“Dude. You can’t be that hungover. By the time we finished demolishing the basketball team in flip-cup, you’d already taken your hot lady upstairs, so what the fuck?” He handed me a breakfast burrito and tapped his wrist.
After checking the time on my phone and seeing we only had ten minutes before we were late for film, I snagged a hoodie from the peg by the back door and headed out to my truck, Finn dogging my heels. As I turned the key in the ignition, he kept staring at me. Exasperated with both of us, I sighed.
“I’m not hungover, all right? Just pissed.”
He chuckled. “You passed out on your hot chick, didn’t you, dumbass?”
I took a corner a bit sharp, forcing him to grab the dash.
“If it’s any consolation, I saw her before she left. She dropped down the stairs with flushed cheeks and a little smile on her face. Obviously, you showed her a good time.” He bit off half of his egg-and-sausage burrito while nonchalantly maintaining his hold on the dash with his free hand when I slid the truck around another corner. “I doubt she’s mad,” he added with most of a mouthful of food and a smirk.
We rolled into film in time to see Fitz and Johnson sitting in our usual seats in the front row with the rest of team leadership, which forced us to find spots near the back with the red shirts, rookies, and subs. Not a good look when the coaching staff showed up, but at least we weren’t late. On my way to an open seat, I snagged a banana and unwrapped my burrito right as the coaches strolled through the back door to the film room.
Coach Ellis wasted no time going straight to the sarcasm. “Baxter, McCabe, nice to see you know what time to be here.” His eyes traveled between where we sat and where we should be sitting. “Hope you’re not going to make a habit of this.”
’Han and Danny spun around in their seats in the front row and shook their heads in our direction. No doubt Callahan had at least probably tried to wake me before Finn pounded the shit out of my door. For some reason it was still locked when I woke up.
“At least we’re not hungover, Coach!” Finn’s cheerfulness elicited a glare from our head coach, but apparently, that was all the drama he had time for.
This week of school and practice was going to be brutal. We were playing a semifinal game on the Saturday following finals. Hopefully, some of our fan base would follow us to an away game to support us before heading home for Christmas break. A picture of a purple-haired hottie jumping up and down in the top row of the student section flashed through my head. As if I needed the reminder, another picture of a pair of desire-filled violet eyes staring up at me from my pillow as I gave her what she wanted replaced it. That thought sent me down a rabbit hole that had nothing whatsoever to do with football.
“Yo, Bax. You with us?” Coach Ainsworth’s voice penetrated my Piper-fogged brain.
Focusing on the screen, I cleared my throat. “I should have seen that shift coming, yep. Sorry, Coach. Guess I was caught up enjoying the previous play—then and now.”
He snorted, and I had the distinct impression I hadn’t pulled that one off as well as I thought. Finn’s whispered “Dude!” told me I hadn’t pulled it off at all.
Another hour passed before the coaching staff turned us loose, which was irregular. Usually, film lasted three hours at least, not two. But as we filed out of the room, the coaches handed every player a thin binder of new plays to study. Guess Coach Ellis had a few wrinkles left in the ole playbook. As if I needed more to learn. My art history final was scaring the shit out of me, I had a paper to finish for my psych class, five designs to finish for computer-assisted Graphic Design IV, plus final exams for both of those classes too.
We played football and partied as hard as anyone else on campus, but it was a point of pride in our house that my roommates and I maintained at least a 3.5 GPA. Art history could tank that for me this semester without the added stress of learning a bunch of new plays for our next game. Add to that, we had to travel to the middle of the fucking frozen tundra, also known as North Dakota, because even though we were the conference champs, they ranked higher in the national standings. So I had to study for and finish all my work by Thursday. Fuck.
Yet what commanded more headspace than any of that as I drove Finn and me back to the house was Piper Maxwell. What was she doing right now? Was she thinking as much about last night as I was? That girl had me tied up like a Gordian knot, yet I didn’t have a fucking clue if I was anything more to her than a convenient lay whenever she needed one. I’d set out to wreck her, leave a fucking impression, and I’d been the one to wake up alone.
The semifinal was a first-class disaster. Even with the advantage of the new plays Coach had drilled us on all week, from the way the Buffaloes came at us, they knew them better than we did. Their center stood Fitz up all game long, and their guards and tackles were the size of freight cars. I couldn’t penetrate the line to save my ass. I managed to wrap up their star running back a couple of times, but not before he advanced at least five yards into my zone each time. The rest of our linebackers didn’t do any better.
Our corners could high-point with the best of them, but I swear every receiver on their team stood six-foot-six minimum. Their QB had all the damn day to throw over our six-foot corners, and they torched us for three touchdowns through the air.
In the second half, our running game finally came uncorked, but by then, we were down three scores. After we grabbed our first teeder on the ground, we had no choice but to go to the air because everyone knows you can’t play catch-up on the ground. O’Reilly did his best to get open, but the Buffs had obviously watched hours of film on him because they had his number every time he came off the line. Our receivers fared no better. When the final whistle blew, the score was North Dakota twenty-one, Mountain State seven.
The bus ride home was the longest of my life. Every man sat alone with his thoughts—no music, no cards, no crass jokes or plans to party. The interior of the bus was more like a morgue than the usual party atmosphere that followed an away game.
We weren’t playing in the national championship.
With the exception of a few, like Fitz, who had a shot at the pros, our seniors were done playing, period. This loss hurt bad. Hell, I’d walked out of the locker room wearing my favorite tuxedo T-shirt, and Coach hadn’t said one word about the dress code.
After we dropped our gear in our home locker room, the four of us—Finn, Danny, Callahan, and I—rode to our house in ’Han’s truck in the same silence that had marred the bus ride. I followed ’Han up the stairs to our rooms, dragging my duffel and my feet. His happy shout of surprise at discovering his girlfriend, Jamaica—Piper’s friend—waiting for him in his room shot an arrow straight through my heart. It was too much to hope that Piper might have tagged along and decided to wait for me in my room, make me feel better about that loss.
I didn’t bother to flip on the light. Instead, with a groan, I threw myself face-down on the bed and willed my thoughts to go anywhere except to Piper Maxwell. The next morning I woke up fully dressed, cold, and sore as hell. A half hour in a hot shower provided marginal relief from the aches and bruises of our loss. When I strolled into the kitchen, my heart took another shot as I stumbled upon Callahan making out with Jamaica who sat on the countertop with her legs wrapped around him. At least they were dressed.
“Hey, Bax. Sorry about the game,” Jamaica said after I cleared my throat to let them know they weren’t alone.
“Yeah. It sucks.” My voice sounded hollow to my ears, and ’Han shot me a quizzical look.
His arms remained around his girl. “You’re right, buddy. It does. But at least we’re juniors. It wasn’t our last college game like Fitz and Patterson.”
I grunted in the affirmative. It wouldn’t do for either of them to know my problem was watching them together and wishing I’d awoke to a certain violet-eyed beauty who rocked my world and walked away every single time.
“What are your plans for Christmas, Bax?” Jamaica asked.
