Wait…What if I went to a football game? I know plenty of celebrities who are self-important enough to bully their way backstage to meet me. Maybe I can get backstage for one of his games, or whatever it’s called for sports arenas. Maybe the team would want to meet me, and then I could walk around shaking hands in the locker room after the game or something.
A visual stabs through my brain like an ice pick. Me making my way through the room. Him half-stripped after the game, wearing nothing but a pair of those tight football pants.…
Damn.
Yes, that’s it!
“Where’s my phone? I need my phone!” I shove back from the table so suddenly my chair squeals across the floor. Naz jumps in surprise.
“Jesse?” Blake snaps. “Is he okay?”
Naz says my name questioningly.
I don’t answer. I’m already grabbing my phone off the counter, scrolling with frantic thumbs, searching for the Shreveport Cyclones’ schedule. Cities and dates blur as I flick through. They play in Philadelphia this weekend, and then…
Yes. Holy shit. They play in Buffalo the same weekend as our headliner in NYC! It’s perfect.
“Earth to Jesse,” Blake’s voice cuts in again, exasperated. “What’s going on?” Will and Ari are chattering, asking Naz the same thing. He shrugs into the camera.
“I have an idea,” I tell Naz.
I walk back around to the front of the computer screen, adrenaline fizzing under my skin. “Blake, I need a favor.”
Everyone shuts up at once. Blake’s face looks pinched and wary. Will and Ari look mildly curious. Naz leans back, arms crossed, smirk tugging at his mouth because he knows I’m about to blow something up.
“A favor?” Blake repeats.
“Our New York show.” I lick my lips. “Could we… make room for some special guests?”
Blake blinks. “Jesse, that show sold out in less than an hour. There’s already going to be a mob outside just hoping to get a glimpse of the back of one of your heads. This isn’t the kind of night where we slip people in.”
“But if I wanted to invite someone,” I press, leaning forward, “we could make it happen, right?”
He sighs, already defeated. “I can probably swing a couple. How many are we talking?”
My phone screen glows back at me, the Cyclones’ roster page still open. A grin creeps up before I can stop it.
“How many guys are on a football team?”
FOUR
LUC
Practice finally winds down just as the sun dips, casting a warm haze across the field that makes everything look like it’s glowing. Coach blows his whistle to call it, and the team jogs off the field, sweat dripping, pads heavy. It was a good practice, one that still has adrenaline buzzing under my skin.
We’re all still on a high from a big win against Detroit this past weekend. It was the perfect start to the season. Our team is tight and meshes well. We have high hopes for what could be a monumental season.
By the time we’re in the locker room, the guys are already cutting up, the air thick with steam and chatter and the stench of hard work. My locker buddy, AJ León, is in rare form, running his mouth and laughing at his own dumb jokes. When I’m down to nothing but my jock, he snaps his towel across my ass with a loudsmack.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter, turning a scathing look on him, but the corner of my mouth betrays me.
It’s hard to stay mad at AJ. He can be irritating as hell, but it’s part of his charm. He’s one of my favorite people in the world, and probably the closest friend I’ve got. AJ always sticks around, even though I don’t make being friends with me easy. I’m more of a solitary type, and I don’t go out much. I rarely hang out with the guys, or even AJ, outside of work. Not because I don’t like them or being around them, but because I’m not into crowds and flashing cameras–and wherever these guys are, the fans follow. I’m not cut out for the spotlight the way some players are. I love football, but I don’t love the circus that comes with it.
To be fair, I’ve probably gotten a little too comfortable with my solitude. The habit is too deeply ingrained. After the draft, I barely had time to breathe, let alone socialize. Between practice, games, and the endless travel, I was grinding through online classes, determined to finish my business degree. Dad always said I needed a backup plan, and I promised him I’d finish my degree when he found out I’d be entering the draft instead of graduating. I wanted to make him proud, so I kept at it, night after night, studying on the bus or plane to away games, passing on going out with the guys, and going straight home, alone, every day after practice. It was hard, and it took me longer than it would have if I’d stayed in school, but I did it. And even though I didn’t walk across a stage in a cap and gown, that diploma is framed on a wall in my parents’ home in a place of honor, above any trophy or award I’ve won.
Pushing him into the lockers, I roll my eyes at AJ and tell him to go mess with Dez instead. Unlike me, Dez Carter is known to walk around with his ass out. He’s practically a nudist. It used to weird me out, but nobody bats an eye at him anymore. Then again, Dez looks like he was carved out of marble, so who could blame him for wanting to show off? This guy has GQ spreads,endorsement deals, the works. He’s an Adonis with golden-boy charm that earns him every dime. It doesn’t bother anybody, least of all me. We’ve all got our quirks. AJ is the class clown, always pulling pranks and laughing the loudest. One of our cornerbacks, Treydon Rocke, likes to trash talk government officials on his social media, where he has like a billion followers. Monty Nash, our quarterback, dresses like a rodeo cowboy in boots and big belt buckles despite being far from Wyoming, where he’s from. Our running back Connor Laramie is a total golden retriever with an international supermodel girlfriend who he never shuts up about.
Then there’s me, the quiet guy. The loner. I get along with everybody, but nobody expects me to do the big media interviews or photo ops. They invite me to everything they do, but no one expects me to show up, and they don’t get upset when I decline the majority of invitations.
