False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) (7 page)

“Not for nothing, though,” I say suddenly.

His smile slips a little. “I’m not gonna let you pay me to crash on my couch, man.”

“You got eggs in your fridge?”

He stares at me, straightening from the pool table. His head tilts just a little bit as if he’s considering whether or not I’m messing with him.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Used to make omelets for the guys I roomed with,” I say, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.

Something about waking up at Erickson’s place and making him breakfast is… different than just doing it in a dorm on a rusty-ass hotplate.

The corner of Erickson’s lips tug upward, and he extends his hand. “Deal.”

I shake it, and that weird flutter rushes through me again. Stupid fucking brain. One accidental boner—not even
my
accidental boner—and I can’t stop thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

It’s just a little awkwardness; something that’s set off some weird natural chemistry. No big deal. My brain will get over it, and I’ll move on.

But even as I think that, I know I’ve seen tons of guys bare-ass naked and never felt all mixed up like this before. I don’t know what
this
is, but I get the feeling spending the night at Erickson’s place isn’t going to make it better.

Even still, I find myself leaving the bar with Erickson, getting in his nice, new ride, and signing myself over to more awkwardness.

E
rickson was being
honest about the drive—it really does take less than ten minutes to get to his place.

What he didn’t disclose was the fact that his place is a fucking townhouse. When he pulls into the driveway, the headlights shine on fancy brickwork, doors that look like they were either replaced or refinished recently, and a nice little front lawn.

I knew these places were back here. They’re a throwback to a time when everything was built around Main Street, and your house needed to be… I don’t know, less than a brisk carriage ride from the theatre or some shit. Some of these places even
have
carriage houses, though thankfully Erickson’s doesn’t.

I have no idea what these homes cost, but I’m sure it’s well out of the price range of a normal student, and I’m not positive he’s renting. In fact, I’m pretty sure he isn’t.

This place here? This is where the wealthy once lived, and where they still live today.

I don’t belong here.

My gut churns as Erickson shuts off the car. I consider just bailing; making up some excuse.
Oh, I forgot I have to get home for this thing. In the middle of the night. Dogs to walk. Plants to water. That kind of shit.

But I can just hear what my mom would say about that.

Don’t you dare. You don’t let anyone tell you where you do or don’t belong—including yourself.

I hate that even now, she’s still right.

“Shit, it’s dark out here. There’s supposed to be a light out front but I guess I must have turned it off.”

Erickson stumbles out of the car and up to the front door. I finally manage to make it outside and take a look around me. There’s a street lamp not too far down the road, so it’s enough to see by. The night is quiet, but not in that ominous sort of way.

It’s just quiet here because nothing’s happening. Everybody else is asleep.

He opens up the door and I follow him inside. Light floods the entryway—shit, they probably call it a
foyer
in these houses—and I squint against the brightness. My sneakers make a solid thud against wood floors. The narrow hallway is papered with cream and some decorative pattern in green. The baseboards look dirt and dust free. Family pictures are matted and framed.

It’s a stark reminder of who and what Erickson is as I walk through his home. I half expect to be greeted by a butler or some shit, and when the hall lets into the living room, I definitely expect some huge entertainment system complete with a giant ass TV, multiple gaming consoles, and leather furniture.

It’s the kind of shit I’d buy if I had the money to get everybody’s drinks, at least.

But Erickson’s living room is… pretty modest, actually. The couch looks like something he picked up from a Craigslist ad. The recliner is a little nicer, but it’s still not what I’d imagine a rich guy sitting his ass in. The TV is smaller than some of the TVs I’ve seen in other guys’ dorms, and it looks like there’s only a PS4 hooked up to it, along with a cable DVR box.

“The couch is more comfortable than it looks, but the bed’s still yours if you want it.”

“Nah, man. Couch is fine.”

I pad over on the soft carpeting he’s got in this room and sit down. It’s definitely not fancy, but he’s right. It gives just the right amount of support and leeway, like the bucket seat in his car.

“Let me grab you a pillow. You want a blanket, too?”

Outside, it’s hot and sticky. There isn’t a breeze to be found. Typical Florida summer, where you end up covered in sweat as you’re walking from your car to your front door.

But once Erickson messes with the thermostat in here, I can feel a rush of cool air.

“Thin blanket would be good if you’ve got an extra.”

