False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) (4 page)

I
t doesn’t take
much effort to find the bar Mills mentioned.

I pulled up directions the second I left the community center. Anticipation thrummed through me, winding in a coil from that moment up until the moment I parked my car in the garage and walked out onto the downtown strip.

Eastshore isn’t what I’m used to. It’s got the odd clash of old and new like a lot of places in Connecticut, but because of the college, the new skews toward
really
new. There are a handful of sports bars, tattoo shops, local restaurants that serve hangover food, an “authentic Irish pub,” a head shop, and a handful of other businesses that sharply contrast the historic street less than a mile away.

The oddity is enough to take my attention off what’s about to happen, even if it doesn’t calm my nerves.

I know I shouldn’t feel this way. It’s just a drink. But the idea of being around the guys, doing normal things, just fills me with a spark of hope.

Growing up, I never found that sense of camaraderie. There was always something separating me from my peers. I went to private school, but I wasn’t exactly what anyone would have pegged as the typical trust-fund kid. I played sports, but I wasn’t the typical jock. I didn’t live in the suburbs; my mom definitely didn’t own an SUV.

Here, I’m just Erickson. Not Erickson, destined to build a legacy that revolves around my father. But Erickson, the new linebacker who’s giving his all to the team.

At least, that’s how it goes down in my head. The truth is, as I approach the bar with its glowing neon, I’m afraid it won’t play out that way.

It’s a humid, sticky night. The threat of rain lingers in the air, and when I pull open the door of the bar, I’m greeted by the blissful feeling of the AC running at full blast.

I’m also greeted by the smell of beer and grease and that unidentifiable scent when a group of men—washed, thankfully—congregate in one place.

It isn’t just men, though. There are a fair amount of women in the bar, and I realize this is probably normal. The guys probably bring dates here all the time.

My heart sinks as I realize it’s going to look weird when I don’t have one. Maybe not today, but give it a year and everyone will notice.

My heart sinks further when I think of Mills having one.

It’s so stupid. Just because he doesn’t hate me doesn’t mean he likes me, and it definitely doesn’t mean he’s into me. But I’m into him, and I’m apparently into the self-flagellation of wondering what Mills’ girlfriend would look like.

She’d probably be small and pretty. Someone he can protect. Someone who looks good standing beside him. Someone who fits into his arms perfectly.

That someone definitely isn’t me.

“Yo, Erickson!”

Trent pulls me out of my thoughts, thank God. I screw a smile in place and make my way over to their table. Or tables, because they’ve pulled together three of them, and big football players are still spilling out of every side.

I spot Mills almost immediately. He’s fiddling with his phone, a half-full glass of pale amber liquid in front of him. His features are relaxed, his muscles not filled with the tension I’ve seen in him before.

And he doesn’t have a woman sitting beside him. It’s just Oakley on his right, and Anderson on his left.

Relief floods me, and I feel even more ridiculous. That feelings only grows when Mills looks up, gives me a nod, and then goes back to what he was doing.

Message received.

There’s nowhere to sit, so I pull up a chair at one of the ends. I feel awkward, jutting out from the end of the table. The waitstaff have to make space for me. The other guys have to practically shout for me to hear them. All my enthusiasm for tonight is sapped in less than five minutes.

“This is the guy I told you about, babe. Knocked my ass on the ground today,” Trent says, and I’m pulled out of my awkward little pity-party.

“Oh, thank God,” she says with an impish grin. “I haven’t been able to deal with his shit for months. Thank you for taking him down a few pegs.”

I can’t help but laugh, surprised by the comment. And by the fact that Trent is just grinning, his arm looped around her shoulders.

“Any time.”

“I’m Erica,” she says, offering her hand.

“Mitch.” I give it a shake, and for once, I don’t have to feign politeness.

“You don’t sound like a Florida native,” she says.

“Connecticut. Just outside of Hartford.”

“Ooh, fancy.”

