It sent a message of where I’d be staying tonight. Or maybe it was a challenge.
There was a soft hiss and pop as she opened her beer. She sat on the couch, leaving plenty of space, snatched up a remote, and turned the television on. “Mind if we watch the highlights on SportsCenter?”
I almost laughed, but cut myself off. No need to dig myself a deeper hole. “Let’s do it.”
She gave me the side-eye as I sat right beside her. She probably needed space to cool off, but I didn’t drive all the way here on a game day to sit on the other side of the couch.
When they came back from commercial, the two anchors at the desk were talking about an NFL player who’d gotten a PED suspension. I opened my beer and took a long sip, paying more attention to her than what the guy was talking about onscreen. Who cared what kind of drugs the player had taken? All I needed to know was he was doping, and . . . forget that noise. Way to fuck up your whole career, pal.
The beer in Kayla’s hand was ignored. She was fixated on the screen, and she didn’t seem to be watching the ticker across the bottom, either. If she had been, she would have seen the beating Michigan put down on Florida as our 13-36 score scrolled past.
“I like this guy,” she said, gesturing to the anchor. “He knows his stuff, and he’s so funny. The other guy? He doesn’t add anything. There’s no banter. He just recycles stats.”
As if to prove her point, the camera cut to the other anchor, and the sportscaster listed all the accomplishments of the suspended NFL player.
“I bet he gets shuffled soon. They need a new guy on the Saturday desk.”
“Guy?” I asked. Wasn’t she interested in going into broadcasting? Shouldn’t she have said ‘person’?
She turned to face me and her expression was cool. “I’d love to see a woman on the desk, but I’m a realist. Sportscasting’s come a long way, but it’s still a boys’ club.” She turned back to the television and grumbled. “I’ll have to work twice as hard as a guy, and I’ll be lucky if I get any higher than a sideline-reporter job.”
I took a sip of my beer, considering what to say. “It’s not fair,” I agreed, “and it sucks. You can play by all the rules, but football’s not always fair, either. It’s still hard for black guys to get the starting QB spot. Coaches want to start them at running back or wide receiver.” I gave a humorless laugh. “And then look at me. No way a white boy like me can be fast, coaches say. Doesn’t matter I won the Indiana state title in the four hundred meters my senior year of high school. I have to prove how fast I am every time I take the field.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by the highlight promo for Division I football.
We watched the clips go by. Oklahoma. USC. Alabama. The list of powerhouse football programs continued, showing five-second recaps of each game. Ohio State’s was a punt returner darting and weaving through special teams toward the end zone, and a smile spread on her lips. Fuck, her smile was beautiful.
It was selfish, but I hoped the clip of Michigan’s game would feature my touchdown in the first quarter, and I’d get that same smile. There were a lot of great plays by my teammates, though. We’d given the ESPN folks plenty to select from.
Kayla was stoic when it happened. She didn’t blink as the Michigan player, number eighty-eight, filled the screen. He was wide open, caught the short pass, and walked it into the end zone while the cheerleaders nearby went crazy. That TD had been awesome. Everything seemed to be clicking for my team this year.
The highlights continued, but she lifted the remote and muted the television.
It was surreal watching the play, and more so with her.
Since starting at Michigan, I’d never had a girlfriend during the season. I needed to focus, I told myself. But here I was now, my career on the rise, and I . . . hell, I wanted her to be impressed.
She didn’t smile. Was I going to die from the waiting? I needed Kayla to say something.
“You won’t get that open against us.”
My mouth fell open. That was it? I deflated. What the fuck had I expected? She hated Michigan.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I gritted out, and then took a long pull of my beer to stop myself from saying anything else. So much for sweeping her off her feet.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Force of habit.” She gave me a glimmer of hope when her blue eyes latched onto mine.
“It’s okay,” I said, even when it bothered me. “Although, what are you going to do if you end up on a sports desk and have talk about a Michigan game?”
“I’m not worried. I’m really good at faking it.”
She hadn’t meant it sexually, but of course my mind went there.
“I didn’t mean it like it sounded,” she said quickly. “I faked with the other guys. Not you.” Her face went white. “And, oh my God, I need to stop talking.”
I grinned. Did I like knowing I was the only guy who made her come? Hell yeah, I did. “Do you think that’s proof we should be together?”
Her face skewed with fear. “Together?”
“You’re sexy. Funny. Into football. Basically, you’re awesome. And me? I’m definitely awesome.”
“Okay, Kanye.”
“We’d be awesome together.” I leaned in and traced my fingertips over the curve of her cheek. Her eyes hooded. Everything turned serious with that one gesture. A stroke of my finger over her skin. “I want this,” I said. “I don’t want it with anyone else.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“Did you not just hear my ‘awesome’ speech ten seconds ago? On top of everything else, I’d know exactly why you’re with me.” I set my beer down on the ‘coffee table.’ “Look, if I want to get laid, finding a girl who’s down isn’t hard.”
I’d reaped the benefits of my starter status my sophomore and junior year. I could fall out of bed and land on a girl, putting forth zero effort. I half-expected Kayla to tell me I was wrong, or for her face to fill with disgust, but all she did was press her lips into a tight line.
“But finding a girl who’ll put up with all the bullshit in my life, and do it only because she likes me, is a different story.” I cupped her face, brushing a thumb along her cheekbone. “I’ve reached a point with football where every new person in my life has motivations. They want or need something from me.” Everyone was fake to some degree. New ass-kissing friends came out of nowhere. Agents showed up at random places, needing to chat me up and see if they could get me anything.
The turning point had been after finals week in May. I’d gone to a house party, stumbled into a room with some girl whose name I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure of, and she’d announced she was down to fuck without a condom because she was on the pill.
It’d been like a jug of icy Gatorade dumped on me.
Even if she wasn’t trying to get pregnant and trap me, I wasn’t about to stick my unwrapped dick into a girl who was cool with it. I told her I wasn’t “down” with getting an STD and left her gawking up at me on the couch.