Page 11 of Good Girl's Guide to Love
“Make yourself at home.”
Wyatt tips the bottle to me as he takes a seat. “I will. At least, for the next thirty minutes, as we wait for you to get ready.”
I don’t move an inch. “You’re going to be waiting a hell of a lot longer than thirty minutes, because my ass is staying right here.”
“Wrong. You’re getting up, and you’re coming with us to karaoke. It’s Maddox’s birthday so you have no choice.”
That makes me snort laugh. “Actually, you’re wrong. I do have a choice, because this is America. And I’m absolutely the fucknotgoing to karaoke.”
Normally I love celebrating birthdays. Maddox is a good dude—a safety who’s a few years younger than me who’s going to be a fucking stud in this league when he hits his peak. But anight out with my team, singing bad songs from our youth badly, sounds like the worst night ever. Especially when I had a night of pizza and a binge watch ofThe Sopranoson deck.
“Why would I want to do that?” I ask. “We just spent the last month together every fucking day at training camp. We should be sick of each other and wanting some space before the season starts.”
“Oh, but that’s where you're wrong,” Wyatt says. “We need more time together. Team bonding and shit.”
My groan echoes off the walls. “Well, then call me a bad teammate, because I’m going to sit this one out.”
I’m all for team bonding, especially because I was thrown into the fire last year so I really was learning my teammates on the fly. Well, everyone except Wyatt. We played together in college. But other than him? I was lining up around a bunch of strangers.
So yes, in theory, getting to hang out with my teammates would be a good thing. But considering the last time I went out I ended up on a gossip blog—and that was an organized team outing by our coaches and somehow I was still painted the bad guy—I really don’t think a night of karaoke is a good decision.
“Oh, come on,” Wyatt says. “Is this about that picture? The bullshit one?”
“Partly,” I admit. “Listen, the season hasn’t even started. I don’t need any fuckery happening. It’s safer to stay at home where I know nothing can be leaked or taken out of context.”
“So you’re going to stay home the whole season?” Wyatt asks. “Here, on this ugly-ass couch, is where I’ll find Linc Kincaid when he’s not on a football field?”
I pat the cushion next to me. “Exactly. It’s quite comfy.”
Do I like this decision I just made for myself? Not at all. I’m a social guy. Always have been. Which is probably why I’ve always found myself getting into trouble.
When I was in grade school, I was just the loud kid who liked to cause commotion. A little bit of a prankster. A bit of an actor. And sure, I got in trouble more than a few times, but it wasn’t anything to worry about.
Then that fateful day happened when I was thirteen. The day my life changed.
The day my parents died.
That’s when the innocent little pranks became near crimes. Fights were regular. I was hanging with a crowd who skipped school and did drugs. During those years, I spent more time in in-school suspension than anywhere else and teetering on the brink of a stint in juvenile detention.
Then I met my high school football coach. Coach Henry saw something in me no one else did. He saw an angry kid who needed an outlet. So he gave me a football helmet and told me to start hitting shit.
It was the day that changed my life. And only once since then have I let that anger get the best of me—and it nearly ruined my life.
So I’m taking lessons of the past and putting them into practice today. Diving head first into football. No distractions. Eye on the prize. If I’m not tempted by trouble, I won’t get into any.
“I get what you’re doing,” Wyatt says. And if anyone does, it’s him. He’s the only one who knows my whole story. So if anyone could understand this, it should be him. “But I actually think hiding is the worst thing you can do.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Explain.”
“For starters, humans aren’t meant to be kept inside. You need to go out. Be among the people.”
Okay, this doesn’t sound like my best friend at all. “Says the man who owns a cabin in the mountains because every few months he needs to get away from humanity.’”
“But that’s just a break. You don’t see me staying in tonight.” Wyatt stands up and does his best to physically pull me up from the couch. He might be a lineman who I know for a fact can bench-press my body weight, but his efforts are futile as I go boneless against his hold.
“Get your ass up, Kincaid. Get out of this house and come have some fun!”
“Get off of me,” I say, pushing him away as I finally sit up. “Why do you want me to go so bad? There’s going to be plenty of other teammates out. You don’t need me to hold your hand.”
