Fi’s answer is to smother me with the pillow and the night devolves from there.

* * *

Gray

For the first time before a game, I’m nervous. Usually I’m pumped up, anticipation and adrenaline surging through my body. I get off on it, like good sex only with a fine edge of aggression to sharpen the feeling. Out on the field, I can let myself go. Let out all the anger, hurt, frustration of life. And yet it never really feels like rage. It’s a battle, sure, but there’s love too. I fucking love this game. The intensity. The pain. The mind games. Nowhere else do I feel more alive than when I’m playing, my body and mind working at full tilt to obtain my goals.

So I’m not gonna lie; I have a hard-on for football. I get totally jacked on game day.

Which is why I’m pissed now. Because I’m not jacked. Excitement does not run through my veins. Instead there’s a boulder in my stomach and invisible hands clutching my neck.

Though the crowd is roaring their excitement, and the air almost vibrates with their enthusiasm, everything feels off. My teammates aren’t joking like they usually do. Rolondo is quiet and pacing the sidelines as they prepare to sing the National Anthem. The guys have tense faces. Cal Alder is sitting on a bench, his skin pasty and sweaty—though Coach doesn’t seem too worried that our starting quarterback looks like death warmed over.

I swear the stink of defeat hangs over us, and we haven’t even started the game.

My fingers are ice cold as the Anthem is sung. By the time a few of our defensive linemen trot out to do the coin toss, I’m ready to scream. From the corner of my eye, I see Alder scramble over the bench. He pukes into a half-filled ice bucket, and a few guys jump back.

Cursing, I jog over to him as he throws up again.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he glances up at me.

“You gonna make it?” I ask.

His expression is blank. “Yup.”

“Here.” I grab a Gatorade and hand it to him. “Refuel and wash your mouth. I’m not smelling that when you call plays.”

He doesn’t smile but takes the bottle and drinks deep. On the field, the kickoff is already underway. Our guy Taylor manages to catch the ball and run to the forty. It’s almost time to go to work.

“What’s the deal,” I ask Cal. “You sick?”

Those frosty eyes of his don’t blink. “You my nurse?”

“I’m your fucking teammate and tight end,” I snap, annoyed as shit. “So answer the fucking question.”

Cal’s tight expression eases. He sets his bottle down and stands. “Right as rain, Grayson.”

Well, fucking great. Sure, whatever. I’m about to yell at him to give me the truth, when Dex walks up. He’s got his helmet in hand and his dark hair is already sticking up with sweat. He takes a long look at Cal then nods. “Stage fright.”

Cal’s eyes go a little wide, but he nods too. “Every time.”

“You get over it?” Dex asks as though this is all just fine and dandy.

“Once I begin to play, yeah.”

“Good enough for me.” Dex puts on his helmet as Cal heads toward our offensive coach.

I just stare after him as I put my helmet on too. “It’s a little freaky how well you read people, Big D.”

Dex’s eyes crinkle behind his face mask. “It’s a gift. And a curse.”

I can’t say anything else because the whistle has blown.

“Gentlemen.” Coach steps closer, his voice booming yet steady. “I’ve already said everything there is to say. Let’s get ’er done!”

“Red Dogs!” we all shout as one. We always do. But this feels like rote instead of enthusiasm.

In the huddle we’re subdued. Fucking subdued. Intolerable.

“Hey,” I shout over the noise of the crowd. “With sufficient thrust, even pigs fly.”

They look at me like I’m crazy.

“What the fuck, G?” Diaz shouts back with a confused snort.

“We gonna make those pigs fly.” I nod toward the defense taking their positions. “When we knock the shit out of them.”

The guys start to smile but our old spirit isn’t quite there.

Cal’s head snaps up. There’s a gleam in his icy eyes that none of us have seen before. It’s like he’s flicked an internal switch and it’s lighting him up from the inside. “We’re going to win. Because we fucking own this game.”

He isn’t Drew. Never will be. He doesn’t have a shit-eating grin or a cocky attitude. But he has something else: a quiet authority that demands respect. We all seem to feel it in our bones. Because suddenly we’re all grinning. Energy ripples over the huddle, making us squeeze closer together, rumble with agreement. My old friends, anticipation and adrenaline, return with a vengeance, drawing my balls up tight and lifting the hairs on the back of my neck.

Cal looks over us, his voice stronger than I’ve ever heard it as he calls the play. He finishes with a sharp, “Go Dogs!”

Which we echo. And then break. At the line, a defensive back snarls at me, trying to intimidate, talking shit I don’t bother listening to. I just grin. Because I’m about to smoke his ass. Game fucking on.

Twelve

Gray

Despite the victory high that still rushes through my veins, I decide to go back to my room and order room service instead of going to a local club with the guys to party. The idea of being out holds little appeal. What would I do? Dance? Hook up with some girl?