He nods, then heads down into what must be his bedroom. I hear the slide of a closet door opening, and he comes back with a blanket and pillow before I can even think about checking out his TV. The blanket is just a throw, but it’s the softest damn thing I’ve ever felt. Like crushed velvet or whatever the hell fancy fabric is made out of.

Erickson seems to notice me petting it, and he gives me a sheepish grin, his hand at the back of his neck. “Soft, isn’t it? It’s one of the blankets I’ve had since I was a kid.”

“What the hell do you wash it with? Kittens?”

He laughs. “Something like that.”

I set up the pillow—which is also soft and comfortable, and seems to be made out of memory foam—on the armrest of the couch and kick my shoes off before swinging my legs up onto the couch. I don’t normally wear a shirt to bed, or even pants, but I’m not going to sleep in my boxers on Erickson’s couch.

Something tells me that’s just a bad idea.

“I’m not all that tired yet, so I’m probably just going to watch SportsCenter on my phone or something. If you need anything, just holler,” Erickson says.

“Well shit, if you aren’t tired, you might as well watch it out here. I don’t think I can sleep yet, either.”

Even though it’s late, my brain is still awake. My body’s still breaking down all the carbs in the beer I drank, and my mind is trying to figure out what this place is and why I’m not at home.

So yeah, SportsCenter would be a good thing.

“You sure?”

I nod, and Erickson grabs the remote, flicking the TV on before he takes a seat in the recliner. I almost offer him the couch, but he seems comfortable there. I’d guess that’s probably where he sits normally, since it has the best view of the TV.

But this gives me a chance to lie down and watch. I’ll eventually get sleepy, and this little diversion will have its intended effect.

The TV comes to life, and I smirk at the fact that it’s already on ESPN. It’s actually not time for SportsCenter yet, but they’re doing an update on the basketball games that were played tonight, and I watch highlights from another train wreck of a game, wincing all the while.

“Think they’ll have our game on here?” Erickson asks.

“Probably as a recap, yeah. Might get some highlights. But you can put in on channel 45 and see if they’re doing post-coverage. They cover all the local sports.”

He switches channels, and while they aren’t covering it yet, the guide says there’s going to be an update program in a few minutes. Until then, we watch the tail end of a minor league baseball game. Erickson and I sit in companionable silence, and I’m reminded of my time spent chilling with Jason.

He was one of the few people who knew about my dad dying and the toll it took on my family. It was nice to have somebody to talk to about all of that shit. It’s not like I want to go up to a podium and confess everything to a room full of strangers, but one person I can be real with is probably a good minimum standard.

It’s not like I can’t give Jason a call. I could probably ask him to come hang out and he would. But he and Derek are engaged now, and they both have great jobs. I’m sure the last thing they want to do is come back here.

I glance at Erickson, whose attention is focused on the screen. His features don’t look as sharp in the glow of the television. His blue eyes watch intently, but the muscles in his face are mostly slack.

Who knows. Maybe Erickson can end up being that person. If he wants to be, that is.

“You were right, looks like they’re going to cover it.”

I turn my attention back to the TV in time for the Eastshore sports roundup. Our football game is the highlight of the evening, and they show a pretty nice reel; more extensive than what ESPN would show.

When they get to the fourth quarter, I grin. The play Erickson and I made was definitely one for the books, and it’s featured in its entirety, in all the glory of HD, with commentary spoken over top.

“Holy shit,” Erickson says, and I find myself watching him again.

He looks starstruck, only the “star” he’s looking at is himself. I laugh, but I totally get him. It’s not really egotistical. I mean it is, in a way. But there’s something about seeing yourself on TV; seeing yourself make a play you remember feeling when it happened.

“That was one hell of a play.”

I’m not ashamed to admit that play wouldn’t have happened if Erickson hadn’t backed me up. We didn’t really plan it, it just sort of happened that way; like we were in sync with each other. He read my route and mirrored it, getting the attention of the QB first. If it’d been the other way around, he would’ve made the tackle and stripped the ball.

“Yeah, it was. I thought I was going to go deaf when the ref said it was our ball.”

“Never played in a big stadium before?”

Some high schools have their big games in their city’s stadium instead of just playing on their high school field. Eastshore High School does that, and that’s why I played at San Hernando Stadium before I ever got recruited by the Tigers.

Erickson shakes his head, though, and I start to wonder about his past career. I guess I could’ve just kept looking on Google; I probably would’ve found a ton of shit. But I’m not really into finding out about a person by his status online. I’d rather get to know him face to face.

