Page 26 of Tyler (Bummerset Shore University #2)

ELEVEN

T he next month goes by in a fucking blur.

Before I can even comprehend it, all those days that dragged so freaking slowly this summer somehow start flying by at warp speed.

I’m three weeks into my second-to-last semester of college, and my roommates Lamar, Tuck, and Miles, and I are walking across campus after winning the first game of the season.

“Look at us seniors, being the kings of the campus. Everyone’s looking at us,” Lamar muses as we stroll toward our favorite bar, Yettie’s, for a cold drink and some well-deserved post-game dinner filled with glorious carbs and fried shit.

After a match it’s cheat day because I need to refuel, and I’m all here for it.

The sun is setting behind the palm trees, casting everything in that warm, golden glow that makes the campus look almost cinematic, but also makes it feel like home, having had this view my entire life on the West Coast.

“They always do,” Tuck mumbles, pushing his blondish hair back before pulling a Tigers cap over it. “But speak for yourself. I’ve got a whole damn year to go after you guys.”

“Ah, my precious little junior,” Lamar sighs dramatically, slinging his free arm around him. “Forever stuck in the purgatory of mediocrity, always lagging in the shadows of your superiors.”

Tuck rolls his eyes and shrugs his arm off. “One more year of mediocrity sounds better than flunking senior year because you forgot college requires studying . I haven’t seen you around the last couple of nights.”

I cock my head at that. I’ve been buried in my own textbooks all week, locking myself in my room whenever I get a couple of hours to actually study, so I haven’t noticed much.

Even just a few weeks in, it’s already crystal clear that senior year is going to be a bitch.

So where Lamar found the time to go off gallivanting with who-the-fuck-ever is beyond me.

The first few weeks of classes, studying and training, topped-off with our first game tonight, fucking flew by.

And honestly? I’m doing kind of okay, better than during summer break, that’s for sure.

Now that I’ve got more going on, more to focus on besides pining after my boyfriend as a lovesick fool, the ache isn’t nearly as bad.

Putting most of my attention on the season helps, and having a clear deadline in place before I see him again (five more weeks to be exact) is also a perk.

Not that I don’t miss him, my Jace. Fuck, my heart still hurts just thinking about him.

But the more I have on my plate, the easier it gets to breathe.

And shit—he’s so fucking busy himself. All that time he used to spend lounging on the bus, complaining he was bored and needed something to do? Yeah, that ship has definitely sailed.

Everywhere the band goes now, it’s interviews, photoshoots, meet-and-greets—you name it. And if they finally get a second to breathe on the bus, they’re working on the new album, new song, new everything.

Still, he always finds time to talk to me every day. Even if it’s just for a few minutes.

Meanwhile, I’m back here, trying to keep my shit together, juggling too many classes, never too much football, friends who pull shit, two ducks, and one guinea pig.

The owner of said guinea pig waves to some passersby, doing some elaborate half-wave, half-curtsy thing. “Hello! How are you on this fine day, my lovely peasants?”

“You’re making it worse,” I mutter, elbowing Lam when a group of girls dressed in orange and black Tiger jerseys stare at him like they’re wondering what meds he forgot to take.

“And they’re not looking because we’re us—or maybe they are—but they’re probably wondering why the guys who just bagged the game are carrying ducks . ”

Right on cue, Patrice lets out a hard quack in my arms, nestled snugly against my chest.

I pet her soft head. “Good girl. We’re almost there and then you can relax.

” I eye Lamar, who has Patrick under his beefy arm like a football, his preferred way of carrying him around.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to bring them to the bar again?

You know Gus won’t let them in. He almost gave you a permanent ban last week. ”

“What? Don’t jinx it dude. They’ve been alone this entire day while we were off at the game. They miss us. Gus will understand.”

I highly doubt it.

“And besides, I have an emergency contingency plan in place. Don’t you worry, it’ll be fine.”

I highly doubt that , too.

When we get to an already crowded Yettie’s, I have to hold back a groan. Gus, the owner, pushes through the swinging doors, probably having spotted us approaching. He has his arms crossed, glare firmly in place on his rugged, handsome face.

Yup. It might’ve taken me twenty-one years to notice all the pretty men in my life, but I definitely see them now. No one beats Jace, though. Not even if they have arms the size of tree trunks which are currently barring the damn door.

“No ducks allowed, Lamar. I told you that last week.”

