Page 6 of The Late Hit
“Dude, what the fuck?” He points the question to me.
“I’m here,” I say to him.
Harris calls out the next play. It’s a pitch to me.
“Q, you’ve got this, man. I know a lot is riding on this season, but stay focused. I’ve got you,” Harris says, slapping my helmet.
The remainder of practice goes off without a hitch. My mind stays on the field. Walking toward the tunnel, one of the equipment girls tosses me a water bottle. I lift it in the air and squeeze a long stream of water into my mouth, quenching my thirst. This Texas heat is no joke. I’m sweating my balls off. I’m pretty sure my sweat is sweating, that’s how fucking hot it is out. Thank god our season doesn’t start for another week. Hopefully, Texas will get a clue that it’s about to be fall. But who am I kidding? We have months until it cools down.
Making my way into the locker room, I start peeling my practice jersey off. It’s stuck to my skin from all the sweat. All I want to do is get out of these damn clothes, shower, and sit my happy ass in the air conditioning for the rest of the day. Oh yeah, chilling in the air conditioning sounds incredible.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Will Davis. That mouthy cock sucker constantly gets under my skin.
“Dude, that girl canfuuuck,” Will draws out. “Last night, when she went out with that Emo freak, I thought my chances were shot, but she came back in ready to get down.”
Standing in front of my locker, I try to tune out the asshole. Brynn’s hook-ups are her own business. I just don’t want to hear about it. Grant Campbell—yeah, Campbell, as in the coach’s son and my closest teammate and friend—senses my mood.
“Dude, you just gotta ignore it,” Grant says, trying to calm me down. “Will just likes to run his mouth.” Grant is one of my closest teammates and friends.
Reaching into my locker, I pull out my shower bag. Moving my neck side to side, I feel the muscles pull and hear the cracks. The season hasn’t even begun, and my body is sore.
“And the way her body moves, it’s like a work of art,” Will continues. “And don’t get me started on the way her ti—”
The sound of my locker slamming shut silences the room.
“Shut the fuck up, Davis,” I say, my shoulders tensing. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
“What’s the matter, Boyd? Jealous I’ve screwed her now—how many times? Compared to your zero?” Will retorts.
The two of us stare each other down, my chest rising rapidly.
Grant moves between Will and me.
He looks at me and mutters under his breath, “Not here. Q, just walk away. He’s not worth it.”
Taking a deep breath, I move away and head toward the showers.
A cold shower is all I need. I just need to cool off and find some food.
Climbing in my Tesla, I slip my phone out of my pocket, checking my messages before I head home.
There are two texts waiting from Brynn.
Reading her texts does nothing to calm my mood. I’m all worked up. Maybe I just need to get laid? Closing out Brynn's text thread, I look over my recent messages to see if there’s anyone I can text for a quickie. No one stands out.
Tossing my phone in my cup holder, I push the ignition button. “Sicko Mode” blares from my speakers, making me jump. Reversing out of my spot, I turn right out of the parking lot and head toward Whataburger. To turn this day around, I’m spoiling my nutrition plan with a double Whataburger, fries, and a strawberry malt. If I show up to Brynn’s empty-handed, she’ll have my balls. I’m positive she already wants to rip into me. I don’t need to give her another reason.
“Before you say anything,” I pause, shoving the malt toward Brynn. “I bought you a malt. It’s strawberry.”
Shaking the cup, I watch her face for any hints of emotion. Brynn is a closed fucking book ninety percent of the time. And today, I guess the book is slammed shut. Taking the Styrofoam cup from my outstretched arm, she moves aside. Cautiously, I step in. There’s a weird vibe in the air. I’m screwed. I can feel it. Never in our years of friendship have I got in the face of anyone who might be warming Brynn’s bed. She’s free to do whomever she wants.
“I’m not mad, Q,” she finally says after a few silent moments of her inhaling her strawberry malt.
The first time B got upset, she told me that there was nothing ice cream couldn’t solve, and a strawberry malt would make it go away. It’s also her go-to when she’s high. Scanning her face for any clues, I come back empty.
“You’re not?”
She laughs. “Of course not. I assume Will mouthed off? He’s a douche.” She shrugs. Moving past me, she heads up the stairs.
