Page 100 of The Late Hit
“But you shouldn’t have to. I’m done with them.”
“Quinton, they’re your parents.”
“So what? Parents aren’t supposed to act that way.”
No, they’re not, I think. Parents are supposed to support you and love you unconditionally. But I’m not one to judge, my relationship with my parents is complicated. Who knows if I would’ve spoken to my mom had I not run into her in Chicago? I mean, I haven’t even received a ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ text. Q’s parents might be judgmental assholes, but at the end of the day, they care enough about their kids to reach out to them.
What’s that say about my parents?
What’s that say about me?
A hand reaches out and slides to the nape of my neck. Gathering my hair in his first, he grips it. Hard. He pulls my head back, and a small moan escapes my lips as he fists my hair.
“Get out of your head or I’m going to fuck the thoughts right out.”
“Is that supposed to be punishment?” I quip, running my tongue across my lips.
His eyes track the movement. I feel him harden beneath me. A smirk tugged on my lips as I lift my eyebrows in question.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m being flipped to my back, and his lips are devouring my neck. His hand still grips my hair, and he uses the fisted strands to tilt my head, exposing my long, lean neck for him to devour. Sucking my skin into his mouth, he bites down. A moan escapes me as he slowly releases it. Arms bent on both sides of me to help hold himself off me, his head pops up, finding my eyes.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Grabbing his neck, I bring his lips to mine.
We spend the rest of Thanksgiving devouring each other like the pumpkin pie we never got to have.
We fall asleep, limbs tangled together, drifting off in a happy, blissed-out state.
“Fourthquarter.Lessthanfifteen minutes, boys!” Coach Campbell yells in the huddle.
It’s the fourth quarter in the Lafayette game, and we are down by two touchdowns. It’s been a fucking battle since kickoff.
Both teams have so much on the line this year. For me, I’ve got everything on the line. It’s my last chance at winning my third conference title, my last chance to go to the playoffs, and my last chance to win a National Championship.
“We’ve got this,” Harris yells out. “This is for all the two-a-days, all the weightlifting, early mornings, and aches and pains. Let’s go out there and kick some Gators' ass!”
“Eagles on three!” I yell.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Eagles!” the team yells as we turn and run onto the field.
Valor Stadium is a sold-out, white-out game. It’s fucking sick to look up in the crowd and see nothing but white shirts and white towels waving in the air. Crowds of people are on their feet, screaming and cheering us on.
Smacking his hand on my helmet, Harris pulls my attention back down to the field. “Stay focused. You’ve got this, man.”
Taking my place on the field, I line up to the right of Tyler. Xavier did a helluva job with his kickoff return, setting us up on the forty-five-yard line. Only fifty-five more yards ‘til we score.
Harris calls for the snap, and it’s perfect. He takes a step back before handing it off to me. Running toward the left sideline, I pull up quickly, eyes searching down the field. The offensive line is securing the line, blocking anyone who tries to get to me. A hand flies in the air, and I pull my arm back before snapping it forward, launching the ball into the air. It’s a playbook throw, spinning in a perfect spiral and landing perfectly over Grant’s shoulder.
He gives one shimmy before he fakes out the safety.
He’s down to the fifteen-yard line.
