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“Gemma Arterton,” Johnson supplies. “Nice.”
I suppose Mac does kind of look like her. Especially with that hairstyle. Only Mac is more appealing.
“Yep. Oh hey.” I look around at all of them. “Palmers is doing Eighties Night. I told Mac we’d go.”
I text Drew about it. He wants to meet Mac. Now’s his chance.
Silence greets me, and I lift my head to find my guys playing a game of Let’s Not Acknowledge Gray.
“We’re going out,” I tell them emphatically. “So stop pouting about practice and fucking get with the program.”
The guys need to relax and, frankly, we need to bond or whatever. We need this.
“Fine,” Dex mutters. “But only because I have to meet this girl who is your ‘bud.’ I’m pretty sure this might be one of the seven signs of the apocalypse.”
“True dat,” Diaz agrees with a snort.
“She’s awesome.” I tug on my shirt, then look at Rolondo, who’s rubbing lotion on his elbow like he’s auditioning for Silence of the Lambs. “You’re coming, `Lo.”
It wasn’t a question, but he treats it as one. “Naw. I’m not up for it tonight.”
“Bullshit. You’re going.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Rolondo Jamal Smith, don’t make me drag you out by your ass.”
His eyes narrow but he’s obviously trying not to laugh. “You imitating my mama, G?”
“Hell no.” I totally am. “I’ve no desire to piss her off. That woman is a sweet potato pie–making goddess.”
’Londo smirks. “Damn straight she is.”
“Speaking of, when is she sending another shipment? Tell her I love her, okay?”
“Little suck-up.” He tosses his lotion into his bag with a sigh. “All right. I’ll go.”
Grinning, I give his head a nudge, and get a slap on my arm for my efforts.
Rolondo saunters off, still grumbling about punk-ass, shit-talking white boys, but his step is lighter.
It’s only when all the guys head out, leaving me to finish dressing, that I notice Cal Alder, our new starting QB, coming in from the showers. He’d been in there for a while and now moves with a reluctant slowness that I know far too well. I’ve had shit games after which I’ve sat under the spray of the shower like a zombie, hoping the water would wash away the shame of defeat. Never works, though.
The poor bastard has some big shoes to fill. He’s a sophomore, forced to play the big game with a team that loved their former quarterback. Oftentimes, Drew barely had to communicate with us during a play; he just knew where to throw or pass, and we just knew where to catch it. Fucking strange, but true. We were in sync. We’re not in sync with Cal.
“Hey, Cal.”
He flinches as if he hadn’t noticed my presence. Despite the stiffness in his shoulders, he turns to face me.
Cal is nothing like Drew. He’s not a pretty boy. He doesn’t laugh much or talk like an English professor. Truth be told, he looks more like a bruiser. Blunt features, a nose that might have been broken at one point. And his eyes are eerie as fuck. Frosty green, surrounded by dark lashes, when he points them at you it’s like you’re expecting lasers to shoot out or something.
“Hey.” His expression drawn and tight, he looks like he’s expecting me to give him shit.
“We’re going out to Palmers tonight. Come along.” Again, not a question.
Cal blinks in surprise before weariness pulls at his mouth. “Thanks but I don’t—”
“Look, man, I don’t envy you your position right now. It’s gotta be stressful as shit. But I do know that a QB who bonds with his men has an advantage.”
