Tackled: A Sports Romance Read online

  It's been two weeks. Training – real training, not the summer shit – started up again and I am not in the headspace I'm usually at in the beginning of every other season. There's no focused Colton, the one who tunes everything else out, including all the academic bullshit, to concentrate on the game. In the fall, everything revolves around football. I eat, sleep, and breathe it.

  Except this time.

  This time, I'm not sleeping. I've driven out into the country in the truck a few nights at one in the morning and climbed into the back to lie underneath the stars in the space that always, without fail, calms me down and gives me clarity about things. Except that the fucking pillows and blankets smelled like her, and then I couldn't sleep because all I could think about was the fact that I royally screwed things up with her.

  But I don't get rid of them and I don't wash them because I want to bury my face in the pillows and breathe her in.

  It was only a summer fling.

  That's what I told myself the first two days. It's what I told my mother when she called to ask if I'd set things right with Cassie about the thesis. The thing with the thesis seems like the biggest fucking joke ever now, in comparison to everything else that happened after that.

  I told Drew the same thing when he called after my mother called him. Then I told him to fuck off.

  And Tank, who came to me looking for an explanation.

  It was just a fling.

  That explanation only held water for a couple of days before the stupid knot in the middle of my gut made it too hard to think.

  She's better off without me.

  That's the realization that came after that, the crushing awareness of my own limitations. I'm not the guy she needs. I can't be the guy she needs, the one who worships her, puts her before anything else.

  Football is it for me. My first love. I can't be distracted from it. I can't let her distract me.

  It will always be my priority, and she deserves better than that.

  I want her to have better than that.

  Better than me.

  That rationalization doesn't help a fucking bit. The knot in my gut keeps growing bigger.

  * * *

  "You look like shit," Tank says. "And this room stinks, man. And that's coming from me, which should really worry you. You need to get out of here before you develop scurvy."

  "I'm not going to get scurvy."

  "You can't just sit around in the dark."

  "I'm not," I say, my voice short. "I've gone out."

  "Yeah, to practice. Where you look like shit. And at night like a damn vampire," Tank says. "Driving off to wherever to do more sitting by yourself."

  "Maybe I'm driving off somewhere to get laid," I shoot back gruffly. "Ever think of that?"

  "Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? Did I mention you look like shit? You're not driving anywhere to get laid. And you smell like shit. When's the last time you showered?"

  Did I shower when I got back from the gym at lunch? I spent an hour beating a truck tire with a sledgehammer until my back and arms were screaming from the pain and I didn't want to punch anyone anymore. That part wasn't training. Was that today? Or was it yesterday?

  "Why don't you go nag Sable?" I suggest. Even speaking her roommate's name makes my heart feel tight, like an invisible hand reached in and put it in a vise grip.

  "Because, fuckhead," Tank says, "thanks to you, Sable's not answering my calls now either."

  "Why is she mad at you?"

  "I don't know. Maybe because you were an asshole to her best friend?"

  "I wasn't –" I start, then stop, the air going out of my lungs. Tank looks at me like I really was banging the naked chick in my room. "None of that was what it looked like."

  "What it looked like is that you were partying with some trashy chick and Cassie, the girl who's way the hell out of your league and a thousand times smarter than the stupid whores you used to bang on a regular basis, walked in and saw you."

  "That's not what happened," I say. "I wasn't even in my room when she walked in. I don't even think that's the part she's really upset about."

  She's upset because of what that cocksucker Dillon said. Because she thinks I talked about nailing her. She thinks I bragged about what happened between us to the whole team, like I ever want anyone else picturing her naked.

  The mere thought makes me want to hit something again.

  Tank holds up his hand. "Whatever," he grunts. "I just know that she deserves way better than you."

  "You don't think I fucking know that?" I ask, my fists balled up against the sides of my thighs. "Why the hell do you think I'm staying away from her? She told me she didn't want to see me again and I haven't."

  That's a big fat lie. The hell I haven't seen that girl.

  I've driven by her apartment a few times. Okay, I sat across the road from her place in my truck once. That sounds like I'm stalking her, but I just have this weird need to know she's okay.

  I know I shouldn't be doing it. I should let her walk away. I should put my attention back on football. I just can't seem to help myself.

  "For whatever reason," Tank grumbles, "she loves you. You need to figure out what the hell to do about that."

  "It was Dillon," I blurt.

  "What?"

  "That asshole sent the girl to my room."

  Tank gives me a "yeah, sure" look.

  "And," I go on, "he told Cassie that I'd been bragging to the team about screwing her, telling them stories in the locker room."

  "Jesus," Tank exclaims. "I'm sorry that he didn't have to get his jaw wired shut."

  I laugh. "That's exactly what I thought. 'Course, if that had happened, there's no way I'd be playing this semester once Coach found out."

  "Why would Cassie believe that? Dillon gives off skeeze vibes. She's not stupid. She would have seen right through it."

  I exhale heavily. "He said I was bragging to everyone about her being a –" I pause, not sure I even want to say the word to Tank. "A virgin," I finish. "You don't fucking tell anyone that either, or I'll kill you. Me and Sable are the only people who know that."

  Tank shrugs. "So, he figured it out."

  "No, I told him. It was that other time we got into it. He was talking about how her mouth was made for sucking cock." I can hardly say the words out loud. The thought of what came out of his mouth makes me livid, even now. "I – blurted it out. Before I hit him. He was just running his mouth, basically calling her a slut and it – I couldn't think straight."

  "Ah, shit. So Sable thinks I knew about the locker room bragging."

  "I guess."

  "So, what are you doing sitting in your own filth in here feeling sorry for yourself? Tank asks. "Go tell her."

  "I tried. She doesn't want to see me again. Ever," I mutter. "And anything I say now is going to just sound like I'm trying to cover it up."

  "Well, then stop being a whiny-ass pussy and try harder."

  44

  Colton

  "Another box," Sable says, dropping it onto the growing collection on my desk. "Want me to open it?"

  "Nope," I say. "I'll…find somewhere to donate them or something." I know what's in the box, and I know they're from Colton. They started appearing on my doorstep like clockwork every day starting a week ago when the semester started. Dildos with notes inside the boxes —

  I know you think I'm a dick, but please let me explain.

  Give a dick a chance. Please let me explain.

  I dicked up and I'm sorry. Please let me explain.

  Please let me explain. What explanation could there possibly be?

  I stopped opening the packages after the first three. He's obviously a dick. Who the hell thinks that sending a girl dildos is an appropriate way to begin to apologize for something of this magnitude? Especially a girl you're trying to apologize to for bragging publicly about punching her V-card? Could he be any more tone deaf?

  This kind of crap is exactly why not continuing something with Co