“I played in a junior league, so we didn’t have our own field half the time.”

My brow furrows at that. “Junior league? Like pee wees?”

“Next step up from it. It’s kinda like… I guess what you’d do once your school’s football season was over. We played during winter and early spring.”

“Oh, yeah. The rec center has one of those. So you just played year round?”

Erickson frowns, and his attention pulls away from the TV. He looks at me as if trying to decide how he wants to answer; what all he wants to share. I didn’t expect that question would be the one that made him feel that way, but okay.

“The uh… high school I went to didn’t offer football. It was a private school focused only on academics.”

Well, shit. Fancy. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s proof positive that Erickson isn’t just the upper middle class version of loaded, where his parents put everything on credit cards. He’s loaded with a capital L.

“So you must’ve just applied to Eastshore, right? Guessing you didn’t get scouted in a youth league.”

He smiles at that. “Actually, our championship game was televised. Just on a local channel, but I guess one of the Eastshore recruiters was passing through New England and caught the game in his hotel room. He wanted to meet with me and talk about where I was going to play ball once I aged out of the league.”

“That is some serendipitous shit,” I say.

Erickson laughs, and I find myself smiling. I’ve always liked making people laugh, I just haven’t had a whole lot of time to do it recently.

“No kidding. He was the only person to approach me, and once I read up on the school, it sounded like a great program.” His smile slowly fades, and a frown is left in its place. “Can’t say my dad was real happy with it, though.”

“He want you to go somewhere else?”

“Yale,” he says.

“Bulldogs have a pretty good team. If you can hack it academically, it’s probably a good program to roll with.”

“Yeah. I went to a few of their games. The Harvard vs. Yale game especially. Never seen so many people out for blood,” he says with a laugh. But again, his humor fades. “Undergrad at Yale wasn’t where I wanted to be, though. It just felt like…”

He pauses for a moment, and I let him gather his thoughts.

“My whole family went to Yale. My dad, my mom, all my siblings but one. There’s a fucking Erickson legacy that goes back generations. I guess I just wanted to do something else.”

“I get that. My family’s made up of wage slaves; people working two or three jobs to make ends meet, you know? None of them ever graduated from college, and my auntie’s the only one who ever went before me.”

The smile is definitely gone from Erickson’s face now. Here it comes. The pity. If it isn’t scorn or disdain, it’s fucking pity.

“Here I am whining about not wanting to go to Yale. You must think I’m an asshole.”

Oh. It’s just self-consciousness. I guess that’s better than pity.

“I do,” I say, and my lips tug into a smirk that thankfully eases his expression. “And everybody’s got shit they’re dealing with, man. Just because you had a real shot at Yale doesn’t mean everything’s a picnic for you.”

He gives me a half-smile, and I can tell he’s trying to hold back a pretty vocal confirmation of that.

“You and me are just different,” I say with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

At least, that’s how I’d like it to be. Not a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal with me and Jason. But in the back of my mind, there’s a voice telling me Erickson is different.

He just smiles, though, and at this point I’m not even paying attention to the TV.

“Are you on scholarship? I can’t remember who is and who isn’t.”

“Yeah. Full ride.” It’s a damn good thing, too. “I got recruited my senior year of high school. Back when I came on as a freshman, Eastshore didn’t have all that strong of a defensive lineup.”

I think about that sometimes, too. That maybe if there was more competition—if the team hadn’t been desperate—I wouldn’t have been offered the spot. I guess I should just be thankful I have it and not worry about whats ifs, but this season makes it hard not to wonder.

“Have you always played defense?”

I grin at him, motioning downward. “Come on, man, look at me. Do I look like I could play anything else?”

He laughs, but it’s not the sort of laugh I expect. Not that little ‘yeah, you got me, man’ laugh, but something almost… nervous? I don’t know why he’d be nervous, though. Or why he’s turning a little red now, come to think of it.

Maybe the light’s playing tricks on me.

The conversation we have after that is awkward for the first few minutes. It eases some, since we end up talking about preferred positions and pro players we admire, but there’s still this underlying
feeling
I keep getting. It’s like a humming vibration just low enough that I can’t actually hear it, but I can still feel it.

Eventually there’s a little lull in the conversation. The clock on the DVR reads a 3:05, but I’m still not tired. Erickson must not be, either, because he asks me another question.