Page 3

Chapter Three

“ E xplain it to me again, dude. Why am I not going to move into the apartment downstairs?” Whiskey is going to take a little convincing, but not nearly as much as Tasha is, I’m sure. Peyton and I came up with the idea of encouraging Whiskey to move in with Tasha after the world’s most uncomfortable dinner last night. So far, I think Whiskey is intrigued—but also skeptical. He and Tasha are what Peyton calls frenemies.

I line myself up on the bench press, hands wrapped around the bar as I stare up at my friend. Our eyes meet as I sigh before going through the plan yet again.

“Look, it’s cheaper rent, and her building is way nicer. You’ll have your own room, and you’ll be doing me and Peyt a solid.” I lift the bar from the support brackets and lower it to my chest, breathing out as I push it back up.

“Yeah, I hear you, but . . .” He waggles his head, and I bust out another four reps before sliding the bar back on the supports and sitting up.

“Is this about the kiss situation?” I snag my towel from my gym bag on the floor and wipe the sweat from my face while my big-hearted and big-boned right guard chuckles. Whiskey and Tasha spent an entire night making out over the summer during one of our lake trips. We never discussed it, or rather, I brought it up and Whiskey quickly told me to, “Fuck right off.”

“There is no kiss situation. At least, not for me. I don’t know what’s going on in Tasha’s head, but as far as I’m concerned, it was just another night at the lake with a few beers and a good time.”

My friend is a shitty liar, but I don’t push him on this. He’s also sensitive, which is one of his best qualities.

“Okay, fine. There is no kiss situation,” I say with my hands up. “Then, what’s the big deal? Cheaper room, better building, closer to the stadium . . . and campus.”

He shrugs, and his shoulders quickly sag with an invisible weight as his eyes dim. It hits me. The big lug is going to miss me.

“You know we’ll still be hanging out all the time, right? And Peyt loves you like family, so you’re welcome in our place anytime.”

He breathes out a short laugh.

“Yeah, I’m sure she really wants my ass on the couch between you two while we watch the late-night rerun of Sports Center .”

He has a good point.

“Well, no. I mean, she probably doesn’t want us to have sleepovers and shit, but you know you’ll still be a part of our Sunday night dinners. And me and you will still do our regular hangs, and?—”

“Yeah, I know. It’s not like I’m crying about it or anything, it’s just . . . you two are really growing together. And it’s beautiful. I don’t want you thinking I’m not on board with what you two have built together, because I am. I guess I feel a little left behind is all. And I know that’s all in my head, or my own fault, but I was sort of getting my head around the idea of living alone and finding out what I’m all about. I’m sure this all sounds stupid as hell.”

I stand up and drop my hand on my friend’s shoulder. Our eyes meet briefly before he clears his throat and masks his emotions, quickly busying himself by removing the clips on the bench press bar to load up another plate for his reps.

“It’s not stupid, Whisk.”

“Yeah, well, whatever,” he mutters, sliding the second plate on and following it up with the safety clip. He straddles the bench and drops down with a heavy sigh before lowering onto his back.

“I don’t know,” he starts before I interrupt with, “I’ll pay you.”

He punches out a laugh so loud it echoes around the weight room and draws attention from the other dozen guys lifting with us. He powers through his set, lifting three hundred pounds like it’s a bag of groceries. The bar lands back on the supports with a clang before he sits up and meets my gaze.

“Why is this so important to you?” His question is so direct, and so unlike him, it takes me a little off-guard.

“I mean, it’s Peyton, Whisk. I want to marry this girl. Moving in together is a big deal for us, and?—”

“No, no. I mean me living with Tasha. Why is that such a big deal? She could find someone else. I’m fine living alone. So, what’s with the tag-teaming to force us together?”

He’s smart enough to know that Peyton and I are working in tandem. I wonder how her side of the pressure campaign is going. I wonder if Tasha threw any punches.

I snag my water bottle from the spare bench and lean against one of the weight racks as I pull the cap and chug. It gives me a few extra seconds to choose my words.

“It’s important to Peyton. That’s why this is important to me.”

“Yeah, I get that. But why? Why is it important to Peyton?”

My best friend and I lock eyes for a few quiet seconds before I respond.

“Because she knows Tasha will be safe with you,” I finally admit.

This isn’t anything Peyton’s said out loud to me, but it’s something I just know in my gut. Over the three years Peyton and I have been together in college, and even when we met in high school, I’ve gotten a pretty good look at how volatile Tasha can be. She’s a great friend to Peyton. A ride-or-die. It’s just that sometimes her inclination to live on the edge and toy with death is a bit strong. I was with Peyton the summer before college when she had to rush her friend to the ER after alcohol poisoning. And last year, we helped her out of a toxic relationship with a guy who put hands on her. Whiskey remembers that—he helped me send the guy a message at the bar on the outskirts of town. I’m pretty sure my friend’s knuckle prints are permanently encased in that asshole’s face.

