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TWO
JAXON
I threw my phone across the room.
The headlines hadn’t been so frequent in a long time. I’d almost dared to hope that the Mercer name was beginning to fade into obscurity. It was inevitable, although not nearly as fast as I had let myself believe.
Top Ten Most Embarrassing Falls From Grace in Football History , the article said, probably written by someone whose experience with football was having a can of beer on a Sunday morning, watching the game with one eye and staring at naked women with the other, using those few hours of alone time while the family was at Sunday Mass to indulge in a more private sort of hobbies.
I didn’t open the goddamn thing. The thumbnail was enough to fill me with hot rage I’d gotten used to living with a long time ago. Ronan’s face was in the very middle, ten times bigger than all the other faces of the disgraced superstars.
I knew how the story went without any need to read it. There were only two articles on this topic: in the first, the author begrudgingly typed out how obvious the first place was. “No surprises here, folks.” In the other kind, the author thrust their tongue into their cheek and pulled a little plot twist, crowning some obscure player as the biggest disgrace while evoking Ronan’s name as too obvious to be included on the list, gloating in their originality.
Damn them.
I rummaged through my wardrobe and found my shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt I hadn’t soaked in sweat yet this week. There were only ever two things I could fall back on when I was as heated as this. Running and porn. And the image of my older brother with that disgusting headline was a quick way to make my libido die a quiet death. I dragged on my yellow shorts, threw away my black hoodie for a white T-shirt, and stormed out of the room with only my keys and a few cash notes inside my zipped-up pocket.
I had spent a total of two weeks on the Westmont campus, only just learning my way around it. I hoped against all odds that leaving New Haven and the team would give me a fresh start, unburdened by past mistakes—none of my own making—and not haunted by the very name I was trying to clear.
Not clear , I reminded myself as I broke into a trot as soon as I stepped out of the building. The campus sprawled before me, its lawns a vibrant, northern green, and its trees turning more orange with each new day. Some small part of me had always been drawn to this place, like an opportunity that had gotten away from me, never letting me forget what I had missed. Now that I was here, I couldn’t remember what magic I had expected to discover all these years.
I ran. My pecs ached from a particularly strenuous workout last night each time my foot landed on the ground. I ignored the dull, throbbing pain and reminded myself what I was setting out to do, what I had been doing for years.
I wasn’t clearing our name. It was impossible to clear it. I was doing something far more challenging—giving it a new lease on life.
One disgraced Mercer didn’t necessarily mean all were doomed from the start. It haunted me, yes, but if I were only a little better, maybe people would forget about Ronan and focus on Jaxon.
Still, there had never been a mention of me without the adage. Disgraced NFL superstar’s rising younger brother . I was beginning to fear that this would forever be my introduction. I was always the promising one, the talented one, the ambitious one, but such words were almost invisible next to the rest.
My anger led me to run faster, my legs burning, my heart racing to supply me with enough fresh oxygen to keep the lights on. I rounded the entire campus twice, sprinting the length of a marathon against every shred of common sense. And when my knees buckled on my run back, I stopped in the middle of the pedestrian street, bending down and heaving air into my chest. Sickness welled in me, and heat radiated from my body. My hair, face, and clothes were soaked with sweat. Saliva filled my mouth like I was about to retch, but I straightened my back and squared my shoulders. Down the street, there was one of the student cafes, and I headed there. I needed a sugary drink to refill the reserves of my energy. My vision was already narrowing with a deep burgundy vignette.
The cafe played some jazz crap, and a bell rang above the door as I entered, making my head hurt. A few people glanced up, probably expecting someone, but I wasn’t the person they were looking forward to seeing.
I walked to the bar and ordered my drink, lifting the can as soon as the pink-haired barista with a pride badge on her apron opened it. “Thanks,” I muttered, draining half of my soda before setting it down.
There was only one other person sitting alone at the bar, a blond, elf-like guy, his wrist stacked with leather bracelets, his forearm tattooed, and his green gaze downcast. He glanced at me, not finding what he was looking for, and turned that moody gaze away.
I finished my soda, crushed the can, and glanced at the cute guy at the bar. He forgot that I existed by this time, showing no further interest at all. Not that it mattered. I’d told myself I would make this a fresh start. Flirting with the first handsome guy I saw wasn’t a change from my New Haven days.
If I kept letting every mention of Ronan’s downfall get me into the mood to fuck a stranger, I wasn’t going to get better. I wouldn’t get that golden ticket I needed.
Mom and Dad weren’t thrilled about my transfer to Chicago. Their time in New Haven and the blossoming romance that defined their lives held too much sway over their opinion. But it didn’t take long to demonstrate to them just how badly I needed a change.
I was good. I was damn good on the field, and the coaches could see it. But there was always that lingering question in their minds. Do we want to make another Marcer a star? Maybe they didn’t know it. I doubted if they asked themselves that question aloud. But somewhere in the back of their minds, they hesitated, and then they held me back.
Truth be told, I had expected it. On my first day of practice—which was delayed by two weeks thanks to a broken nose—I had bristled and expected the judgment of my brother’s career to be placed squarely on my shoulders. In a short while, I found myself spiraling down the drain of college life, boozing up and letting any and every bi-curious jock have his little moment with me. Some returned for more.
Frat parties were the gayest ones of all. With testosterone dripping all over the carpets, those guys were going wild, their fantasies only tickled and teased in the best of circumstances until someone like me came along. Someone who had little to lose. You wanna know what it feels like? You wanna do something daring? Let me help you with that . Sitting around, drinking beer, having a joint to take the edge off, and talking about girls so much your mouth ran dry inevitably led to fooling around.
And you’d think it was good. You’d think that sitting between two horny jocks who not-so-discreetly scrolled through a sea of porn on either side of me would make your stomach flutter with excitement at the possibilities. It did, now and again. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t exciting.
Except, when all was said and done—and there had been a lot more doing than saying—I’d drag my ass to my dorm room, shower the reeking embarrassment off, and drop on my bed with the same grace and emotional fulfillment of a sack of potatoes.
I was done with that.
I had to be.
The crazy drive that tempted me even now, as I walked back to my dorm room with my legs burning and my sweat cooling, had to be resisted.
It tickled and fluttered in my stomach. It promised that everything would be just fine if only I let myself go for it. What do you have to lose? I’d ask myself. And the answer was always a simple, unequivocal: “Nothing. Not a thing under the sun.”
But I would put it behind me. I couldn’t always be the creature of impulses and desires. Maybe there was something else in this world to save myself for. Maybe I didn’t need to give myself away so cheaply.
And before I even thought of the big, bad word, I tossed it out of my mind. Not that. Never that. I wouldn’t do that if you paid me. Love. It was for losers who didn’t know better. But they all learned this lesson eventually.
Love was a one-way street to hell.