jotted something down on the back and then returned the ticket to my hand. “I want to do you. Meet me tomorrow at two. That’s my dorm room number.”
She then strutted away with a confident swagger, leaving me standing there.
“Wow,” I remember thinking. I loved her big balls.
“Henry?” Elle gives me a little nudge, still waiting for me to tell her if I remember the first time we met only a few weeks ago.
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “I vaguely recall you forcing yourself on me. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Of course there’s a reason. Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked,” I say.
“Don’t use logic on me. It won’t work.”
“Why? Are you illogical?” I ask.
She smacks my bare chest, but it doesn’t sting. “Har, har. You know I meant that pushing won’t get me to answer.”
“Well, maybe this will.” I quickly grab her and roll her under me, pinning her arms over her head. “Talk, or you know what comes next.”
Her big brown eyes go wide. “Oh, God. Please don’t tickle me.”
“I will. You know I will. Now, talk,” I release one of her hands and grip her right under her rib cage, making her half-squeal, half-laugh.
“No! Henry, no!” She wiggles, trying to get away, but it’s useless. I’m way bigger than she is.
“Tell me.” I keep tickling her, mostly because hearing her goofy laugh makes me laugh.
“Okay! Okay. I just wanted to know if you still see me the same way.”
I let her go, and she takes a deep breath.
“In what way?” I ask.
“You know, like…some leper from another planet.”
Why would she say that? “Elle, I never thought that. Not once. I thought you were cute.”
She crinkles her nose. “Really?”
“Yeah. Plus you basically demanded to have your way with me, so how could I resist?”
“So it was all about the sex.”
I dip my head and nuzzle the little spot on her neck, right below her earlobe. “I took one look at you and thought that you were a nerd goddess I needed to bed immediately.”
Elle pushes me off her and sits up. She’s not smiling anymore, and I’m not sure where the conversation took a bad turn. But there’s no mistaking the angry pucker on her pink lips.
“And now, Henry? What about now?” she says with a bite to her tone.
“Elle, what’s this about? I thought we were having fun together.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, and her eyebrows arch so high they look like they’re trying to jump off her forehead. “Fun?”
Is this a trick question? “Yes, Elle. I have fun with you. I’m not seeing why you’re getting upset.”
“What happens when we get tired of just having fun?”
Oh no. I draw a slow breath, wondering how we got on the relationship topic so soon. We’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks, and that’s been nothing but sex. Okay, and we talk. She’s interesting and has all sorts of crazy ideas about time travel, gene mutation, and where we really go when we die. The woman is smart with just enough crazy to make me believe her theories. Still, we’ve only just met.
“I don’t know, Elle. What would you like to happen?”
She stares at the wall for a long, awkward moment. “Actually, I don’t know.”
Good. Then that makes two of us. “Then can’t we just keep doing this and see where it goes? I mean, I’m not exactly boyfriend material. You know that.”
“You mean, you’re a man whore.”
“No,” I protest. “I’m a healthy, red-blooded, twentysomething guy. I’ve slept with the appropriate amount of women.”
Her face gets even redder.
Oops. Wrong answer?
“And how many people have you slept with since you met me?” she asks, her tone riddled with accusation.
I really haven’t wanted to see anyone but her—complete shock—but I’m just not ready to admit it. If she knew what my family was like and how they use my loyalty against me, she’d understand that trust isn’t my strong suit. I mean, yeah, I have my football bros, but that’s different. Everyone knows the rules. Everyone follows them: We don’t ask for much and we put the game first. Easy.
“How many, Henry?”
“I don’t see the point in answering, Elle. Either way, you’re still going to be pissed because I’m not telling you whatever it is you want to hear and you’re not willing to hear what I have to say.” It’s almost like she wants us to fight. She wants an excuse to walk away. But didn’t she just kind of say that she’s not exactly ready for a commitment either? I’m thoroughly lost.
Elle starts dressing, pulling on her “My President is a Unicorn” T-shirt and jeans, not bothering with the panties or bra. She shoves those items into her pockets.
“Come on, Elle. Don’t leave like this.” I think what we have isn’t good. It’s great. But I’m not willing to go all in simply because we’ve had a few fun weeks.