“Ah, but Gussie, my man,” Lamar says with a grin, “they were starving of loneliness! We can’t leave them at home all night after being gone all day.”

“No. No fucking way. They shit everywhere . Took me for-fucking-ever to clean up after them last week. I’m still finding poop stains in places I didn’t even know existed. One was on the soap dispenser, Lamar. The fucking soap dispenser .”

“I don’t see a sign that ducks are not allowed on the premises,” Lamar replies innocently. “Or in the bathroom, for that matter.”

Miles, Tuck, and I groan in tandem, but it quickly morphs into amused snickers when Gus steps aside and jabs a finger at the window, where a brand-new No Ducks symbol is now proudly stuck. The big red slash across the cartoon duck is almost offensive.

Lamar gasps like the drama queen he is and covers Patrick’s eyes. “Oh, no you didn’t .”

“That’s so cool. Where’d you get it?” Miles remarks with a big-ass grin.

“Ordered it on Etsy,” Gus deadpans before glaring at Lamar. “And yes. I fucking did. Now bring those two back to your—”

Before he can finish and ban us from his establishment, I step in, gently prying Patrice from my chest and plucking a happy Patrick from under Lamar’s arm before he can stop me.

“Come on, little guys,” I murmur, giving them each a little shake. “You know the way.”

Lamar’s jaw practically drops. “What are you doing, Tyler fucking King ? Are you betraying me?”

“They can’t come in, and I’m not getting banned from the only place that serves cheese fries with extra bacon on my cheat day. I’m starving, Lam. We just spent four hours running across a field. I need carbs .”

“Me too. Let them go, buddy,” Tuck chimes in before grabbing Lamar’s elbow, making him look down at him.

He whispers something, heads close, and I use Lamar’s distraction—thank you, Tuck—to carry the ducks back to the curb where I crouch, setting them down on the warm concrete and giving them a little nudge.

They ruffle their feathers, tilt their heads like they absolutely understand the assignment, because I know they do.

They’re little smarty-pants, yes they are.

They’ve done this before, they know their way around.

Last week, Lamar thought we lost them after he forgot to close the door of their enclosure he built at the back of the house.

But then Mom called to say Manuel was complaining about having the damn ducks back in his pool again, so we drove home a couple of days ago to pick them up.

After one more affectionate little quack from Patrice, they walk off, wiggling their cute duck-butts before they flap their wings and lift off. Good little duckies.

“They’ll be home before us,” I say, watching them fly off toward our neighborhood.

Lamar punches me in the shoulder when I get back on the porch, hard. “You exiled them. They looked back. Did you see that? That was a final goodbye.”

“They’ll be fine,” I deadpan, holding the door open for my roommates. “Now come cry into a burger like a fucking normal person.”

He sighs, long and tragic. “They trusted us.”

“They also pooped in Gus’s mop bucket. Let’s go.”

As we step inside, Gus calls after us, voice thick with judgment. “If I see a single feather in that booth again, I’m installing motion sensors and getting a fucking cat.”

“Love you too, Gussie!” Lamar chirps as he brushes past.

We’re barely two steps in when he leans toward me, voice low and conspiratorial. “By the way… Meatball’s still in my hoodie.”

I stop pushing through the thick crowd. “You brought the guinea pig to Yettie’s?”

He grins and nods at his black and orange Tiger hoodie—where, yes, the little white-and-brown fuzzball peeks out. Christ.

“He was lonely, too. And technically not a duck, so hah.”

“Was that your emergency contingency plan? Bring a damn guinea pig instead of the ducks?”

I sigh, already regretting everything, and keep moving toward the booth, high-fiving fans and giving quick nods as we go. “Just don’t let him near the condiments this time. If we have to go back to the damn vet because he eats another entire tub of mayonnaise, I’m kicking your ass.”

“Please,” Lamar scoffs, sliding into the booth beside me. “You don’t own my ass.”

Tuck slides in across from us with Miles, raising a brow. “You offering that ass to just anyone now, or can I get in line?”

Lamar snorts. “You couldn’t handle it, blondie.”

Tuck just smirks and starts fidgeting with a Captain America coaster. “Bet I could surprise you.”

I don’t miss Lam’s answering grin before the conversation shifts back to the game while we wait for our food.

Not that we didn’t already spend an hour post-game going through tape with the coaches and reviewing every fucking detail.

But hey, we’re football players. We can talk about this shit forever.