"Talking about 'nailing the virgin'," I spit out bitterly. "Telling stories to the guys in the locker room about… all the things we did."
"What?" Sable exclaims, her brow furrowed. "That does not sound right, Cassie."
"Yeah, well, it is what it is, right? He's a jock. I should have expected it."
"No, no, no." Sable shakes her head. "None of this is right, Cass. I – he wouldn't do that."
"I'm not a dumbass," I say, my words clipped. "It's what happened and I'm not going to be one of those girls who looks the other way when shit like that happens."
"Jonathan would know if he did that," Sable explains, her expression puzzled. Her voice hesitates for a split second when she speaks the word know, and I can see it in her eyes; she's wondering if Tank knew. "Jonathan would tell me."
I lean close to her, my voice a loud whisper. "The guy – the one from his team – he knew I was a virgin," I hiss. "Now, who knew about that, besides you and me and That Asshole? You tell me. It's not like I'm walking around campus with a giant V painted on my forehead."
Sable sinks back in her chair, looking thoughtful. "There's a reasonable explanation, Cass," she says. "I'm sure of it."
"Whatever you say, Sable."
She doesn't look so sure anymore.
43
Colton
Something is fucking wrong with me.
Like really fucking wrong with me. In the head.
It's been two weeks. Training – real training, not the summer shit – started up again and I am not in the headspace I'm usually at in the beginning of every other season. There's no focused Colton, the one who tunes everything else out, including all the academic bullshit, to concentrate on the game. In the fall, everything revolves around football. I eat, sleep, and breathe it.
Except this time.
This time, I'm not sleeping. I've driven out into the country in the truck a few nights at one in the morning and climbed into the back to lie underneath the stars in the space that always, without fail, calms me down and gives me clarity about things. Except that the fucking pillows and blankets smelled like her, and then I couldn't sleep because all I could think about was the fact that I royally screwed things up with her.
But I don't get rid of them and I don't wash them because I want to bury my face in the pillows and breathe her in.
It was only a summer fling.
That's what I told myself the first two days. It's what I told my mother when she called to ask if I'd set things right with Cassie about the thesis. The thing with the thesis seems like the biggest fucking joke ever now, in comparison to everything else that happened after that.
I told Drew the same thing when he called after my mother called him. Then I told him to fuck off.
And Tank, who came to me looking for an explanation.
It was just a fling.
That explanation only held water for a couple of days before the stupid knot in the middle of my gut made it too hard to think.
She's better off without me.
That's the realization that came after that, the crushing awareness of my own limitations. I'm not the guy she needs. I can't be the guy she needs, the one who worships her, puts her before anything else.
Football is it for me. My first love. I can't be distracted from it. I can't let her distract me.
It will always be my priority, and she deserves better than that.
I want her to have better than that.
Better than me.
That rationalization doesn't help a fucking bit. The knot in my gut keeps growing bigger.
* * *
"You look like shit," Tank says. "And this room stinks, man. And that's coming from me, which should really worry you. You need to get out of here before you develop scurvy."
"I'm not going to get scurvy."
"You can't just sit around in the dark."
"I'm not," I say, my voice short. "I've gone out."
"Yeah, to practice. Where you look like shit. And at night like a damn vampire," Tank says. "Driving off to wherever to do more sitting by yourself."
"Maybe I'm driving off somewhere to get laid," I shoot back gruffly. "Ever think of that?"
"Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? Did I mention you look like shit? You're not driving anywhere to get laid. And you smell like shit. When's the last time you showered?"
Did I shower when I got back from the gym at lunch? I spent an hour beating a truck tire with a sledgehammer until my back and arms were screaming from the pain and I didn't want to punch anyone anymore. That part wasn't training. Was that today? Or was it yesterday?
"Why don't you go nag Sable?" I suggest. Even speaking her roommate's name makes my heart feel tight, like an invisible hand reached in and put it in a vise grip.
"Because, fuckhead," Tank says, "thanks to you, Sable's not answering my calls now either."
"Why is she mad at you?"
"I don't know. Maybe because you were an asshole to her best friend?"