“I have to study for my chem test.” She slides on her orange low tops and then sits on the edge of the bed to lace them.
“Will I see you later?”
“I’ll call you.” She storms from the room, not bothering to look at me.
“Bye!” I bark out, feeling my head spinning.
Instant replay:
- She backed me into a corner about our future.
- I opted for honesty and she sort of agreed with me.
- That made her mad.
Okay. I’m lost. I feel like I’ve traveled to a foreign country inhabited only by women, and have somehow managed to violate a rule of the natives. Only, I don’t speak their language, so I can’t fix it or apologize.
Dude. Whatever. I was honest with her, and if she doesn’t want to be honest with me, then fine. I don’t have time for games. Except football.
CHAPTER THREE
HENRY
Present Day.
My parents’ annual Texan turkey trot charity dinner is always held on a Wednesday and is always a dog-and-pony show where they invite a hundred of their “closest” richest friends to our house in River Oaks, an exclusive neighborhood in Houston, for a formal dinner.
While my parents, Chester and Georgina, schmooze for donations and they all pretend not to talk about business, my three sisters—Claire, Michelle, and little Georgina—and I are expected to mingle and make my parents look good. For Claire, the oldest at twenty-six, that means plugging our charities, which she now runs, and pretending it’s what she really wants to be doing with her life instead of painting. For Michelle, who’s the second oldest at twenty-four and not on good terms with my dad, that means not bursting out in demonic tongue when anyone mentions his name. For little Georgina, aka Georgie to avoid confusing her with my mother, she’s twenty and the youngest of our family. She’s also the shyest person on the planet. For her, my parents are just happy if she doesn’t end up hiding in a closet. For me, I’m expected to talk football with Dad’s guests while being followed around by Candice, the daughter of my dad’s longtime friend Big Tom, who’s had his mind set on me marrying his daughter since we were ten. My parents agree that it’s a good match and insist it’s going to happen when I’m done with college.
>
What do I think?
Ohellno!
Candice is nice enough and actually pretty hot, but I’m not into her. She wants a guy who’ll be her second daddy and treat her like a little princess. And if there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s princesses and their three Ss—spoiled, shallow, and snotty. Candice is so bad that she comes equipped with a forth S. Screwy. She actually believes we’re getting married.
Never going to happen. I’ve said so a thousand times, but they’re all cut from the same damned stupid-stubborn tree. My father takes the cake, though. “The road to success, Henry, is paved with persistence, pressure, and time,” he always says. He thinks I’m like drilling for oil, and if he pushes hard enough, eventually he’ll win. It’s the same thing with football. “Football is a waste of hardworking energy, Henry. And someday you’ll see I’m right.” Of course, when we’re in front of his big banker friends who love the sport, my father is all pats on the back. “My boy is quite the player. Couldn’t be prouder.” Really, though? My father is just waiting for the opportunity to force me to join the family business. He doesn’t quite understand that while the money is important, it’s not everything. Football is everything.
“Hey, Georgina, nice dress. Going to milk a cow?” says some guy who looks about my age, standing on the back patio with a few giggling teenaged girls. I think they’re friends of Candice’s.
Georgina, my baby sister, who has long brown hair and the sweetest, kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever known, was born with chronic debilitating shyness. She’s a borderline mute. Unless you get her alone and she trusts you. Then you learn that she’s smart as a whip, funny as hell, and incredibly compassionate. She’s just not into people. And parties or short dresses. Which is why she kind of just hangs in the background at these events, trying to be invisible or passing for the help by cleaning up. Drives my mother nuts.
I look at the small group of idiots who are eyeing Georgie’s long flowery skirt, snickering away at her lack of fashion sense.
“Dude,” I jerk my head at the guy, “how old are you?”
The guy’s head whips in my direction, and his fake tan instantly melts into a pasty shade of khaki. Obviously, he hadn’t seen me standing behind him, talking to one of my dad’s invites who wants me to come to his son’s peewee football jamboree thing. Of course, I’d love to—I love teaching kids football—but I’m mid-season and then facing my last semester and finals, so I offered to help out next summer.