Play Me (3 page)

Sarah walks with me to the training room where we grab our things. “So, what’s up with
Weston
and you,” she asks. Before I can answer she twirls around and leans against the lobby counter. “Are you two lovers?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes. “He makes my armpits sweat just looking at him.”

Okay. “Uh, no,” I say, grabbing my keys. “We are not
lovers
. And he is … okay.”

She gasps, bringing her hand up to her lips. “You take that back. I’ve had a crush on that boy since I saw him strip naked and give this girl a lap dance at last year’s Phi Lamb Christmas party. Best. Night. Ever.”

Does she hear herself?
“Right. Well, I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

She gives me a finger wave. Sliding out of the field house, I start toward my old Honda Civic. A group of players are huddled around someone’s truck but I don’t look. A loud squeal echoes from the group, so I peak over. A semi-circle is formed around Weston, who is holding a girl up with one hand over his head.

Typical.

He tosses her up and catches her while she screams at the top of her lungs. I roll my eyes, but when I look back Weston is staring at me.

That smug smile creeps up his face and he winks. “Bye,
Roxy
!”

Smug bastard.

***

The TV is blaring when I get home. I can hear that Maddox is watching
SpongeBob
from outside the door. Our small duplex mostly consists of old people. The landlord chewed my ass for playing music last weekend. Beth knows this because I’ve told her ten times. Obviously, she needs to hear it eleven.

With my bag in one hand, I sling the duplex door open with the other. Maddox jumps up from his place right in front of the TV and runs toward me. His black hair matted to his sweaty forehead, which shows me he’s played outside all evening and hasn’t taken his bath. “Momma! You’ve got to watch this with me!” he shouts, jumping in a circle and landing on his knees.

“Hey, baby. I’ll watch it in just a bit. Turn the TV down a bit for me.”

Maddox flips around the living room in tune with the Kids Bop commercial, before grabbing the remote and turning it down two notches. Beth is sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine when I walk up.

“How was the first day?” she asks, flipping the page. All I see is the top of her blonde head.

“Fine, thanks for
asking
,” I snap, slinging my bag onto the table, sliding her magazine into her lap.

She narrows her eyes and stands up, adjusting her too small tank top. “Didn’t I tell you to keep the TV down? I have elderly neighbors.”

She grabs her magazine and holds it against her hip. “It wasn’t loud,” she says.

I stare blankly at her with one hand in my open school bag and the other hanging loosely at my sides.
God help me.

She finally sighs. “Well, I’m out of here. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She grabs her cell phone and marches into the living room. “Bye, Maddox,” she says before shutting the door behind her.

Thank, God.

“Maddox, baby, have you eaten?”

“Yep! Peanut butter and Jelly sandwich.”

What?
I glance over my shoulder at the instructions for dinner sitting on the cabinet. “Are you still hungry?”

“No!” Maddox yells.

Of course. Asking a kid if they’re hungry is like asking him if he wants to go to school. “Did you do your homework?”

“Yes! Beth helped me with the letters.”

I’m surprised she knows them herself. “Okay,” I clap my hands. “Time for a bath and then bed!”

I read over my History notes while Maddox plays in the tub. History is my last elective and a piece of cake compared to my biology classes. Maddox is making shooting noises and crashing his toys against one another. Water laps over the edge of the tub and I reach down and place a towel there to catch it.

“Momma.”

“Hmm?”

“Are we ever going to go see Daddy?”

My book falls from my lap and smacks against the tile bathroom floor with a thud. We have only talked about Maddox’s dad a couple of times before. He doesn’t really remember him, but he has seen the pictures. And knows the stories, well, the good ones. It’s not easy to tell a four-year-old that his dad is a crack head and I hope he never has to see him again.

Looking down, Maddox is staring up at me. His big green eyes, like mine, wide. But he has his daddy’s hair. And face. “I don’t think so, Maddox. Why do you ask?” This is a stupid thing to ask him. Of course he wants a dad. Other kids have them. I’m not sure he even understands why he doesn’t have one.

“My friend James from class has a dad. He picks him up from school.”

I frown.
How do you answer these types of questions?
I’m not ready for this. I need a manual.

His little eyebrows pull down in focus. “Well, will I get a new daddy?”