“What the hell are you doing down here? You could be at Notre Dame or some shit,” Trent says.

Oh, it’s worse than that. I could be at Yale or some shit. According to my father, I should be.

“Too much clam chowder,” I joke, patting my flat stomach.

That gets a laugh. I feel a little more of my tension ease, and I relax in my chair a bit.

“Don’t you boys know when to quit? Mike already blocked off a whole quarter of the bar for you,” a woman in a Top t-shirt says, passing another pitcher of beer onto the table.

“Nah, they just keep multiplying. Like bunnies,” Erica says with a wink.

“I am
not
a bunny,” Trent says. “Tucker, you’re taking bio. What’s manlier than a bunny.”

“There’s nothing manlier than a bunny,” Tucker says, matter-of-factly.

“A jack-ass.”

Mills finally says something, and I look up in surprise. His gaze is still fixed on his phone, but there’s a little smirk tugging at his lips that makes my heart beat out a staccato rhythm.

“Whatever, dude. Donkeys are hung as fuck.”

“That’s horses,” Erica says, patting him soothingly on the chest.

“Can I get you a glass, hon? Or do you wanna cut ties with these guys now?”

It takes me a moment to realize the waitress is talking to me.

“I’m stuck over here now,” I say with a grin. “But I’ll just take a Coke.”

“Put it on my tab,” Mills says distractedly.

Not too distractedly, apparently. He must have been listening this whole time, between that and the jack-ass comment.

“Oh shit, Mills’ got another man-crush,” Trent says.

My heart stops, leaping up into my throat to strangle me. I knew this was coming. It’s impossible to hang around jocks and not hear things like this.

I just hoped I’d be able to hide for one more night; to just enjoy being another one of the guys.

“I thought you’d never get over Hawk.”

Hawk. He has to mean Jason Hawkins, the QB who used to go here. Were they…? No, that can’t be right. Hawk was with someone else.

“Your dad helped,” Mills says nonchalantly.

“Did you just ‘your dad’ me, dude?”

“Yep.”

But there’s no half-drunk fist-fight. Trent doesn’t leap over the table and shove Mills to the ground. He just shrugs, and that’s the end of it.

My Coke comes, Erica asks me about life in Connecticut, and nobody really thinks twice about that comment again. Some of the guys have to be uncomfortable, but if they are, they don’t show it.

It’s not what I expected.

I’m not drinking, but I start to feel a weird, pleasant buzz as the conversation keeps up, getting progressively louder the more the pitchers disappear.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” I hear Mills suddenly say, startling me.

“Your boys lost, huh? Told you it was gonna be a slaughter,” Trent says.

“It was a shit call. Fucking ref wouldn’t know a technical if it bit him in the ass.”

“Ooh, ass-biting. That I’d pay to see,” Erica quips.

“What game are you watching?” I ask.

I feel a little better about the fact that Mills was staring at his phone all night for a legitimate reason. It was self-centered to think he was avoiding me, but damn if it didn’t cross my mind.

“Magic vs. Heat. Wasn’t more than a ten-point difference the whole game, then Dragic knocks Jennings to the court and the Heat pull ahead. Fucking bullshit.”

“The Magic haven’t gotten a fair shake since Hardaway got injured in ’97. I always wonder how far they would’ve gone if shit hadn’t fallen apart.”

“Before that. It started going downhill after Shaq left for LA.” Mills finally looks up at me, his eyes seeming a little darker in the dim light of the bar. “I thought you didn’t play basketball.”

“I don’t,” I say, giving him a smile. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like watching it.”

He nods at that, then regards me as he sits caddy-corner from me. There are still a few seats between us, but in that moment, it starts to feel like we’re the only two people at the table.

“Didn’t think you’d be a Magic fan,” he says.

I shrug. “I guess I’m not, but it’s hard not to respect them. They had one hell of a team back in the day.”

