Austin Carillo was the Italian bad boy of UA: six-foot-four, beautifully olive skin, piercings galore, black ear gauges, neck-to-toe tattoos, dark hair and the darkest of brown eyes.
I felt myself blush. If I had a type, he’d be it. But I didn’t date, and from what I’d heard, neither did he.
“Nah. It’s this. The replay of the game in my mind, the making of memories on this field.”
A sense of peace floated over me at what he described. “I know exactly what you mean,” I replied wistfully and inhaled the smell of greasy food, churned-up grass… victory.
Austin glanced back to the tunnel and, without another word, began to saunter away. I stared back out onto the gridiron and sighed in relief… I’d done it. I’d actually made it through a game unscathed.
The voice within hadn’t had the strength to spoil it.
“It’s about fuckin’ time, by the way!” I suddenly heard and looked behind me, straight at Carillo.
“Are you talking to me?” I asked in confusion, checking around us to see if anyone else was here.
Austin smirked in a deliciously dark way and gestured to my hair and face. “Yeah, I’m talking to you. It’s about time a pompom chick ’round here broke the mold. It’s good to have another one of us freaks on this team.”
One of us freaks? I thought, but all I could do was watch him disappear into the locker rooms. My heart pounded in my chest, and lifting my hand, I ran my fingers over my black hair and lipstick, and I felt a flutter in my chest… one of us freaks…
Seeing the cleanup crew enter the stadium, I quickly bent down, plucked a piece of grass from the field, and held up the single blade. It was my tradition. A piece of memorabilia from every game I’d ever cheered… But this would be my first in four years.
The symbol of my new life.
Picking up my poms, I headed to the locker room. I couldn’t wait to get home and write, telling Daisy all about it.
Chapter Two
Austin
“Woo-ee, boy! Four point two on the forty-yard dash! Keep getting these times and you’ll be in the first or second-round draft, no doubt,” Coach Cline, my sprint coach, shouted as I crossed the forty-yard line.
It was a few days after the Mocs game, and football practice was kicking my ass.
I bent over, catching my breath, when I heard, “Carillo, Coach’s office, now!”
Straightening up, I looked over the field to see Defense Coach Moore waving me over to the office.
I looked over at Coach Cline. “What’ve I done?”
His brows furrowed and he shook his head. “Ain’t got a clue, son. Now get on over there and find out. We got more drills to run.”
In less than two minutes, I was at Coach’s office door, and I rapped twice on the polished wood.
“Come on in, Carillo,” Coach called from behind his desk. If he wasn’t on the field, you’d always find him behind his desk.
I entered the room and took a seat opposite him. Coach looked up from the mountain of paperwork on his desktop, removed his glasses, and gently rubbed the area around his eyes.
This wasn’t looking good. He was anxious.
“What am I here for, Coach?” I asked in a wary voice.
Dropping his hands, he leaned forward, elbows on his desk, looking me right in the eyes. “Got a call from the dean today.”
“Okay. And why does that concern me?” I asked tightly. I hadn’t done anything wrong in over three years here at the Tide. I had nothing to hide. Especially from Coach.
“We got a problem on campus, and he asked me to talk to you, see what you know.”
“What kind of problem?” I asked, confused.
“A drug problem,” he answered straight and waited for me to say something in return.
A drug problem. Drugs turn up on campus and immediately they think of me.
“I’ve got nothing to do with it,” I said tightly.
Coach just nodded. “I don’t think that you do,” he emphasized.
My stomach flipped. “And why’d you say it like that? Who do y’all think is involved?”
I knew, of course, but I wanted to hear it from his mouth. Wanted to hear his accusation against my blood out loud.
“There’s been some talk that someone looking just like you has been seen on campus, dealing coke.” He sighed. “Just like you, Austin. You hearing me? I only know one person that could be.” He paused and I waited, just waited. I needed to hear it from his damn mouth.
“Fine, son. I’ll say it. Axel. I’m thinking it’s your brother.”
I laughed in disbelief and shook my head. “Not you, Coach. Not you too! Don’t you fuckin’ do this to me! Some fucker turns up on campus, dealing, and you immediately think of the trailer trash scholarship kid with Heighter relations. That it?”
Coach motioned to speak. “Aust—”
“It’s not him. He wouldn’t have done it. Wouldn’t bring that shit my way. He’s family. Family doesn’t screw each other over.” My voice was cold and hard as I cut him off.