A part of me feels embarrassed that Cam had to see us get our asses handed to us like we did, but there’s also a part of me that was happy he came, even if it was for the worst part of the game.
He used to come to all my games in high school, but ever since we got here, he’s been too busy with his own stuff to attend most of the Friday night games.
I know it’s probably dumb as shit but seeing him in the stands always gives me a boost of confidence when I play, even though I’ll never tell him that. I can’t really explain it, but knowing I’m being watched and judged by someone wholoathesthe sport butstill shows up for me… it makes me want to perform better if only so I can see him excited when we win.
Savannah’s only seen a few games this year, what with the long drive and her own schedule, since she doesn’t attend here. But even when she comes to watch me play, I can’t help but feel like my performance is under more scrutiny. She knows the game better than most, being a former cheerleader and coming from a family of football enthusiasts. Even though she cheers for me, she’s judging my plays, which makes me feel on edge.
I open my locker, my skin still flushed from the hot water, the towel hanging around my hips loosely.
Had we won, the boys would be whooping so loud Mars could hear them, and they’d be drinking and laughing the whole night through.
But tonight, they're just pissy. We’re still expected to make an appearance at the party, though. Win or lose, ladies love a jock, and if I’m being honest, it doesn’t really matter if we win or lose.
Sometimes I think they are more touchy-feely when we lose because they want to make us feel better—at least that’s what Savannah used to be like when we lost.
I pull my clothes out of the locker, my mind wandering to my fiancée.
I’d made the hour and a half drive last weekend all the way back home to see her. As far as I’m concerned, there is no distance I wouldn’t travel to see the person I love, knowing how happy it makes them.
I like when people are happy with me. I like to make people happy. It gives me a sense of purpose, and it’s better than any other feeling. But the other night, Savannah wasnothappy with my impromptu surprise date.
I thought it was romantic… showing up unannounced with a bouquet of lilies—her favorite—to take her out to dinner. I know plenty of people who claim romance dies after you get married,but I refuse to let that be the case for Savannah and me. Just because I have her doesn’t mean I won’t continue to work for her. To make sure she’s safe, cared for, and most of all, happy.
Call me an idealist, but that’s the way it should be, right?
I got dressed in my khakis and polo, the one she bought me last Christmas, rolled up to her door and thought she’d be so surprised.
She was, but she didn’t seem happy about it. She’d agreed to let me take her to dinner, but the entire night, she just felt different. Mad, even.
I offered to let her vent, talk about stuff, I made sure we went to her favorite restaurant—LaMonde’s, which is hella pricey, but I didn’t care—and I even ate her out in the backseat of my car afterwards.
Yeah, I know we said no sex stuff until the wedding, but I thoughtmaybeit would loosen her up and put a smile on her face at least.
I didn’t think it was possible to be sad when you’re coming. I learned all about that oxytocin stuff in my Bio class.
But apparently Savannah can be, because after I was done, she just asked me to take her home.
It’s stress, probably. Graduation, the wedding…
No one was more shocked than I that Savannah didn’t decide to go to some big university and join a sorority, considering her mom was a legacy.
Instead, she opted to stay local and attend Community College. She changed her major twice, until she settled on marketing, which is why we’re pretty much graduating at the same time.
But as always, I promised her we’d make it work. No matter what happens, we always make it work.
I grab my boxer briefs and my jeans, letting out a sigh.
I pull on my jeans, trying to shake off the weird feeling as another thought enters my brain.
Does she know I went to the strip club the other night? Paul said he wouldn’t say anything, and what were the chances of someone who knows me, finding me there? Slim to none, probably. Not this far away from home. I’m just being paranoid.
But for some reason, I latch onto the fact she didn’t evenofferto return the favor. I would’ve let her, even if I can’t stand the way her teeth scrape on my cock.
After the strip club, I thought maybe I’ve been too hard on myself. I wasn’t into Cinnamon, clearly because of all the intrusive thoughts that were able to permeate my inebriated brain, but I can’t deny that her touching me turned me on.
There’s the surprise of the century— Austen Brewer needs to get laid. Or maybe just jack off more.
God, this wedding can’t come soon enough.