“The day,” such as it was, happened before my time. But basketball was one of the things my sister and I bonded over. She always used to say she just watched for the “tight shorts and bouncing balls, if you know what I mean,” but she memorized stats better than anyone I know.

“Favorite player?”

“You got him started now,” Sommers grumbles playfully.

Something lights up inside of me at that. Mills is talking with me about something. Anything. The fact that it’s something he’s obviously invested in is even better.

“Probably Horace Grant. Always liked how aggressive he played.”

It used to remind me a little of football, at least the defensive parts of it. There might not be any tackling in basketball, but Grant could throw an elbow with the best of them, and somehow manage to get away with it.

“He learned that shit from the Bulls,” Mills says, but he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by my choice.

We talk about basketball for a while longer, and Mills eventually asks me who my favorite LB is. I tell him Ray Lewis, and he makes a sound of appreciation. The grin on his face seems to light up his dark eyes, and I feel more of that strange warmth seep into my being.

Eventually the whole thing devolves into a table-wide debate. Nobody excludes me from the conversation; I’m not off in the corner somewhere, holding up the wall. I’m just another one of the guys, and it feels… amazing.

So amazing that I can’t help but want to repay them.

As the night winds down and the one streetlight outside starts to glint a blinking caution light off the glass, I make my way up to the bar and lean over it, trying to get the bartender’s attention. There’s no one else here but our table, and after wiping out a glass, he comes over to me.

“Need a refill?”

“Nah, I’m good,” I say, reaching into my back pocket and pulling out my wallet. “How much of a problem would it be to put everybody’s tab onto one card?”

The bartender raises one dark, thick eyebrow at that. He wanders over to the register and I hear a few clicks on the keys. A low whistle tells me he’s apparently stumbled on the tab totals.

“You sure one card can cover it, kid? Your buddies over there drink like fucking fish.”

I smile at him, holding out the card. “I’m sure.”

He gives me a dubious look, but runs it anyway. From the clock above the bar, it’s about to be closing time; good a chance as any to close out the tab. When his brows lift, I can guess the card’s been accepted. It’s never been declined, so I’m not at all surprised.

“All right then. Everybody who still had an open tab is covered. Just sign here.”

He tears off the receipt, and I sign my name to it. I glance back at the guys. Sommers and Trent are in the middle of an arm-wrestling match, and I smirk. My gaze seeks out Mills, though, despite my better judgment, and I find him looking at me.

A little touch of nervousness flickers through me. I wanted it to be anonymous. The last thing I want is to find some way to separate myself from the other guys on the team. Best to just drain the last of my drink and cut out with the rest of them so maybe it’ll all get lost in the stampede of closing time.

“Hey, don’t tell them I paid, okay?”

“Sure, kid.”

I head back to the table, and Mills is still looking at me. Once I take my seat, his attention goes back to Sommers and Trent. I watch, but only half pay attention. There’s a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that says I probably shouldn’t have done that.

But it’s not like it’s a big deal. A few hundred dollars isn’t huge. And it’s on a credit card, so it’s not like I have to pay it off immediately. I’m not eager to tell them I just paid for their drinks, but if it comes out, it shouldn’t be that bad.

Right?

I finish my Coke, then lean back in my chair. It’s late, and while we don’t have practice first thing in the morning tomorrow—thank God—I still need to get used to a set schedule so I can transition a little better once the school term starts.

If I fail my classes, my dad will do everything in his power to revoke our deal.

“I’m gonna head out. Thanks for inviting me tonight,” I say.

The guys barely hear me. I get some acknowledgments, but the only one who really looks at me is Mills.

“Thanks for the drink.”

He nods, and I see the barest hint of a smile touch his lips. “No problem.”

As I leave the bar and head to the parking lot I feel more at ease than I have in a long while; like a young kid who’s just made friends after his first day at school. It’s ridiculous, I know. But considering my track record—and the fact that a lot of my friends in Connecticut were just friends with me for my connections—I feel like it’s a good start.

