Page 19 of Trust Me Always

I’m at the gym before five every day and gone before most even know I was here. It’s funny, even Coach questioned me a couple months into my first season here freshman year, asked if I was skipping out on the weight room and my mandated workout plan because when they were asked, none of the other coaches could remember spotting me more than a handful of times.

I happily started snapping them inappropriate pictures of meslick with sweat at five thirty in the morning, and after a good reaming on the field, they quit asking.

I laugh thinking about it, deciding I should get up to that shit again and wondering who would appreciate a sweaty, sexy motherfucker like me being the first person they laid eyes on in the morning.

For some reason, Cameron comes to mind first. Probably ’cause she’s good for my ego, not that I have a problem with that. I know what I am and what I’m not. And I’m not ugly or out of shape or hard on the eyes.

It’s with that thought that I tug my shirt over my head and drape it over the back of my neck, my dad’s first set of dog tags ever given to him hanging between my pecs. I lift the camera screen up and turn slightly, so no other bodies are in the pic, and flex, my muscles so slick with sweat, it looks like my back did after the massage—slicked up and ready for a ride. I stick my tags between my teeth, running one hand through my hair, and take the photo.

A couple guys laugh from the left and I only smile at my screen.

It’s the perfect thirst trap if I’ve ever seen one. Grinning, I fire it off to Cameron without a single word before stuffing it back in my pocket.

It’s true what she said the other night.

Girls do tend to fall, sometimes quite literally, right on my dick. I can’t tell you how many college girls decide my lap is free for the taking and straddle me right then and there in the middle of a party. I don’t hate it, but they’re coming around a little more aggressively now after that damn post on theAvix Inquirer’s social media page. It was a photo Payton took of me on the sidelines after a game, sweaty and grinning like a fool after a win. It said something about landing Lancaster and referenced Noah—basically a sneaky way of using Ari and Noah’s relationship and teasing who would be the girl I took with me all the way to the top, assuming I go pro.

Again, I don’t hate the attention.

I’m a flirt by nature, and I like being a part of the reason others have a good time. Most call me the party boy, the good time guy, and let’s be real, I’m both those things. From what I hear, my roster is longer than Casanova’s.

If they only fucking knew.

I smirk, nodding at my boy Xavier when he walks by, and head into the locker room. I’m tearing my bag off the shelf when fuckhead across from me shuffles in, his face paler than his usual pasty-ass self.

“What’s up, man,” he mumbles, pulling shoes from his bag.

“You’re blood alcohol level by the looks of it.” I glance his way as I tug my bag over my shoulder, deciding I’ll shower back at the dorm since I don’t have class until eight. “Looks like you could use a few hours in the sauna.” I go to walk past him but pause to meet his eye. “Not that that will do you any good. Karma never gets it wrong.”

Alister glares and I bump his shoulder as I walk past, frowning at the door ahead.

I hate being an ass to my teammates—it fucks with the team dynamics—but I can’t find it in me to be nice to the guy. Not now.

He fucked with my friends, and in my book, that means he fucked with me.

If his ex-girlfriend carried her lie any further, it might have messed things up between Mason and Payton, and that would have broken my best friend. His girl and the family he’s created with her and her son—no, their son—are his entire world now, and Alister threatened that by acting like a child about everything instead of coming at him like a man should. You just don’t fuck around when there’s a child involved. To top off the asshole sundae, he went and used our kindhearted Cameron to try and get to him.

I know the girl is fierce. Hell, she’s a handful of a womanon her off days, forever keeping us boys on our toes, but she’s dreamed of opening a day care or running a kindergarten program for years, and while she hasn’t said what it was—at least not in front of us guys—something happened our senior year of high school that pushed her determination to reach her goals even further. Andhethreatened that by messing with her head and altering her focus. She nearly failed her finals that semester.

The girl might be hell on wheels, but at the same time, she’s soft as the sunset. Shit, she cries at those car commercials during the Super Bowl.

That dickhead made her cry—even if she didn’t allow us to see it, I know it’s true. I told that fucker to stay away from her, and as far as I’ve heard, he’s finally getting the hint. Thank fuck for that, ’cause as much as I’d enjoy doing it, I’d hate to have to kick his ass.

A scoff leaves me, and I smile as I push out the double doors, stepping out into the early morning sun.

That’s a fucking lie if I ever told one.

I’d thoroughly enjoy getting to kick Alister Howl’s ass.

And we’re not going to think about why the thought alone brings me satisfaction.

What is it they say, ignorance is bliss? I’m sure it is up until the day you’re blindsided by the truth you never saw coming, because once you know the truth, there’s no turning back.

No forgetting or letting go.

After that it’s just the truth…and the lies you’re forced to tell yourself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

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