I sigh heavily.Fuck, she definitely heard.I jump in front of her, walking backward, because she isn’t stopping, I can jog backward if I need to. “You need to know I didn’t mean what I said, it was just the wrong words while trying to talk things out with Seth.” She keeps walking and I stay in front of her. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone before and you do have a son, which ismassive,and I’m-I don’t know, it just scares me, Rachel.” I continue to walk backward, hoping anyone behind me keeps out of my fucking way because I’m not taking my eyes off her. “Weren’t you scared when you first found out you were going to be a mom?”
She ignores my question completely. “I don’t think there’sanythingyou could say to excuse calling my son baggage,” she says, eyes locked on mine, her stride unwavering. “That’s my flesh and blood. I don’t care who you are—younevertalk about my child like that.Ever.In fact, knowing how you feel, I don’t want you to refer to me or my family ever again.”
“I’m sorry, okay; please, just hear me out. Have coffee with me?”
“Go away, Randy! Now.”
I slow slightly, praying that she stops, but she just detours around me.
“I’m sorry, Rachel, please,” I beg to her back. I watch her shake her head as she walks away from me. “Fuck!” I swear to myself. I shove my hands through my hair watching her walk away for a good few minutes until I can no longer see her. She never stops, nor did she ever look back. Feeling lost and distraught, I opt for home.
Walsh: Don’t look at IG, Randy.
Christian: Fuck Cole.
Walsh: Flexing like he is about to win the Super Bowl.
Christian: Can’t even bring myself to watch the film.
Me: Coach will make us next meeting.
Walsh: Rather watch that than the Championship game.
Christian: Cyclones better not win. Rather watch Randy’s strip run on replay.
Seth: *Left the group*
Now that football season is over and our five hours-plus training days are done, I have far too much time to think about the jerk that I am. I drop into the living room and turn on the television, lying down and seeing what’s on. I flick through the channels finding nothing but the sports news—fine, because I’m not concentrating on it anyway. My phone buzzes beside me and I check it instantly. Nope, not her, just some random flirty text; guess I’m not the only restless person. I don’t have the energy to respond, nor do I want to. Usually, I would be all over these texts messages, but now I want no one but Rachel.
I flick to my Instagram and see a post that I’m tagged in.
@Lukecole: @Cyclonesfootball are going to the Championships!!!
24 to 16, nothing but class and ass. It’s all too easy.
@RandyHarrisonQB grab your tickets, seats are selling fast.
#Cycloneschampions
I throw down the phone in frustration. This day just keeps getting better and better!
26
Randy
It’s been one week since I tried to talk to Rachel in person, and one day since the Cyclones won the championship. The four of us started to watch the game, but by half time we couldn’t stand Luke’s face on the television screen and just got a score update after it had finished. They won 38 to 24, all of us just stood there shaking our heads and wishing it was us, or anyone other than them. Like usual, I was tagged in their winning post along with our college. Pretty sure the head of our college is talking to the head of their college to get him to stop tagging us in his posts. Egotistical ass probably still won’t stop. Rachel is still ignoring me, but yet I persist.
Tonight, we kick off the first party before the spring semester like the college has done for decades, at the Kappa Sigma house. Their biggest of the year where they raise money for multiple charities. The money-raising activities started before lunch, with kissing booths, auctions, races, sideshow games including pie throwing, a dunking machine, merchandise, and food vans. All the Raptors are participating in something; I was in the dunking machine for a good twenty minutes and got dunked seven times. Once from Coach who nailed the target first throw. He thought it was hilarious and donated another fifty bucks for the pleasure of it.
Now long after the sun has set, and everyone has crammed back into the frat house, I let the music vibrate through my body as the sixth shot slides down my throat. My problems are slowly evaporating with each drink, and I’m back living a carefree life. No football, no exams, no girlfriend, maybe that means no worries. Just me and my friends relaxing, drinking, and making bad decisions.
“Here you go,” Alexia says, handing me some water and a fresh beer.
“I don’t need the water,” I say, accepting the beer.
She smiles up at me. She is cute and reminds me of the actress Zendaya. Gorgeous clear skin and deep brown eyes. Her hair is braided, and she carries herself with confidence as we chat, which is sexy as hell.
“You should drink it,” she says, trying in vain to offer me the water once again. “You don’t want to write yourself off; never know what it might affect,” she says with an obvious rake of her eyes down to my dick.
