September
1
Kodi
“What the fuck are we even doing anymore, Mars?” I drunkenly complain, running my hands through my white-blond hair that’s nearly the same shade as my fur. I should be in a good mood. We won. But instead, the colored lights flashing and dancing around the space are doing nothing to brighten my mood, only annoying me further. We’re at the same bar that always hosts our home game win celebrations, but even winning has started to lose its shine.
It’s my third year with the Phoenix Rays, Arizona’s professional football team, and we just won our first official game of the season. Maybe it’s not so much that the shine has worn off. Maybe it’s just that I didn’t think it would be like this. I know a big part of my problem is the heat . . . and how I left things back home.
“Are you even listening to me?” I gripe, taking another long slug of my beer as I narrow my black eyes on my favorite teammate, really the only one I can stand most days.
It’s the second week of September and it’s still over a hundred degrees. Even the warmer-climate shifters are complaining since it should be starting to cool down a bit.
Everyone struggles with the heat here, but even with the variety of shifters on the team, I’m the only arctic shifter. A polar bear shifter, specifically. I’ve always found it wild that humans don’t know that nearly all professional athletes are shifters, or descendants of them. Veryfew humans are allowed to be part of the organizations because of the need to protect the secrecy of the shifter community.
During the draft, I had initially thought that the league was playing a joke on me as rumors had been swirling that Wisconsin and Michigan were the teams looking to draft me. So, when I was selected in the first round by a team in the desert . . . well, you can imagine my surprise.
Had I been drafted in a cooler climate would I be feeling this way?
My thoughts are interrupted when a gorgeous woman falls into my lap, her friend falling into Mars’s. They’re even more drunk than we are, giggling and spilling drinks all over the floor, aware enough not to spill it on us or themselves.
For the most part, our football groupies we lovingly call the Gridiron Girls are pretty awesome. They range from shifters to humans that know about shifters and are all just here to hang out and have a good time. Some of them also choose to take things a little further, earning themselves the bragging rights that come with sleeping with a professional football player.
Because we’re shifters—and most of us will find our mates someday—our groupie fan club must be screened. They have to understand the technicalities of what they’re getting into. The last thing we need is some sweet, unaware human to come face to face with their first knot unknowingly.
All the sports have their own little names for them: hockey has Puck Bunnies, baseball has Cleat Chasers, rodeo has Buckle Bunnies. There are some other names that get thrown around in other sports that I find more derogatory, so I don’t acknowledge them. A lot of these women are in college or have their own careers and lives outside of sports. Like so many, they just enjoy the sports they’ve come to love. They just choose to be a little bit more . . . hands on in their participation in sportsmanlike conduct.
The woman currently perched on my lap is one that I’ve spent a bit of time with. She’s one of the smart ones and she’s really sweet. She’s about to graduate with her doctorate in juvenile psychology, wanting to “Make lives better for the kids people leave behind” she explained to me one night. I like to get to know the women I spend my time with, unlike most of our teammates.
Chancing a look over at Mars, I snort. One of the rowdier Gridiron Girls is chewing on one of his ears and practically riding him in front of Goddess and everyone. He’s definitely taking her home later.
If he did hear me there's no way I’ll be able to capture or hold his attention right now . . . which reminds me. “Hey, Carrie. I’msorry. I’m not gonna be any fun tonight,” I grumble loud enough for her to hear me over the party’s pounding music.
Her previously flirty eyes turn as serious as they can with the amount of alcohol in her bloodstream. “Are you okay, Kodi? I’m all ears if you need someone to talk to?” she offers.
Rolling the idea around in my head, I decide that actually sounds like a great idea. I nod and ask, “Pizza or tacos?” We’ll need some prime drunken-chit-chat snacks.
She laughs, and while it lightens the mood a bit, it can’t chase away whatever it is that’s hanging over me.
“Oh, tacos! Except, have you had the taco burgers from that new twenty-four-hour food truck?”Her eyes light up as she stands. Even though they sound strange, I agree to get a bag of taco burgers as we make our wobbly way to the door to catch a Ryde.
It is suffocatingly hot in here. The thermostat of my condo is set at fifty degrees, but with the desert heat it never gets below sixty-five. I’ve got to have the highest residential electricity bill in the state.
Mam taught me to be a gentleman, so I pull out a chair for Carrie to sit in before I dig our food out of the brown paper bags. Grumbling to myself about the constant heat, I plop into my chair. I glare at the taco burger like all my troubles are its fault, even though I know there’s no one to blame but myself.
After looking it over for a moment, I bite into the misshapen taco. It has the normal taco toppings of lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese, but instead of being nestled into a crunchy or softtortilla, it’s all layered on a giant, surprisingly soft, hamburger bun.
“Oh, fuck. Fose are pretty damn good,” I praise around a mouthful of the strange burger . . . or taco . . . whatever.
She nods, chewing her own food, polite enough not to talk with her mouth full. The drunken haze fades a bit from her features, eyes less glassy and head picking up. After she swallows her food, she takes a drink of her electrolytes, then points at a little cup of something, “Add some of that sweet sauce.”
I wrinkle my nose at the thought ofsweet sauceon my taco.
She throws her head back and laughs, wiping her eyes when she’s finished. “Just try it, would you?”
I do. The sauce has a subtle sweetness that doesn’t overpower the flavors of the taco burger itself. I hate to admit that she’s right, but she saves me by redirecting the conversation. “Alright. Out with it. What’s up?”
The psychology major would want me to bare it all, but should I? I rub at the back of my neck awkwardly searching for words. I expect her to push me, but she doesn’t.
