Eastshore Tigers 01 - Strong Side (4 page)

"Ah, shit. I was there last year. Know exactly what you mean. That and all the fucking stains on the walls."

Griffin laughs. "Thanks, man. I almost forgot about those."

"No problem."

A server comes to our table, and I put in an order for a cheeseburger and a pitcher of whatever's on tap, then let Griffin get his own order in. The server heads back to the kitchen, and I briefly flick my gaze to the TV, then back to him.

"This is on me, by the way."

"You don't have to do that. Really. You offering to work with me is… More than enough."

I don't know why, but the sincerity in his voice catches me off guard.

"Bringing you up helps the whole team."

"Yeah, but you could just as easily let me ride the bench. That would've only affected me, not the team."

I shrugged. "Maybe. But I think benching you would be a waste."

The pitcher comes and I pour us both a glass. The familiar tickle of the foam is almost like a rush all by itself as I raise the glass to my lips. I take a drink, and it clings to my skin. Before I can wipe it away, I see Griffin staring at me, his gaze fixated on my lips. Another strange feeling flutters low in my gut, and I shift a little in my seat.

I can’t even manage ribbing him right now. Instead, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and Griffin quickly turns his attention to the TV. We both watch for a while, complaining about the same shitty call on a baseball game. I'm not a huge fan, but it's a distraction. And it's not like there's much else to watch when it isn't football season.

Once I pour us both a refill I figure it's about time to get down to business. "So. What is it you're afraid of?"

"Needles. Plague. Mice kind of freak me out, to be honest with you."

I roll my eyes, but a smirk tugs at my lips. "Very funny, smart ass. Is it the pain?"

"No, I'm not worried about the pain." From the expression on his face and the brief shadow that passes across his eyes, I'm willing to bet he's experienced a lot more pain than the kind a skilled defender can dole out. " It's… Kind of a long story."

"I got time."

With all the other football players here ordering the exact same thing, we’re still waiting on our meal anyway. But I don't pressure him. Instead, I lean my elbow against the table and take another drink of my beer. It takes a hell of a lot to get me drunk, but I'm starting to feel a tiny buzz.

"I was injured back in high school." Both his hands are around his glass, and he looks down at the table when he says it.

"No shit? Torn ligament? Hairline fracture?"

Injury is a big part of football, but I'm not going to be the asshole who says that right now. Nobody likes to be laid out on the field. I've been there, and it definitely fucks with your head. For me, every sack rockets my anxiety up to 11. Every time my back hits the grass I wonder if it's going to be the last time I take the field.

And I haven’t even gotten hit with a concussion yet.

"Paralysis, actually."

That gets my attention. My gaze snaps up to him, and there's no hint of a joke in his eyes. Not that anybody would joke about that.

"Temporary. I guess that's obvious, though. Got hit just the right way that it shifted one of the discs in my back. Put pressure on the spinal cord, made my legs useless for a while."

I can feel my jaw move as I try to form words, but it takes a few attempts to get them out. "Shit. Did you just eventually get feeling back in your legs?"

"Yeah, after about four months. Took longer to relearn how to use them."

"When did this happen?"

"Junior year of high school."

"So what, four of five years ago? And you're already playing ball again? Jesus, man."

I can't even imagine. Even just having to go through physical therapy after fucking up my shoulder was a big deal for me. You never realize how much your body works to move things until you mess something up. All of the practices I've been through, all of the drills I've run, and those six weeks were still the most intense of my life.

But learning to walk again? Getting to the point where you can actually play a sport like football? My respect for Griffin just multiplied tenfold.

"Yeah. The physical stuff is pretty much behind me, and I thought the mental was, too. Guess not."

Any normal person would probably tell him to cut himself some slack. But I don't think that's what he wants to hear, and that's not who I am.

"We'll figure it out," I say as the server brings our burgers.

We talk about sports between mouthfuls, and I scratch out a plan on a cocktail napkin. Derek Griffin put in the time, and he deserves to get past this. There's no way I could ever do anything close to what he did, and I want to have a part in it. I want to help him get his comeback. He deserves it.

CHAPTER FIVE

- Derek -

People usually have one of two reactions when I tell them about my injury. The overwhelming one is pity, but every now and again there's someone who seems to understand exactly what it takes to come back from something like that. Hawk’s in the latter camp, and he doesn't give me any bullshit about how I was robbed, or how it's a miracle I'm even walking now. He understands. I don't just want to walk. I want to play football.

Hell, if I'm being completely honest with myself, I want things to go back to the way they were before I got injured. Before I realized there were people in this world so fucking hateful that they would do something like that.

Of course, I don’t tell Hawk any of that. It's not completely unbelievable that such a serious injury would randomly happen on a football field, so I'm not too worried about him asking questions. I guess I should feel more ashamed since he's offering to help me. But I just can't. Some secrets I have to keep with me. And maybe I'm holding myself back by doing it, but I can't really imagine letting anybody else know this.

Right now, I can pretend it was just another run-of-the-mill injury, and that I'm terrified of it happening again. It's not exactly a lie, it's just not the whole truth.

With my burger finished I get to work on my fries. Everything tastes amazing, but after working so hard earlier today, my stomach is feeling a little unsettled. Of course, it could be a side effect of drinking so much beer before eating anything. I've always been a lightweight, from the time my friends and I were sneaking beers out of our parents’ fridge in junior high.

I'm never gonna be a big party guy, and I'm okay with that.