God
. How do you answer
that?
“Baby,” I say, sliding to the floor. I press my thighs against the damp outside of the bathtub and run my fingers against his wet forehead. “Your daddy will always be your real daddy. But, maybe, in the future I may find a husband and he would be your daddy. Do you understand?”
Picking up his hand out of the water, he runs it over the car in his hands. “Okay.”

It feels like a knife has been stabbed into my gut. His little mouth is turned down into a frown. “Hey,” I say. “Time to get out. How about I go get us some ice cream before bed?”

Throwing his hands in the air he shouts, “Yes!”

After drying Maddox off, I get him dressed in his Spider Man pajamas. His tiny feet swing off the kitchen chair as we share a bowl of ice cream. I watch him as he hums underneath his breath and scoops mouthfuls of ice cream into his mouth. We don’t need a dad. He’s a great kid. I can do this. I have for two years alone.

After we finish our ice cream I tuck Maddox into his bed. He’s growing so fast, I can’t imagine him starting Kindergarten next year. “Momma,” Maddox says as I turn to leave.

“What is it?”

“Can you take me to a game for the Muleriders soon?”

I hold back my laugh. Maddox is obsessed with football. He watched a game with Erica and me a few months back and it’s all he can talk about now. “I’ll take you to the first game. How about that?”

He smiles, turns and presses his face into the side of the pillow. “That’s great,” he whispers before falling instantly asleep. Turning his light off, I watch my little man from the doorway for a few minutes before walking down the hallway.

My body is barely coherent as I drag my feet to my bedroom. It’s small. A full size bed is smack dab in the middle of the small room. A few seconds pass as I look out over my isolated room. It’s not much but it’s my home. The only home I’ve had for a really long time.

I don’t bother pulling my covers back before I fall onto my bed in complete exhaustion. I welcome the blackness with a smile.

Chapter Three

Weston

“The herd of freshman girls has arrived,” Jason says. He’s standing on a locker room bench with his hands thrown in the air. “Little tight asses everywhere. It’s almost unfair.”

I snort. Bracing my hand against my locker, I slide into one of my cleats. “Have they? They’re littering the cafeteria, too,” I say. “And they’re perfectly
fuckable
.”

Dom raises his fist from beside me and I pound it. “Hell yeah they are. Just wait until this Friday. There are fliers everywhere for the Phi Lamb party.” Dom waggles his eyebrows at me.

“Freshman
chicas
are the best. But I’m not sure we’ll find a better ass than on the new trainer.”

New trainer?
Turning, I look over my shoulder. Blake is standing next to his locker, putting on his shoulder pads.
Is he talking about Roxy?
Please. She’s definitely fine, don’t get me wrong, but not worth the time. She has all four walls up guarding herself from anyone. No one has probably touched her in years
. Is he interested?

“Oh, the brunette?” Dom asks from beside me. “Hell yeah, she’s pretty hot. She’s actually in my History class.”

Roxy has a class with Dom?
Shoving my foot into my other cleat, I turn and look around. Roxy didn’t wrap my ankles today, she stayed clear of me. Probably a good idea since she isn’t worth my time, but it is fun to watch her blush and get angry. Damn fun. “She’s okay,” I blurt out.

Dom furrows his brow and ties his dreads into a low ponytail like he always does before practice. “Are you blind? Or sick?” Dom asks, raising the back of his hand to my forehead.

I swat his hand away. “No. Just saying.”

“Really? Because it seemed like you knew her yesterday,” Blake says.
Who the fuck invited him into this conversation?

Grabbing my shoulder pads, I begin to strap them on. “I never said I didn’t know her, I said she was okay because she is just okay.”

Blake smiles. “Then you don’t mind if I give it a try then?”

Why would I?
I barely spoke to her yesterday, right? I shrug and grab my helmet from the bottom of my locker. “Doesn’t make any difference. Go for it.”

He’s wasting his time. She isn’t approachable. He won’t make it two minutes into a conversation with her. It’s like tossing a lamb into a lion pit. “Dude, are you okay?”

I turn to look at Dom. His dark heavy brows are raised and he’s looking at my hand. What’s wrong with my hand?
Oh … fuck
. I’ve scratched paint off the side of my helmet with my fingernail.
When did I do that?
“Oh, yeah, just a habit.”

