Page 19

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Alister

It’s hilarious. Comical, really.

She could have chosen any other guy, and I might have believed her, but dating Brady Lancaster?

Yeah fucking right.

The man has his own harem, and Cameron isn’t the cleat-chaser type. There is no way she would be okay with being one of many. And there are many . I may not know him on a personal level, but I’m his teammate, and I have eyes.

On the flip side, I’m well aware of how close they are.

They’ve been friends since they were in grade school, maybe longer.

I’d have said Brady was like a brother or cousin to her if anyone asked why my girl was always hanging around another guy, but he sure as shit didn’t kiss her like he would agree.

I wonder if they’ve hooked up before.

I scoff to myself, shaking my head.

No. They’re just messing around, trying to discourage me by putting on a show.

It’s not going to work. I know it’s fake.

Cameron, while in tune with her sexuality and unashamed of it, doesn’t bounce around. The fact that she and I just recently hooked up tells me all I need to know.

This thing between them isn’t real.

All I have to do is wait it out, and if my assumptions are correct, I won’t be waiting long .

The guy has always had a girl chasing after him, he’s just charismatic like that, but this season it’s doubled with the help of the Secret Shark. They come to him in flocks, his name and number painted all over their bodies, and I mean all over .

I’ve never been to a single party, at the football house or otherwise, where he’s been in attendance when he didn’t take the offer of at least one of them.

I’m not saying he’s a womanizer, but he is definitely a women lover.

So while he tries to figure out what it even means to be someone’s boyfriend, pretend or not, I’m going to be Cameron’s friend. I’m going to use this time to take a step back and really get to know the girl the way I wish I would have in the beginning.

We pretty much jumped right into things. We flirted and danced around each other for a few weeks, and yes, a lot of that was because, at the time, I had no intention of finding out any single thing about her. It’s true, she was a means to an end, but that didn’t last long.

Our chemistry was instant. We fell into bed first, and the rest came after—or it was beginning to anyway.

My stomach turns, regret burning up my insides like acid, but it’s all good—or it will be because there is no way Brady is going to be able to stick to their little plan for long. He’ll find someone new he can’t say no to, and that will be that.

I bet he doesn’t make it through the week.

I step into the locker room, and three pairs of eyes snap my way, drawing a sigh from my lips.

Practice is going to be even more interesting now, that’s for damn sure.

Brady

The snap is made, and I throw my weight around, twisting my torso and tossing Kroger to the turf, hands shooting up and smacking the ball straight out of pretty boy’s hold, my shoulder pads knocking into his and sending him stumbling back.

Coach blows the whistle, and Alister spits out his mouthpiece opening his lips to pop off, but Chase shoulder-checks him as he gets back into position to run the play—or attempt to—for the third time.

The punk clenches his jaw, glaring at me, and I wink under my helmet, shimmying my way backward until I’m in position once more.

“Same play!” Coach Rogan shouts. “Alister, fire the fucking ball off!”

Not on my watch.

I smirk around the hunk of plastic in my mouth, chuckling when Alister shoves his mouthpiece back in with angry, jerky movements.

My eyes do a swift scan of the field, watching as Chase and our other receiver swap places, spreading out until they’re on opposite sides of the field.

Alister’s knee is bouncing slightly, a tell of his I learned last year. He’s letting his anger get the best of him, and it’s affecting his play.

He’ll never be able to lead a team at this level if he can’t find a way around that, and he’ll never even get the chance to lead this one after Mason’s time is up if he doesn’t find a way to gain the respect of his teammates.

Where he stands currently, he doesn’t have it, and it’s got nothing to do with his annoyance at me or the shit he stirred with Mason last year.

Nah, it’s all him and his inability to trust those around him.

He’s a quarterback who wants to run more than throw, and that makes no fucking sense, especially not with Coach Davies, who runs the offense here.

He’s all about the passing game, and Alister doesn’t trust his receivers enough to make the catch, let alone trust his line to block well enough to allow him time to read the field.

Now that I will take all the credit for .

I’m in the backfield more often than not, and practice is no different.

When Coach first asked me to make the transition from offense to D-end, I wasn’t so sure.

It’s always been me and my boys on the field together: Chase as the receiver, Mason the one throwing him the ball, and me, the guy who makes sure they can’t fucking touch him.

But man, that very first week practicing at the new position, something just clicked.

This is where I was meant to be.

