“I don’t believe it like you do,” Ty grumbles and looks away.
“Bullshit. I know you believe in it or you wouldn’t have broken up with Marcie.” Marcie and Ty were high school sweethearts everyone expected to marry, until she tried to climb into bed with me one night. She claims she didn’t know the difference. It would’ve been better for her if she confessed she’d done it intentionally. Once Ty heard her say she couldn’t tell us apart, he dumped her. He hasn’t had a steady girlfriend since.
Ty flicks me off but doesn’t argue. Someone shouts in the background.
“Hold on.” He gets up and slams out of the room. “I’m fucking talking to my brother, you assholes. What is the problem?” More yelling takes place. I can’t make it out. Ty returns looking hassled. “Aw, fuck. Gotta run. Someone’s hazing the freshmen even though we told them not to. You’ll regret it if you don’t make her take the test. And pictures don’t count.”
I don’t think I’ll regret shit when it comes to Ellie, except not making a move when the gap is open. I’m nothing if not an opportunist. The time between beating the tackle off the snap is a millisecond. You see the opening and go, or you’re dropped on your ass and some lesser talent posterizes you, putting you on ESPN for all the wrong reasons.
I’m not sitting on my thumbs waiting for anything, especially not Ellie.
7
Ellie
The party at Hammer’s house is exactly how it was back in junior college—lots of beer, scantily clad women, and jocks standing around evaluating the talent. Even though classes haven’t officially started, there’s a sizable number of students hanging on the porch by the time Jack and I arrive. I don’t even want to think about how many there will be once the season gets in full swing. Saturday night after a game? This whole place will get overrun with people.
Inside, though, it’s quieter than I expect. Likely, the sultry late summer temperatures are driving people outdoors. The minute we walk inside, Jack gets pulled away by Ahmed.
“Hey, man, come and see this sick play that Hammer pulled off on Madden.”
“I need to get Ellie a drink,” Jack protests.
“The keg’s in the back, or if you want a mixed drink, hit the kitchen.” Tyrell points vaguely toward the back of the house. “Just tell the guys in the kitchen that you’re Campbell’s sister.”
And this is yet another reason I don’t want to date a football player. It’s bad enough being Jack Campbell’s sister, but to date someone where your entire identity gets subsumed by that? No thanks. Jack hesitates. I give him a push.
“I’ll be fine. Really,” I insist. “New tribe and all.”
The new tribe bit is bullshit because this is a football party. I should have stuck around the apartment and found out what Riley planned to do tonight, but Jack insisted, said that once Masters laid down an edict, he had to follow it for team unity and all that hogwash.
Yet, I bought into it, too, because here I am, at a party full of football players, gridiron groupies, girlfriends, and wannabes. I need to find a nice quiet corner where I can hide for two hours or so until I can convince Jack I should go home.
“She’ll be fine,” Ahmed repeats, and with another shove from me, Jack allows the running back to lead him off to see whatever amazing exploits are going on in a video game of fake NFL players.
In the kitchen, I find a lanky guy with an acne problem pouring drinks. I don’t recognize him, but given the shit position of playing bartender, he must be a freshman.
“Can I have a Coke?”
“Shit, honey, a Coke? I got all kinds of stuff back here. Don’t tell me you plan to * out tonight and not get hammered like the rest of us.” He pulls out a giant bottle of whiskey and waves it at me.
Pussy out? Nice. I resist the urge to tell him that this * isn’t impressed with his act. “No thanks. Just the Coke.”
He leans over the makeshift counter, a piece of lumber stretched across the space between one end of the opening into the kitchen and the other. “It’s not just a Coke, tiger.” Tiger? “It’s a statement piece that says I’m boring as fuck. You don’t want to start out on the wrong foot during the first big night of the year. We’ve got girlie drinks back here for people like you. Now what’s your poison?” He tips his head up looking massively satisfied with himself.
“So, you’re a wide out?” It’s time to put this guy in his place. He’s on the skinny side and a hair under six feet. He could be a defensive back, but there’s something about the way he leans forward that makes me think he’s waiting for the gun to go off or the quarterback to yell set hut.
His grin widens. “How'd you guess?”
It’s my party trick. Some girls can guess bra sizes. Some guys can do two story beer bongs. Me? I can guess what position you play.
“Your build.” I gesture. “They didn’t require you to get to a certain weight?”