"Chill, boy toy. I’m sure she’ll tell you when she’s ready."
Before I can object to yet another stupid nickname, she hangs up the phone.
Crossing that line with Cassandra Herring was something I thought about doing a lot when I was a teenager, and I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t popped into my mind once or twice over lunch. But I refuse to get involved with her while she’s broken hearted and on the rebound.
So, if friendship is what she needs, friendship is what she will get.
ten
Harley Age 16
"Go long," I shoutas my best friend runs down the football field to catch the ball that I’ve thrown his way.
In typical Austin fashion, he fumbles the ball and blames himself. He’s not wrong to do so; it was an easy catch. I just hate that he’s so hard on himself all the time.
He’s a decent football player—it’s in his blood to be—but unless he focuses more on the game and less on his social calendar, he won’t improve.
I don’t think he cares, though.Not the way I do.
Football is my life, and I don’t have a backup plan. I live and breathe the damn sport.
I’ve always had the same goal in life.
Earn a full ride scholarship to Ohio State, earn my business degree that I’ll hopefully never have to use, and be drafted to play for the Charlotte Eagles.
A guy could dream, right?
Go big or go home, or whatever that saying is.
And if my dream doesn’t become my reality, at least I have a safety net in the shape of a degree.
Austin, on the other hand, is a trust fund kid. He got everything he ever wanted, whenever he wanted it, knowing no matter what he chose to do in life, he would still live like a king.
The Andersons are the richest family in Grangewood Creek, by a long shot, so the guy knows he doesn’t have to work hard to get what he wants.
But he doesn’t want a name for himself in football. He wants to step out of the Anderson name and create his own legacy.
I respect it.
He’ll never decline his weekly allowance, though.
"Sorry, man. I should have caught that one," Austin admits as he picks the ball up from the ground and runs it back to me.
"I don’t know why I always drop it. It’s like my hand-eye coordination just isn’t where it should be." He shrugs. "Dad will be so pissed if I play like this on game day." He winces at the thought while running his hand through his damp, light brown hair, taking a large gulp of water.
Austin’s father, Max, is tough on him. You’d think the fact that his son wants to step away from football and create a life for himself would make him proud. But he keeps trying to force Austin to focus more on the game than school. Thankfully, his mom, Angela, knows her son well enough to know that the game isn’t his passion.
She doesn’t force something on him if he doesn’t want it.
The weight of his father’s football legacy is a lot for him. Hell, it would be a lot for anyone. I think I’d be able to handle it, though.
I’d look at it as a challenge.
"Don’t beat yourself up, man. You know, you don’t have to be on the football team just because it’s what your old man wants, right?" I remind him, but he barks out a laugh in response.
"Yeah right." He scoffs. "Do you even know who my dad is?" His laughter continues. "Max Anderson, former star QB of the Eagles, with a son who can’t even catch a fucking ball." His voice booms like a commentator, his hands cupped around his mouth, voice echoing through the empty football field.
"What an embarrassment to the Anderson name I would be if I quit the team," he says bitterly before taking another long drink of water, but I don’t respond.
