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GameOn057: That’s because I’m competitive. The 057 is just the first number that was available. I’m a simple man. Favorite basketball team?

I reply, and when I do, he keeps asking questions and telling me his answers too. We talk for over an hour, me and a stranger whose name I don’t even know, and when I tell him I have to go, he asks if I want to talk again…and I’m surprised when I say yes.

CHAPTER THREE

Desmond

Hunter and Lucas are having a cookout at their place today. Training camp is next week, so they wanted to do something before our lives are taken over by football.

I can’t wait. I’m ready to get back on the field, ready to play for a new team and to be away from Coach Blake. I struggled with playing for him my whole career, and being in L.A. is like suddenly being free.

I pull my car up in front of their house. I only live about twelve minutes away. I chose the house because it’s close to Hunter and in an area where a lot of the professional sports players in L.A. live.

Is Oakley close by? I’d assume he is, but it’s not like I’ve ever been to his place. He’s supposed to be here today too, and that has my gut knotted like a motherfucker.

It shouldn’t.

There’s no reason for it to.

I spent two weeks with the guy when I was a kid, but he still fucks with my head, which is maybe why I give him so much shit. If he’s going to live rent-free in my brain, then every time I see him, I’m getting under his skin. I don’t know how else to respond to him. Our situation is too weird.

Oakley is happy, made it work with his girl and, from everything I’ve seen and read, a great father—because yes, I still read articles and watch stupid fucking shows about him and his unlikely story about being a teenage father and still making it to play professional sports.

This guy got me fucked up.

I get out of the car, determined to get my shit together and stop acting however the fuck I’ve been acting lately, but it’s not every day you meet the partner of the first guy you ever kissed and the one your teenage self thought he was in love with after only two fucking weeks.

Music dances on the wind, coming from the backyard, so I head over to the side gate instead of the front door. It’s typically locked, but Hunter said it would be open and to just come back when I arrive.

I already smell the grill going, the scent of chlorine mixing with it too. When I turn around the corner, the first person I see is Hunter talking to his mom, Michelle, and Lucas’s mom, Abbie.

Isla, Lucas’s best friend, is lying on a chair in the sun, Lucas on one beside her, and a little girl with braids in her hair on the other side. She doesn’t look like Oakley’s daughter but seems to be about the same age.

“Oh shit,” I hear from behind me in a deep, rumbling voice that I recognize, and I turn around to see Oakley. He must have arrived just after me. He’s standing there in shorts, a tank top, and sunglasses—his hair buzzed short the way he’s kept it for as long as I’ve known him. There’s a little girl by his side that I do recognize from photos I’ve seen as his daughter.

His partner isn’t with them. Is she here? Did she forget something in the car? Running behind?

“What’s up, Lockdown Mann.” I give extra emphasis to his nickname. The media has been calling him that for a few years because his last name is Manning and he keeps the wide receivers on lockdown, which I wish was more bullshit than it actually is. Oakley is good. I knew it at the beach as a teenager, when I followed his high school and college careers afterward, and now in the league.

“Who are you again?” He even draws his brows together, feigning indifference that I know isn’t true.

“You’re Desmond Jackson!” his daughter says, pulling on his arm. “Daddy, you know who that is.”

I grin at Oakley.

He scowls.

“I am.” I smile down at her. “Best wide receiver in the game.”

“Actually, you came in second last season, but the Inferno has high hopes for you this year. Their offense should work better for you than Kansas City’s did.” She starts giving all the reasons why, complete with stats, and I’m struck stupid for a moment. I don’t really know how to act. I’ve been around plenty of kids, but none who spoke to me like this.

“I…”

“She loves football,” Oakley says, hand on her shoulder.

“I think she likes me too,” I taunt him.

“I do! You’re my favorite wide receiver! I model my game after yours! I was so happy when you went to the Inferno, even though I’m a Pulse fan,” she adds, and I hold out my hand for her.