Page 16 of Against The Rules

I think my brother knows what’s up, though. We’re doing weight training, and our offensive line rotation spreads through the Beaver weight room as the coaches mill about and correct form or take notes on who looks like shit.

Not me, though. I may not be good at much, but I am good at this.

Football’s always been my sweet spot. Football, and getting girls. Not keeping them, not by any means, but getting them? Yeah, that’s easy.

I grunt, sweat dripping down my temple, my quads burning.

Usually, I would have already had fun with a cleat-chaser or two by the end of the first week. But every time one of my usual hook-ups texted… I didn’t feel like answering.

My marriage to Savannah might be destined for divorce, but I’ll be damned if I’m going back to my man whore ways before I have the chance to convince her to be with me. Or, at the very least, try.

The weights clang to the floor when I drop them. Bad form, but I don’t give a shit. I’m too amped.

“What is with you?” My brother, Jacob, casts me a dark look and takes out one of his earbuds.

Unlike the rest of us, listening to the playlist whoever is in charge of music today put on, Jacob likes to listen to weird-ass lo-fi music. Puts me right to sleep, but whatever floats his boat.

“Why do you think something’s with me?” I ask instead.

“Because you’ve been weird all day. All week, really.” He lifts an eyebrow, and we both know he’s right.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do. Ever since you got back from Vegas you’ve been acting weirder than usual. Did you lose a shit ton of money or something? I haven’t had to break up one of your loser parties all week.”

“Loser parties?” I huff, swigging from my water bottle. “Those are my friends.”

“Exactly,” Jacob says, stretching his triceps overhead. “Losers.”

“Real nice, asshole,” I tell him. “At least I have friends.”

Jacob glares at me. “I have friends.”

“No, you have an obsession with watching tape, working out, and protein powder.”

“At least I’m not—” he says, but stops himself.

I take a step towards him, rolling my shoulders back. If he wants to pick a fight, I’ll fucking fight. “What, Jacob?” I ask, my voice low.

“Jesus Christ, how you two manage to live together and not kill each other, I’ll never understand.” Daniel Harrison, the team QB and practically ancient by football standards, watches us with a grimace.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” I tell him, and he grins at me.

“Your brother has a point. You haven’t played this well… ever.” He shrugs one shoulder, and I turn my glare on him.

“You saying I play like shit normally?” I ask, turning my irritation on him.

Jacob snorts in amusement, putting his earbud back in and picking up a set of weights.

“I’m saying whatever the fuck’s changed, keep it up.” Harrison turns from me, going back to his workout.

I pick my own workout back up, mulling over his words. Nothing’s changed.

Other than the fact I’m married.

I take my phone from my locker, swiping at a few of the sudsy bubbles I missed in the shower, and as usual, my group text with Luke and Ben has got about a million messages in it.

Do you fuckers even work

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