AllFreeNovel
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GrayG: Yeah, there’s that.
GrayG: Night, Mac. And be careful out there.
IvyMac: Night, Gray.
I hate booster parties. Hot, stuffy, with too many people watching your every move. Too many fake smiles, fake laughs, slaps on the shoulders by rich dudes who call you “son.” Too many rich women pressing their gym-toned bodies up against you, while you try not to react because they’re old enough to legitimately call you “son.” Mind your p’s and q’s because you can’t embarrass Coach, the athletic director, the dean, and the dozens of other campus bigwigs circling the room, pressing palms.
A fucking circus.
I tug at my collar, sweat damping my shirt that’s buried beneath layers of suit jacket and vest. Around me guys are doing the same, or trying not to. Most freshmen and sophomores are stuck in ill-fitting suits bought off the rack at some big-and-tall store.
Their biceps stretch their coat sleeves, the overlarge size sagging at the shoulders.
At the very least, I can say I look all right in comparison. Last year’s championship swag featured vouchers for free tailored suits at a national luxury retailer. I’d taken them up on the offer, standing stock-still, side by side with Drew, making immature jokes about which side we dressed on, as two annoyed-looking tailors measured us up.
So yeah, I look sharp as new cleats standing here and sweating my balls off. Awesome.
A waiter passes, and I nab a glass of champagne from his tray. It’s lukewarm, because really champagne shouldn’t be slowly passed around a hot room, but I take a long sip anyway.
Inside my pants pocket, my phone vibrates with a text. Instantly, my pulse kicks up. I want it to be Mac. I don’t want it to be Mac. My chest literally hurts every time I get a text from her. Every time I have to play it cool, like some distant, half-assed friend.
Gripping my glass too hard, I weave through the room, stopping every few feet to accept congratulations or someone wanting to talk.
“Excuse me,” I tell each person. “Nature calls.”
Best excuse I got, but it still doesn’t prevent people from trying to chat me up. By the time I make it to the terrace doors, I’m ready to lose it. God, this PR bullshit is only going to get worse in the NFL.
Frowning, I slip out into the cool night air and take a deep breath to clear my head.
But my pulse doesn’t slow as I pull out my phone. I sag against the wall. The text isn’t from Mac. Disappointment and relief churn around in my gut, as I peer at the unknown number, ready to delete the text.
Unknown: Hey there, sexy mountain of man-flesh. Having fun at your suit parade?
Sexy mountain of man-flesh? Why does that ridiculous name sound familiar? I rub a hand over my face and then it hits me. Fiona calls me that. What the hell is Fiona doing texting me?
GrayG: Yeah, it’s awesome. What’s up, Fi?
As I wait for her to answer, I stare out across the dark sweep of trimmed lawn. Everything is blue and gray, the moon hanging low along the horizon as wispy clouds drift past. The scent of snow is in the air. My hand vibrates.
LittleFi: Just wanted to let you know that I’m watching out for our girl tonight. Don’t worry, she’s having fun. Catch ya’ later, sexy.
A picture pops up, and it’s a fucking punch to the throat. Mac’s on the dance floor, her long arms waving awkwardly in the air and gleaming with sweat, her dark hair plastered to her face as she smiles—fucking glows—with happiness. And some fucko frat boy has his hands all over her.
I zero in on his big, fucking-fuck palm pressing against her belly, his hips grinding into her ass as he clutches her thigh, holding her against his—
My shout echoes over the terrace, followed by the sharp crack of glass impacting against stone.
Panting, I glance down at my empty hand and then at the carnage that used to be my phone, lying some twenty feet away. I hadn’t even known I’d thrown it.
I don’t care. Every inch of me hurts, a dull, pulling pain, as if I’m slowly being torn apart from the inside out. My throat seems to swell, closing down, convulsing. I blink down at my shiny wingtips as if trying to make sense of how they got on my feet.
But all I can see is that picture. I hear Ivy’s voice in my head, telling me that she needs space, that she doesn’t want me.
The muffled sound of laughter from inside grows loud and clear, and a blast of warmth hits the side of my face. I turn. A girl stands framed in the doorway, her body slim and tight, her smile welcoming.
“Hey,” she says, strolling over, each step sending her hips swaying. “What are you doing out here all alone?”
Everything in me recoils at the thought of talking to this girl. I want to go home and crawl into bed. Maybe sleep for a week. But I push deep down inside myself, remember the Gray I used to be. The one who had fun and never thought about anything real. The Gray who never felt pain.
