Fuck. Just how I wanted to start back to practice, by pissing everyone off.
IT’S THE WORST practice of my life. Not because I play bad. I play just fine. But Coach’s understanding attitude did not stretch to the rest of the team. They were pissed. Keyon’s lip is still scabbed, and I keep catching him glaring at me like he’s just waiting for the perfect moment to jump me. Coach Gallt didn’t like me to begin with, and his opinion of me sure hasn’t gotten any better. If any of the other backs were feeling charitable, that’s gone by the time we finish my punishment, our punishment, with Oz.
When the running is done, we do drills and drills and more drills, which wouldn’t be so bad if I got to play when the drills are over, but I don’t. Instead, I stand on the sidelines watching for the first time in years. Even as a redshirt, when I wasn’t actually playing in games, I still got time in practice on the field. And after the mess with Levi, Coach is big on making sure we’ve got depth on the team. He rotates in backups and the backup backups to make sure there’s always someone who can get the job done.
I don’t get rotated in once, and when the final whistle blows, I can feel the familiar anger just beneath my lungs, and it’s a lot easier to call it up now. Every time I breathe it’s there, waiting to be let out.
But I hold it in. Hold my breath even when Williams clocks my shoulder as he walks past to get some water. It would be so easy to lay into him, and not with a punch this time. One thing that standing on the sidelines has given me is time to watch and analyze. The guy might be fast, but he’s not quick. Give him an open field or a missed tackle, and he’ll rake in the yards. But when there’s just a split second to break through a hole, he misses it 50 percent of the time. And on top of that, he runs high. Instead of getting low and making himself a smaller target, he’s more concerned with showing off, and it makes him easier to tackle.
So the guy can bump into me as many times as he wants, but until he fixes his pad level and gets quicker on his feet, he doesn’t have shit on me.
That and the possibility of Dylan still being at my apartment when I get home are the only things that get me through practice, through the looks in the locker room, and through the final task I set for myself today.
I’m waiting outside on the sidewalk when Keyon exits the building.
He’s walking with a few other freshmen, probably heading back to their dorms, and when I step up their conversation stops.
He lifts his chin and says, “Got a little smarter, did ya? Waiting until Coach ain’t around?” He drops his bag, cracks his knuckles, and shakes out his shoulders.
I sigh and shake my head. Was I this much of an idiot my freshman year?
“Relax, man. I’m not coming at you.” Even if he could stand to be taken down a peg or two. “Just wanted to say . . .” I twist my lips and spit out the word, “Sorry. You caught me on a bad day, and instead of brushing it off, I took it out on you.”
He turns his head to the side and squints up at me. Then he looks at his friends and laughs. “Man, you’re a pu**y. You wanna hug it out next?”
God, I want to hit this kid so bad.
Instead, I take a deep breath and back up a few steps. “See you on the field, fish.”
“You mean on the sidelines, right? Since that’s the only thing you’ll see for a while.”
Keep walking. Keep f**king walking.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m picturing Dylan—her sweet laugh, that tempting pout, her blue eyes always studying me. I picture her, and I put one foot in front of the other all the way to my truck. I keep it up through three red lights, a stop sign, and one slow-ass car that decided to drive fifteen miles an hour in a thirty-five zone.
But then I’m home and climbing the stairs and throwing open my door to a perfectly made bed and an empty room.
I crack. Wide open. It feels like my ribs have been pulled back like a wishbone, and I somehow have come up with all smaller halves. I throw my bag at the wall, but the thud as it hits isn’t the least bit satisfying. I hear Brookes and Torres moving around downstairs, and I slam my door shut. Leaning my forehead against the wood, I squeeze my eyes shut tight and try to talk myself down.
I can’t let this drag me down again. Football is too important. My future is too important to lose it every time something doesn’t go my way.
I’m two deep breaths down when I hear a knock on the other side of the door.
“Go away, Brookes. I’m not in the mood.”
“Um, Silas?”
It’s not Brookes. I tear open the door so fast that her blonde hair flies up around her as if on a breeze. Her eyes widen in surprise, and I pull her up and into my arms within seconds. She squeals and wraps her arms around my neck. I close the door again behind us, and when I press her back against it, her legs wrap around my hips.
I kiss her mouth, her cheek, her jaw, her neck. I kiss absolutely every piece of her I can reach, and when I run out, I pull her legs down and make her stand. Then I drop to my knees in front of her, and push up that same sheer shirt from yesterday to drag my tongue over the soft flesh of her stomach.
“S-Silas?” she asks quietly. “Are you okay?”
Dragging her shorts down her legs, I wait for her to lift her feet so I can throw them away, then I kiss her bare hip, just above the lace edge of her underwear, and say, “I’m perfect.” I drag that scrap of lace down, too, and put my mouth where I’ve wanted it for days. One of her hands clutches at my head and the other locks on to the doorknob, holding her steady. She moans while I taste her, and between flicks of my tongue I tell her again, “Absolutely perfect.”
And I was right that day in the kitchen. With my mouth on her and her hands in my hair and those tiny gasps she makes, the whole f**king world just disappears.
Chapter 22
Dylan
This is either the worst idea I’ve ever had. Or the best. If the tumbling, twisting sensation behind my ribs is any indication, I’m going to say best.
Silas crosses the playroom toward me, an adorable brown and gray mottled puppy in his arms.
“This one’s a fast little sucker. I nearly didn’t catch him.”
The puppy is a Labrador and cattle dog mix, and even as a puppy, he’s almost too big for my arms when Silas hands him over to me.
“What’s his name again?” he asks.
I check the pup’s tag and answer, “Leo.”
He scowls. “That’s a terrible name. He’ll never get adopted with a wimpy name like that.”