IvyMac: I created a new donut. It’s called the Bad Sack: salted caramel with a chocolate ganache center that gushes when you bite into it. Personally, I refer to it as Sacked Gray. But I won’t tell anyone but you its true name. ;-)
GrayG: Sounds delicious. I’ll have to try it sometime. Got practice all day. See you later.
IvyMac: Okay. See you.
IvyMac: Haven’t seen you in a while.
GrayG: Haven’t been able to do anything but train. I can’t feel my legs anymore.
IvyMac: I’m sorry.
IvyMac: I don’t like thinking of you in pain.
GrayG: Don’t worry, Mac. All pain eventually goes away.
IvyMac: You going out to Palmers tonight? Fi and I are going to dance. You should come with us.
GrayG: Can’t. Booster party in honor of the playoffs at some fancy country club. Whole team has to go. Suits required. Cue my ass being pinched by cougars.
IvyMac: So not all bad then? ;-)
GrayG: Yeah, there’s that.
GrayG: Night, Mac. And be careful out there.
IvyMac: Night, Gray.
* * *
Gray
I hate booster parties. Hot, stuffy, too many people watching your every move. Too many fake smiles, fake laughs, slaps on the shoulders by rich dudes who call you “son.” Too many rich women pressing their gym-toned bodies up against you, while you try not to react because they’re old enough to legitimately call you “son.” Mind your Ps and Qs because you can’t embarrass Coach, the athletic director, the dean, and the dozens of other campus bigwigs circling the room, pressing palms.
A fucking circus.
I tug at my collar, sweat damping my shirt that’s buried beneath layers of suit jacket and vest. Around me guys are doing the same, or trying not to. Most freshmen and sophomores are stuck in ill-fitting suits bought off the rack at some big-and-tall store. Their biceps stretch their coat sleeves, the overlarge size sagging at the shoulders.
At the very least, I can say I look all right in comparison. Last year’s championship swag featured vouchers for free tailored suits at a national luxury retailer. I’d taken them up on the offer, standing stock still, side by side with Drew, joking about which side we dressed on as two annoyed-looking tailors measured us up.
So yeah, I look sharp as new cleats standing here and sweating my balls off. Awesome. A waiter passes, and I nab a glass of beer from his tray. It’s lukewarm, because really beer shouldn’t be slowly passed around a hot room, but I take a long sip anyway.
Inside my pants pocket, my phone vibrates with a text. Instantly, my heart rate kicks up. I want it to be Mac. I don’t want it to be Mac. My chest literally hurts every time I get a text from her. Every time I have to play it cool, like some distant, half-assed friend.
Gripping my glass too hard, I weave through the room, stopping every few feet to accept congratulations or someone wanting to talk.
“Excuse me,” I tell each person. “Nature calls.”
Best excuse I got, but it still doesn’t prevent people from trying to chat me up. By the time I make it to the terrace doors, I’m ready to lose it. God, this PR bullshit is only going to get worse in the NFL.
Frowning, I slip out into the cool night air and take a deep breath to clear my head. But my pulse doesn’t slow as I pull out my phone. I sag against the wall. The text isn’t from Mac. Disappointment and relief churn around in my gut, as I peer at the unknown number, ready to delete the text.
Unknown: Hey there, sexy mountain of man-flesh. Having fun at your suit parade?
Sexy mountain of man-flesh? Why does that ridiculous name sound familiar? I rub a hand over my face and then it hits me. Fiona calls me that. What the hell is Fiona doing texting me?
GrayG: Yeah, it’s awesome. What’s up, Fi?
As I wait for her to answer, I stare out across the dark sweep of trimmed lawn. Everything is blue and gray, the moon hanging low along the horizon as wispy clouds drift past. The scent of snow is in the air. My hand vibrates.