“The troll emerges,” he said in a low, theatrical voice.
“I’m not a troll,” I grumbled.
“My bad,” Bucky said with a chuckle. “A hobbit? A…goblin? No.” He looked at his friends, as if searching for the correct term in their faces. “What are those things that burrow?”
“Gophers?” one of the girls supplied.
“Gophers!” Bucky said happily, snapping his fingers. “That’s what you are, Zero.”
“Zero?” another girl asked.
“His jersey number,” Bucky said.
The first girl who had spoken widened her eyes. “Wait,you’reOwen Lawless?”
Ugh, I hated Bucky in that moment. Why couldn’t hehave kept his big mouth shut?
“I am,” I said, not impolitely but definitely indicating I wasn’t interested in further conversation. I turned my back on them and headed for the kitchen.
“You know you’re, like, leading the fan vote for the Heisman, right?”
Narrowly, I leashed my surprise. Ihadn’tknown that, but the news had pride swelling in my chest. Next to a victory in the Rose Bowl, which I had every intention of leading my team to in January, winning the Heisman Trophy—awarded to college football’s best player—was something I wanted desperately. I had another season to play after this, but to earn the Heisman as a junior, while not unheard of, would be an impressive feat because it happened less frequently than senior players winning. I’d have to call my dad and tell him.
Pulling open the fridge, I selected a few Tupperware containers, the team nutritionist and chef having drilled into me the importance of meal prepping so I didn’t have to waste any of my precious free time during the week cooking. All I had to do was mix my protein—which happened to be chicken—rice, and vegetables in another container and nuke it. While I waited for it to heat, I went to my room and grabbed my water bottle, then returned to fill it.
The girl was still talking about me, as though I wasn’t standing there, as though the other two men in the apartment didn’t also play football.
I was blessed to have gotten a full ride to college to play the sport I loved so much. But I’d be damned if being a quarterback wasn’t the loneliest thing in the world sometimes. Despite performing in front of tens of thousands of people every weekend, Ididn’t particularly enjoy the spotlight.
“He’s unreal,” she continued. “The best quarterback the Ducks have had in two decades.”
“Heis standing right here,” I growled.
“Bro,” Bucky said, cutting me with a glare.
I shrugged. “If she wants to fangirl, she can go somewhere else.”
“Wow,” she said, huffing out an incredulous laugh. “No one told me you were an asshole.”
“I’m not an asshole,” I said. And really, I wasn’t. This girl was just grating on my last nerve. “I just don’t fuck with jersey chasers.”
“An assholeanda virgin,” she sneered. “It all makes sense now.”
Before I said anything further, I turned my back on her, hoping I faced away in time to prevent her from seeing the way my cheeks heated with her comment.
She’d struck a little too close to home.
For the record, there was nothing wrong with being a virgin at twenty. My priorities were elsewhere. Between school and football, I didn’t have the time for—nor did I care about—relationships with girls.
I supposed I was a bit of an enigma in that regard. I’d fooled around in high school, and a bit my freshman year, but I’d never…what’s the baseball euphemism? Crossed home plate? Hit a home run? Either way, I’d never done it, and that wasfine.
When the microwave beeped, I heaved a sigh of relief, removed my food, and retreated to my bedroom.
My phone rang before I could take a bite.
Call it intuition, my sixth sense perking up and taking notice, but the moment I saw my brother West’s name on the caller ID, I knew something was wrong.My heart sank like a lead weight into my stomach.
West never called me. Normally it was everyone else calling meaboutWest, even five-year-old Aria who didn’t even have a phone of her own.