“Gather around boys!” Coach Perry yells, the locker room door shutting behind him.
Whew, that’s all I could handle of that conversation
. Everyone goes silent and takes a seat on the benches in front of our lockers.

Propping his foot onto a bench, he stares down at us from under his blue SAU cap. A blue polo is tight to his beer gut that his brown belt is barely keeping in. “Alright, guys. It’s the second day of practice. A brand new year. We’re starting fresh and putting last season behind us.” Scanning the room, his eyes settle on me. “We have a new offense and some great freshman coming in this year. Give ‘em hell, boys!” The seniors laugh. We all know if we really give them hell we’ll be running drills for a month. “Most of the players from last season are still here. Let’s give these seniors a great last year. I want them to leave with an amazing last year under their belts. Now,” he stands up, adjusting his pants, “let’s go get ‘em, boys!”

A loud roar fills the room. Everyone files out of the locker room and onto the practice field.

The warm Arkansas air hits my face sending the smell of freshly cut grass against me. There isn’t one smell in the world that I love more than a freshly cut football field. Whether I’m tackled to the grass or I’m running full speed down the field it makes me feel alive. It’s the one place I belong.

We line up in our stretch lines and follow as coach blows his whistle for each switch. Scouts are coming to our first game, and I’m fucking nervous. Sure they’ve been here before and watched me play but now I’m a senior. Now it’s time to show them what I’ve got. The last I heard, Coach Turner told me the St. Louis Rams, Miami Dolphins and the Buccaneers are coming. I’m pumped and fucking ready. I don’t think I could be any more ready.

A loud thud catches my attention and I glance over to the sidelines. Roxy and the other trainers are picking up a fallen ice bucket from the ground. Roxy bends over, the fabric of her pants pulling tight against her ass. Blake was right … it is nice. Round. Plump. Her hips are nice too, not to wide not to slender, enough room to grab a hold of them and pull her back against–

“Get into special teams!” Coach Turner yells.

Fuck.

We take the field in our special teams and get into position. Crouching, I scan the row of offensive players in front of me. Quite a few of them are freshman. I can see the determination in some of their eyes. The same determination that got me where I am today.

“38 blast. Time to shine, Wes. Time to shine, hut,” Jason yells out. My eyes meet his and I nod.

Players explode around me, everyone running to their positions. I run to the B Gap on the right side. Throwing my shoulder in front of me, I break one tackle, pushing through him and running as fast as I can. My breath is heavy, my eyes focused. I was made for this. I am football.

Pushing through the second tackle, the freshman grabs onto my left leg while two other players knock me to the ground. I watch as the field becomes the sky, as I roll onto the field. A sharp pain shoots through my upper leg, scorching a searing ache deep down.

“Take a knee! Take a knee!” I hear Coach Turner screaming, but I’m hurting too fucking bad to look.
Jesus Christ this isn’t happening.
Nope, not freaking happening. I’m dreaming. No, I’m having the worse nightmare of my entire life. Yes, a nightmare. That has to be it. I
cannot
be hurt. Not when I need to practice for the first game.

“Weston! Wes, can you move?”
Turner or Perry? Fuck, I can’t even tell. Open your eyes, dumbass
. Opening one eye, I stare up at my position coach. A line of worry is creasing his face. He’s nervous. A bead of sweat drips from his forehead onto the field. “Can you move, son?”

Can I?
I haven’t tried. “I’m fine,” I lie. Trying to move, another ache shoots up my thigh. “Fuck!” I scream.

“Jesus Christ, dismiss practice. We have to get this taken care of, Perry.” I hear Perry talking to other players and chewing them out. Probably the freshman asshole that thought he was going to tackle me, which he did but look at me. I’m hurt. The pain is burning my thigh. Stupid freshman always trying to look badass. A player moves in front of me and pulls off his helmet. Dom’s eyes widen. “Dude, are you okay?”

I shake my head instead of answering.

A few seconds later, both coaches grab me by the arms and carry me like a baby between the both of them. This is ridiculous. I do not get hurt. Ever. I’ve only ever hurt myself once when I sprained my ankle. And that was because a big girl sat on it at recess in fifth grade. Clearly
not
my fault. But I guess it doesn’t fucking matter who’s fault it is because I’m hurt either way.