“And you’ll pay me?”

I shake my head, my pulse kicking with hope that my friend is on board.

“Absolutely,” I say. “How much?”

My NIL deals are lucrative. My mom set up a few funds for me through the financial advisors the firefighters’ association uses, but it still leaves me with plenty of “fun money.” I know I make more on the side than Whiskey does. He’s the face of Wildcat Pizza, but the deal comes mostly in the form of free slices any time he wants.

“Five hundred a month,” he says. It’s a little strange how fast he rattles off the number, but I push off from the weight rack and stretch out my hand to seal the deal.

“Done,” I say, gripping his palm for a shake.

I dig out my wallet from my gym bag and fish out the five hundred bucks I have on hand, just to make sure he doesn’t back out.

“Wow, you work fast.” He chuckles, taking the money and slipping it into his wallet.

We both zip up our bags. I wipe down the bench with one of the cleansing towels, tossing it in the trash as we make our way to the exit. Just before I reach the door to push it open, it widens in a whoosh and I find myself face to face with Bryce. I probably should have timed my lifting session with him, played mentor and all that shit, but after yesterday, I simply needed a break from seeing his face.

Joke’s on me, I suppose, because here’s his face. Right fucking here.

“Hey, man! Good to see you,” Bryce says, taking Whiskey’s hand. They pull each other in for a half hug, years of history tethering them together, despite the way their high school careers ended in rivalry

“You look good,” Bryce says, tapping the back of his hand against Whiskey’s chest. My friend puffs up in response, as if he needs to make himself look any bigger.

“Thanks, man. I’m about two-eighty this year. Looking to make the senior bowl, get myself drafted.”

Bryce and I exchange a quick glance, and I roll my eyes. As confident as Whiskey is on the field, the guy always sells himself short. He’s been worried about being drafted since we stepped foot on the college field. I know for a fact he’s going in the first three rounds. I guess it never hurts to put in the extra work, though.

“Well, I look forward to seeing you out there. Maybe if I get lucky, I can take a few snaps with you to my right this season,” Bryce says.

“No doubt, for sure,” Whiskey says, embracing Bryce one last time. An awkward silence quickly cuts in, and my friend clears his throat before excusing himself, claiming he’s late for something.

Bryce and I are left alone in the doorway, the clanking of weights behind me and the screech of basketball shoes echoing down the hallway behind him, where the women’s team is getting in some off-season time in the fieldhouse.

“You think he just realized you and I are both quarterbacks and me playing means you’re sitting?” Bryce squints at me as he points over his shoulder. He’s not being a dick about it, and I get his tone.

I laugh softly and shake my head.

“He definitely put that together a little late, and I don’t know what the hell he could possibly be late for besides a nap,” I joke.

Bryce’s chest shakes with silent laughter.

“Hey, naps are no joke,” he says, making room for me to pass.

The tension between us is suffocating, and I know I won’t be able to perform at my best if things keep up this way. But I still don’t trust him. We aren’t close. If I were in his position, I’d be looking for my in, even if it came at his expense. Especially if it came at his expense. Even more reason to step up and be a leader.

“Hey, about yesterday,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck as I avert my eyes. I draw in a deep breath before meeting his gaze. He’s chewing at the inside of his cheek. Good. He’s uncomfortable, too.

“I want you to know I appreciate your apology to Peyton. I know she appreciated it, too. And I heard what you said, about learning and growing. I’ll get over my petty bullshit soon, I promise. I’d like to be that guy for you, the one you think I am, I guess.” I’m not sure how many of my own words I believe, but they seem to chip away at a little of the ice as Bryce’s shoulders relax and his posture eases.

“Hey, I appreciate you. I know how hard it was to say what you just did. I have my own bullshit, so maybe we can get over it together. Or at least try. Yeah?” He holds out his hand, and for a second my mind drifts back to the night before. I smirk at his palm, then grip it.

“Here’s to trying,” I say.

Bryce breathes out a long laugh as we let go and trade places in the doorway.

“Oh, and tomorrow—let’s hit the gym at six, get in some miles?” I’m asking him for two reasons. First, to make up for the shitty way I ditched him today, but second, I’d really like to see how he fares on the treadmill. I’m childish enough to race.

“Sounds great. It’ll be good to get the legs loose before we take some snaps.”

For a quick second, our gazes lock, and I swear I see the old Bryce somewhere behind his eyes, the one baiting me and ready for the challenge. It’s our first full team practice on our home field tomorrow. And while he threw at camp last week, I still wasn’t fully cleared. Tomorrow is a statement practice.

“Looking forward to it,” I say, my brows lifting for a beat before I turn for the locker room to dress out and race to my place, where my girlfriend is waiting for me.

Not for Bryce.

For me.