I
don’t want
to hate Erickson.

If I’m real about it, I don’t really hate him at all. If he wasn’t a good player—if he wasn’t standing between me and a starting position—I think we’d get on real well. But there’s something more than that. He makes me feel a little unsettled, and it isn’t just what happened in the locker room.

I have to tell myself I’m probably being stupid, though. Outside of Jason and Derek, I don’t have a lot of real friends. I can shoot the shit with the guys, but none of them know what I’m really like.

Maybe I’m shooting myself in the foot by not giving Erickson a chance. As the other guys crowd around Erica for a picture, I stare at what’s left of my beer and try to figure out if I’ve been unfair. I already know the answer’s probably yes, I’m just not sure what I want to do about it.

Inviting him here was a gesture of goodwill, right? Maybe he doesn’t think I hate him anymore, but as often as he looked at me tonight with uncertainty in his eyes, I’m guessing I’m still coming across as the brute who just wants to chew him up and spit him out.

I should let myself be okay with that. It’s not like I need every guy on the team to like me, and it’s probably easier if a guy I’m competing with doesn’t. But there’s something about Erickson that gets under my skin. The way he smiles. The way he interacts with people. It all seems too eager; like he’s honestly trying to make sure everybody likes him.

“All right, it’s a quarter past two. Finish up your drinks and get the hell out,” Ben, the owner of The Top says from behind the bar.

There’s some good-natured groaning, followed by the sound of a bunch of already half-drunk guys slamming back what’s left in their glasses. I just take another sip of mine, the beer long since warming to a temperature that makes it damn near impossible to enjoy.

Best to just close out my tab now and be done with it.

Grabbing my wallet, I start up toward the bar.

“Hey Mills, buy my drink too, will ya?” Trent says.

“Sure thing, asshole,” I say, though there isn’t any hint of anger or even annoyance in it.

I’ve run Trent to the ground enough times that there isn’t really anything but camaraderie between us. That’s the way it is with most of the guys. We give each other shit, but in the end, we’re still a team. I don’t know why I can’t seem to treat Erickson that way.

I reach the bar and hand over my card, looking back to the tables we pushed together. There are four empty glasses in front of Trent, and he’s working on a fifth. I wince. He must’ve pulled the short straw to end up as the designated “finisher.” At least his place is in stumbling distance.

“Tab’s already paid for,” Ben says, handing me back my card.

“You sure you got the right one?”

He lifts a brow at me. Good point. I’ve been coming here with the guys since my freshman year. Even a little bit before that, when I first started to get recruited in high school. Ben knows who I am. He wouldn’t mistake my tab for someone else’s.

“Well who the hell paid it?”

“An anonymous benefactor,” he says, contorting his voice to be a lot more formal than usual. He gives me a grin that spoils the illusion, but I don’t grin back.

My mind immediately goes back to Erickson. It’s done that a lot tonight, but this time I’m thinking of one moment in particular when I was watching him. He was up at the bar, and while I couldn’t see what he was doing, he was the only person up here who would’ve done something like that.

“Your anonymous benefactor happen to be about my size with blond hair?”

“Don’t remember,” Ben says, in a way that immediately tells me he does.

It has to be Erickson. Not only did he not accept my offer to buy his drink, but he paid for me, too. My lips press into a thin line. I don’t want to jump to the worst conclusion possible. Maybe he just… thought he was being nice. Maybe he’s hoping he can buy my friendship with a few rounds of beer.

I guess there are worse ways to go about it.

Sommers comes up, his arm draping around my shoulders. His too-loud voice rings through my ears. “Mills! I love this guy. Don’t you love this guy?”

He smells like he took a bath in beer, or like he’s at least wearing it as a cologne.

“You’re not my type, Sommers.”

He makes a sound of dissent through his teeth. “Hey, I don’t remember how much I drank,” he tells Ben, his words slurring. “You got a… thing. The thing that says how much I drank?”