Hawk is going to town though. He's downed most of the pitcher himself, and I'm glad he hasn't noticed that I haven't kept up with him yet. Considering how big he is, he can probably put down a lot before he even thinks about it. And it's not my place to question what he does.

Not like he's my boyfriend.

Jesus. One day of him talking to me and my subconscious is already fantasizing. Great.

I watch him scribble something on a napkin, and my curiosity gets the better of me. Eventually he slides it across the table, and I squint as I look at it. It's a schedule. Written in surprisingly neat, elegant handwriting. Totally unexpected coming from the guy sitting across from me.

"What's this?"

"Your new schedule. It'll probably have to change around a bit if Coach calls practice on the fly. But right now, these are the times we’ll work one-on-one. I can get some extra time on the field, or we can hit up the park. Your choice."

He's got sessions slotted out every other day, at least. I have a feeling this is going to have to change once classes start, but right now I find myself almost a little giddy at the idea of spending so much time with him. And this is while he's going to force me to get tackled over and over again. The only thing my treacherous mind can think is that I hope he's the one doing the tackling.

"You sure you have time for all this?"

"Yeah. Not a whole lot to do before the semester starts. And I want to get as much work in as possible. If you want to start this season, you'll have to impress Coach Garvey pretty quick."

"Well… Thanks, man."

His lips turn up in a grin. "You sound surprised."

"I am. I mean, you don't know me. At all. You don't know my stats from high school, you don't know if I was just having a good run in practice today. And you're willing to spend the time to help fix me."

He finishes a bite and locks eyes with me. I can't help it. I'm caught in the intensity of his stare, his light blue eyes both calming and exhilarating.

"Anybody who can come back from an injury like that is worth fixing."

And just like that, the discussion is over. Even if I have no idea why someone like Hawk would do this for me, I can't help but trust him. He's putting himself out there, giving me some of his precious time. A
lot
of his time, if this napkin is anything to go by. So trusting him is the least I can do.

When Hawk turns his attention back to the TV, I turn my attention to him. He cuts a profile like a Greek statue, all hard lines and perfection. Strong jaw, nicely squared face, and a brow that's masculine but not reaching Neanderthal levels. When he smiles, or when he focuses, his sky-blue eyes crinkle just a little bit in the corners. In 20 years, he's going to be one of those gorgeous guys who has laugh lines carved into his face.

Not that he isn’t already gorgeous.

It's his lips that really get me though. His mouth is framed by rough stubble that outlines the shadow of a beard. But his lips look soft and full. I've always been a sucker for a guy who can kiss, and with lips like that, I'm willing to bet Hawk is pretty damn good at it.

But what are the chances of me ever finding out? Pretty fucking slim.

As soon as the question forms on the tip of my tongue, I know I shouldn't ask it. Even if I couch it between a few more reasonable questions, it's not like he and I are best buds. I shouldn't be thinking about what it would feel like to kiss him, but right now it's the only thing keeping me from thinking about what it felt like to lay broken on the ground and not be able to feel my legs.

"So you're a senior, right?" Safe question number one.

He takes a drink of his beer before answering. The pitcher’s almost polished off now.

"Yeah. Fifth year, actually. Went a little light in the class load a couple years back."

Considering how dedicated he seems to football, I'm not surprised. "What's your major?"

"Communication."

"You trying to be a sportscaster or something?"

He shrugs, turning his attention back to the TV. "I guess if a professional career doesn't pan out, yeah."

His shoulders are tense, and his posture is completely closed off. Apparently I’ve already touched on a sore spot, and I haven't even asked what I really want to know.

"Where are you staying until the dorms open up?"

"My dad got an apartment down here. We lived in Michigan before this, and after my mom died, he didn’t really have any reason to stay. Gives him a chance to keep an eye on me, too." He says it offhandedly, but there’s still a little tension and him.

"Sorry about your mom."

He just nods, then pours the last of the pitcher into his glass. "You want another?"

"I'm good."

I'm starting to think that Jason Hawkins is a more complicated guy than I first suspected. And that any question I ask him is going to have a complicated answer.

"So what do you guys usually do outside of football?"

"There's something outside of football?" That makes him chuckle, like he's finally comfortable with the conversation again. "Not a whole lot. There's this place, and there's always some party going on somewhere. The guys who live in the same dorm like to get together and play Madden. Other than that, can't say there's a whole lot going on during the season."

He’s still not really talking about himself. I know I shouldn’t pry, but I just can’t help myself.

"Must be hard to date with a schedule like that. Your girl okay with you spending so much time on the field?"

Hawk looks back at me, and for a second I think he's going to call me on my bullshit. My heart is thumping hard in my chest, and I swear there’s no way he can’t hear it. But he just shrugs, then looks away.

"She wasn't. That's why we broke up. Two years ago." He takes another sip of his beer before continuing. "Thought I could balance a social life with everything else, but it just didn’t work out."

There's a part of me that's deliriously happy to hear he doesn't have a girlfriend right now. Of course, that part of me is completely ignoring the fact that he's obviously straight. Not that I didn't know that going into this. Whatever
this
is. I feel like I'm back in junior high, passing a note to someone I like.

"I feel you. Don't really get out much myself."

Back when I was seeing a therapist, she suggested it was because of anxiety. Whether that developed after my injury, or before it, I'll never know. But at least it gives Hawk and I something to bond over, in a roundabout way.