I got three sacks in the very first game this season. My first fucking game at a position I’d only been practicing at for weeks rather than the twelve years I’d spent on the other side of the ball. That is just wild. Some people go full seasons without a sack, and I managed three in one game.

We’re six games in, and I’m already at seven sacks, tied for the division’s leading spot.

I’m ’bout to make it eight, not that this will count toward my real stats.

Coach blows the whistle, and Alister steps up, casting a look across the line. He lifts his foot once, twice. The ball is snapped, the line holds strong, but I shove my way through just as Alister steps back.

He’s in full windup, but before the ball leaves his fingers, I wrap his ass up, taking him to the turf with a satisfying thump.

The ball rolls out of his hands, and I snatch it up, jogging toward the end zone for what would be a defensive touchdown, but just like I figured—hence the jogging—Coach is already blowing the whistle, and I fight a laugh when he starts to chew me out.

“Goddamn it, Lancaster, what the hell are you doin’?” He stomps out on the field, clipboard held out and pointed in the air. “You don’t take the fucking quarterback down!”

“Sorry, Coach!” I shout, shrugging like an innocent schoolboy, and bite back my retort that Alister isn’t our real quarterback. “Couldn’t stop my momentum. ”

He scoffs loudly, slapping his leg with the thin plywood. “Take a lap, asshole.”

“Yes, Coach.” I grin, jogging back over to where Alister has pulled himself off the ground, turf stains on his ass. I toss him the ball, and he bats it away, his glare following me as I take off for my lap. I’d bet money he knows exactly where I’m headed.

I go wide on the field, running along the edge without getting my cleats on the track, and when I reach the benches on the opposite side, I cut a quick look back. Good, Coach ain’t watching…but guess who is.

I smirk, tear my helmet off, and run over the small walking path, jumping up until I’m half hanging over the ledge to the bleacher.

The girls laugh, textbooks and notebooks in their laps, having come out to study while we practice, something they’ve been doing since high school.

“Ari, Paige.” I smile at them, then turn to Cameron. “Hi, Fake Girlfriend.”

Cameron crosses her arms with a playful narrowing of her eyes. “Hi, Fake Boyfriend. I take it laying him on his ass wasn’t satisfying enough?”

“Not nearly. Wanna make out, celebrate our eight-day anniversary?”

She laughs, but I’m already jumping down, having only been teasing.

“Gotta go. Don’t let my hot body distract you from studying too much, okay?”

“Oh, however will I manage that,” she teases, still looking at me as I turn around and finish my lap.

We run a few more plays, Mason back out on the field this time before practice is called.

I drop onto the bench, tearing my helmet off, and take several long pulls from the water hose. I sit back, swiping a towel across my face and neck, my chest heaving from exertion .

I fucking love this feeling, the hard work, the grind, day in and day out.

A ball hits me in the chest, and my head snaps forward to find Alister stalking over.

A grin splits my lips. “Uh-oh, pretty boy’s pissed.”

“Fuck you.” He frowns. “You’re the one acting like a dick because you’re pretending to date my fucking?—”

I’m on my feet in a second flat, bent at the knee to make us eye level. “You’re…what, huh?”

He seethes, lip curling, but says nothing.

“Your biggest regret? Your biggest fucking loss?” I press my forehead hard into is, driving him backward. “’Cause we both know that’s all she’ll ever be to you now.”

He pulls back and swings, clipping me across the jaw.

My teammates rush in, pulling us apart, and I let them, keeping my eyes locked on his with each foot of distance put between us.

I shake the guys off, glaring at the asshole who made my Cammie Girl cry. I knew I’d hit a nerve with that one, but at least I know for sure now Cameron is right: he’s decent enough to feel bad about what he did.

“That was your one free shot, Howl,” I warn with a grin. “You won’t get another.”

He opens his mouth, but Coach appears, and he clamps his mouth closed like a good boy. Coach looks between us, eyes narrowed, but when no one says a word, only going back to cleaning shit up, he doesn’t ask.

“Harper!” Coach calls out instead.

I look over just as Chase lifts his head.

“Coach?” his brows pull.

“My office after you’re all done out here.”

Chase meets my gaze with a slight frown, his chin jerking in a nod as he looks back at the man. “Yes, Coach.”

With that, he walks away, and we hurry through our tasks, cleats crunching against the concrete as we head back into the locker room.

It’s not until I get back to my locker, Alister’s shit still hanging in his, that I realize he didn’t come in when we did.

No. He stayed out on the field, and I only need one guess as to why.

Determined little dickhead.