I can’t help but snort, even while my mind is trying to wrestle with the implication of Erickson obviously paying off my tab.

“Your tab’s already covered. Everybody’s tab is covered, so put your cards away and get out of my bar,” Ben says, a bit louder so the other guys can hear.

Some of them immediately celebrate. There are a few confused murmurings. Sommers just shrugs and misses his wallet with his card a few times before finally managing it. But I’m left standing up at the bar, trying to figure out how the fuck Erickson paid for everyone.

And why.

Maybe Ben’s just fucking with me. Maybe everyone’s shit was on the house tonight. But in the four years I’ve been coming here, I’ve only seen him do that once, and it was after we won the bowl game in Tampa. It was also capped, so we couldn’t go crazy with the pitchers.

It had to be Erickson. It’s not like one of the other Eastshore students would’ve done it, or one of the few random people who stopped in tonight. Erickson was up at the bar, and I watched him lean over it like he was signing for something.

That had to be several hundred dollars’ worth of beer. How the fuck did he afford that?

“Dude, his family’s loaded,” I hear Sommers say.

“I thought he was on scholarship?”

“Nope, pays tuition himself.”

I turn back to the group, folding my arms over my chest. “Who?”

I already know the answer even before Sommers speaks up.

“Erickson, man. Look him up if you don’t believe me.”

I frown, grabbing my phone out of my pocket. One quick Google search reveals… not a whole lot, at first. There are a couple of articles about our summer practices, and Erickson is mentioned in those. Scrolling down, I get a social media profile and a few links that don’t look like they have anything to do with him.

Erica peers over my shoulder. “Look for Gregory Erickson. That’s his dad.”

Sure enough, that brings up a ton of results, including images of a stone-faced man who looks a lot like the Erickson I know.

I check out some of the articles. He’s listed as one of the wealthiest CEOs in New England. Apparently he owns five different companies, and has investments worth millions of dollars.

Millions.

What. The. Fuck.

“Told you,” Sommers said proudly. “Beer’s probably like a drop in the fucking bucket.”

I feel a little sick. I should be happy, like everybody else. At the very least, I should just shrug and accept it. So what if some rich kid wants to pay off my tab?

But to me, it’s something else. Not just a harmless gesture. Not even a ploy for friends.

There’s a reason I don’t tell people my situation. They see me and figure the cards must be stacked against me already. I can already see the pity and the scorn now, and I don’t want it. I don’t want some rich kid’s charity. Fuck if I’m going to take his hand-outs.

“I wanna pay for my own drinks,” I say, getting my card back out and shoving it toward Ben.

“I told you it’s taken care of, Dante. Don’t worry about it.”

“Can’t you take it off his card and put it on mine?”

“Not without having his card here,” he says, giving me a suspicious look. “Look, if this is some sort of macho bullshit, can I give you some advice: Just take the free drinks.”

I don’t want his advice, or Erickson’s “free” drinks. In my experience, nothing’s ever free. Even if Erickson won’t ask me to repay him, this is always going to be there between us.

“Just add the charge to my card, then.”

“You want to pay for your drinks twice?”

The other guys have started piling out, with the less inebriated helping the ones who overdid it. Most of them just live a few blocks over, and there’s a bus that runs after 11 or so to take students back to their dorms and apartments.

Nobody will hear me argue this point, but that’s just fine. This isn’t for them. I’m not trying to prove I’m well enough off to handle my own shit.

I’m doing this for me.

“Yeah,” I say, offering my card again.

Ben shrugs, but tallies up some charges and runs it just the same.

As I head out and walk back to my neighborhood, I realize what it is about Erickson; why I can’t just treat him like everybody else.

He and I are from two different worlds. Best to just accept that now. We can play on the same field. I can be nice to him and respect his ability. But we aren’t ever going to be equals; we aren’t ever going to be friends.