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Chapter Seven

Austen

The tension in the air from our defeat is damn near palpable in the locker room.

A part of me feels embarrassed that Cam had to see us get our asses handed to us like we did, but there’s also a part of me that was happy he came, even if it was for the worst part of the game.

He used to come to all my games in high school, but ever since we got here, he’s been too busy with his own stuff to attend most of the Friday night games.

I know it’s probably dumb as shit but seeing him in the stands always gives me a boost of confidence when I play, even though I’ll never tell him that. I can’t really explain it, but knowing I’m being watched and judged by someone who loathes the sport but still shows up for me… it makes me want to perform better if only so I can see him excited when we win.

Savannah’s only seen a few games this year, what with the long drive and her own schedule, since she doesn’t attend here. But even when she comes to watch me play, I can’t help but feel like my performance is under more scrutiny. She knows the game better than most, being a former cheerleader and coming from a family of football enthusiasts. Even though she cheers for me, she’s judging my plays, which makes me feel on edge.

I open my locker, my skin still flushed from the hot water, the towel hanging around my hips loosely.

Had we won, the boys would be whooping so loud Mars could hear them, and they’d be drinking and laughing the whole night through.

But tonight, they're just pissy. We’re still expected to make an appearance at the party, though. Win or lose, ladies love a jock, and if I’m being honest, it doesn’t really matter if we win or lose.

Sometimes I think they are more touchy-feely when we lose because they want to make us feel better—at least that’s what Savannah used to be like when we lost.

I pull my clothes out of the locker, my mind wandering to my fiancée.

I’d made the hour and a half drive last weekend all the way back home to see her. As far as I’m concerned, there is no distance I wouldn’t travel to see the person I love, knowing how happy it makes them.

I like when people are happy with me. I like to make people happy. It gives me a sense of purpose, and it’s better than any other feeling. But the other night, Savannah was not happy with my impromptu surprise date.

I thought it was romantic… showing up unannounced with a bouquet of lilies—her favorite—to take her out to dinner. I know plenty of people who claim romance dies after you get married, but I refuse to let that be the case for Savannah and me. Just because I have her doesn’t mean I won’t continue to work for her. To make sure she’s safe, cared for, and most of all, happy.

Call me an idealist, but that’s the way it should be, right?

I got dressed in my khakis and polo, the one she bought me last Christmas, rolled up to her door and thought she’d be so surprised.

She was, but she didn’t seem happy about it. She’d agreed to let me take her to dinner, but the entire night, she just felt different. Mad, even.

I offered to let her vent, talk about stuff, I made sure we went to her favorite restaurant—LaMonde’s, which is hella pricey, but I didn’t care—and I even ate her out in the backseat of my car afterwards.

Yeah, I know we said no sex stuff until the wedding, but I thought maybe it would loosen her up and put a smile on her face at least.

I didn’t think it was possible to be sad when you’re coming. I learned all about that oxytocin stuff in my Bio class.

But apparently Savannah can be, because after I was done, she just asked me to take her home.

It’s stress, probably. Graduation, the wedding…

No one was more shocked than I that Savannah didn’t decide to go to some big university and join a sorority, considering her mom was a legacy.

Instead, she opted to stay local and attend Community College. She changed her major twice, until she settled on marketing, which is why we’re pretty much graduating at the same time.

But as always, I promised her we’d make it work. No matter what happens, we always make it work.

I grab my boxer briefs and my jeans, letting out a sigh.

I pull on my jeans, trying to shake off the weird feeling as another thought enters my brain.

Does she know I went to the strip club the other night? Paul said he wouldn’t say anything, and what were the chances of someone who knows me, finding me there? Slim to none, probably. Not this far away from home. I’m just being paranoid.

But for some reason, I latch onto the fact she didn’t even offer to return the favor. I would’ve let her, even if I can’t stand the way her teeth scrape on my cock.

After the strip club, I thought maybe I’ve been too hard on myself. I wasn’t into Cinnamon, clearly because of all the intrusive thoughts that were able to permeate my inebriated brain, but I can’t deny that her touching me turned me on.

There’s the surprise of the century— Austen Brewer needs to get laid. Or maybe just jack off more.

God, this wedding can’t come soon enough.

Maybe then Savannah will be less stressed, once we’ve said our vows, and drank ourselves into an oblivion.

I pull my shirt on, noticing the locker room is starting to thin out.

“See ya at Phi Kappa Delta, Brewer?” Mack says as he grabs my shoulder. I turn, the motion knocking my phone out of the locker onto the floor with a smack.

Shit!

I kneel down to grab it, nodding. “Yeah, of course, I just need to—”

That’s when I see the text from Cam.

Can’t make it tonight. Migraine.

My eyebrows furrow as disappointment swells in my chest for the second time tonight.

I was really hoping to catch up with Cam tonight and vent about what happened with Savannah because he doesn’t even know I went there yet. We haven’t had the time to talk about it. Not that I need his permission or anything, but we usually keep each other up to date on what we’re doing.

He’s always been a good listener, and he’s never judged me about my stupid sex shit.

I know I’m not like other guys. I know I should be gung-ho on fucking my fiancée into an oblivion every chance I get. I shouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of her. I should be jacking off way more than I do.

It’s not like I don’t want to.

I’d love more than anything to be like other guys. To want to be buried in pussy until I can’t see straight. I want to enjoy sex. I really do.

That might be ninety percent of my problem, actually. I think too much.

I’m more invested in wanting to do it than actually doing it, so I get in my head too much.

At least, that’s what Cam tells me.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I say, my voice faraway.

Mack squeezes my shoulder. “Aight, I’ll meet you outside.”

I swallow harshly, the weight of defeat heavy on my shoulders as I send out a text, even though I know Cam’s probably passed out. His migraines are brutal. I’ve never had to deal with them, but I’ve seen them knock him out for days before.

Maybe I’ll stop by the studio tomorrow before the gym and bring him a coffee. He always does that sort of thing when I feel like shit.

Returning the favor is nice, sometimes. Especially when it makes the other person happy.

When I make them happy.

Bummer. Feel better. Text you in the morning.

I wish I didn’t have to go to any of these stupid parties. I’ve never been much of a partier. My brother, Alex, however… that’s a different story. Growing up, my parents were adamant about me being a good boy. No drinking, no premarital sex, all that stuff.

My brother never bought into any of it, and I suppose that’s why my parents were so adamant about me sticking to the rules. Alex was a bit of a rebel, always giving my parents headaches.

“If you live in my house, you abide by my rules, boy.” That’s my dad’s answer for everything. Not that he ever said it to me, since I did follow the rules, but I heard those words shouted at Alex too many times along with slamming doors.

I don’t like going to parties and getting black out drunk, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t woken up with a bitching hangover in the middle of a field feeling like I’m dying before. But that’s because I’m better at hiding things and keeping secrets than Alex. I’m convinced he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. Or maybe it’s because I care more than he does; who knows?

I turn on my smile—the one I wear like a mask. I shake off my feelings of despair, telling myself that maybe a drink will do me good tonight. Maybe it’ll ease the pain, the anxiety, the disappointment.

And with that, I slide my phone in my back pocket, run my hand through my hair and close my locker, stowing my disdain for the moment in favor of showing up and being the Austen Brewer everyone knows and loves, regardless of how I feel.

At least they’ll be happy.