I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “The Beckford U bar? On game night.”
“C’mon, mate. You need to blow off steam. You’re wound tighter that Coach Rourke’s hamstrings.”
“Gross, man. I don’t need that visual.”
He laughs. “You’re coming out with me, brother. The bar will be packed with Banshees, and your boy needs a pussy or two to sink into. I need my wingman.”
“Remind me why I’m friends with you again?” I mutter.
Theo leans over the divider and ruffles my hair. “Because our dads are besties. You’re stuck with me now.”
I shove him away from me. “Let me shower in peace.”
“Not until you promise me you’ll come for a few drinks.”
“I’ll think about it.”
His grin widens. “Thatta boy.”
I roll my eyes, but thankfully he turns off his shower and heads to the changeroom.
The water does nothing to relieve the tension in my shoulders. I’m sick of the constant pressure to live up to Dad’s expectations, Coach Rourke’s expectations—hell, even my teammates’ expectations. Everyone wants something from me, and there’s nothing left for myself.
When I talk to Angel, everything goes still.
She doesn’t care about my goals or assists. She doesn’t even know I play.
Sighing, I shut off the water and grab my towel. I’m not in the mood to hang out in a bar filled with Beckford Wolves fans, and worse, the Beckford Banshees—groupies who only want to sleep with the players. ButTheo’s like a dog with a bone. He’s not going to let me off the hook.
Sure enough, when I head out to the lockers with my towel wrapped around my waist, he’s hovering in front of my locker.
I shove him away, grabbing my jeans and slipping into them before shrugging into my maroon Beckford hoodie.
Theo arches a brow. “You’re not gonna make an effort?”
I ignore him, checking my phone.
Nothing.
No message.
Swallowing down my disappointment, I glance at the smug face of my best mate, and I know he’s going to get his way.
“Let’s go,” I mutter, slamming my locker shut.
Carter’s is worsethan I expected—packed wall-to-wall with drunk guys, half-naked women, and bad decisions. I follow Theo through the bar, clutching a glass of whiskey I don’t even want, my eyes flicking towards the door as I plan my escape.
We join a couple of teammates at a table, and it’s not long before the girls come.
Three Banshees, dressed in jerseys and denim cutoffs, despite it being the end of winter. They’re pretty enough, but I’m not interested.
“Great game tonight, Luca,” one of them says, herhand landing on my bicep like we know each other. We don’t.
“Thanks,” I say politely, removing her hand.
“The ref should have given number eleven a red card for that slide tackle. You hit the ground pretty hard. I bet you’re sore.”
I’ll give her props for trying, but I’m not biting.
