Page 33 of End Game

Even the sports announcers call it that. Magic. They warn NFL teams considering drafting Gavin to consider me as well because we’re a team within a team.

I would love to go anywhere with Gav. Together we would dominate, just like we do now. But there are no guarantees that’s ever going to happen.

It most likely won’t, which not going to lie, makes me a little sad.

Resting my hands on my hips, I scan the field, taking it all in. The stadium sits on a hill that overlooks the ocean, and we have the best damn view out of any university in this entire country. The sun is blazing down upon us, but there’s a breeze coming off the water that cools the sweat on my skin. There is nowhere I’d rather be than right here, finishing out the season with this team. The majority of them I can call my friends, and some of them will be lifelong friends for sure. I’m a lucky man. My college football career has been amazing, and I couldn’t ask for a better experience.

So why do I feel this gnawing in my gut? It started up late last week, when I ran into Portia and told her Everleigh and I were together. Everleigh wasn’t too thrilled I did that, and I suppose I don’t blame her, but we haven’t really talked much since that stupid encounter happened, and that was a week ago.

Doesn’t help that she took off with Sienna that night when we were at Charley’s. She had to go to work early that Friday morning, and we left for an away game and were gone over the weekend. Since then we haven’t run into each other again.

Which is fucking odd. I live with the chick—we share a bathroom—yet I never see her. Our schedules must be the total opposite, especially once she got the job at the café. She’s gone most mornings, and sometimes I don’t come home until late at night, and she’s already locked away in her room.

I don’t have the nerve to go knock on her door and ask her how it’s going either. Like does she really want to have that conversation with me? Doubtful.

Instead, I leave her alone and deal with that hollow feeling on my own.

Why do I care what she thinks, anyway? Or what she’s doing? She’s just a girl I don’t really know that well. She’s pretty enough. She seems cool. She went along with my stupid scheme without calling me out in front of Portia, so that earned her points right there. I guess she’s hanging with Coop more often, and he has nothing but nice things to say about her, though he’s not interested in her like that.

Thank Christ. I don’t want to resent one of my best friends.

I hear Frank has eased up with her, too, according to Coop. I think Dollar finally got the hint. I’m sure he’s moved onto some other poor, unsuspecting woman. If he could just relax for two seconds and stop trying so damn hard, he could probably score a woman fast. He just wants to be loved.

That’s all so many of us want—except for me.

That’s what I tell myself.

“Hey, asshole.” I turn to see Ralph Jones strutting toward me, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What’s up, Jonesie?” I watch him approach, dodging away from him when he acts like he’s going to slap my ass.

“Thinking you’re hot shit out on the field, always catching those balls,” he drawls. “Someday we’re going to get that ball first.”

He’s a defensive cornerback, which is one of the hardest positions to play, and he’s really fucking good at it. His hands are huge, and when he splays his fingers and tries to bat that ball out of the way, watch out.

Jonesie is usually successful.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I tell him. He’s excellent practice for me in that he always makes me play harder. Run faster. I’m just lucky that instincts kick in and I can practically sense when Gav lets that ball go.

“You guys are on fire lately. You got some telepathic powers going on between you or what?” He’s referring to me and Gav.

“We’re in sync. Can’t lie.” Pretty sure it’s four seasons of working together that’ll do it.

“Hear you guys are having a party next weekend since it’s a bye week,” Jonesie says.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Coop. He’s going around telling everyone we’re gonna get crunk.” Jonesie laughs. “Who says crunk anymore, anyway?”

“Cooper does,” I deadpan, making Jonesie laugh harder. “I guess if he says we’re having a party, we’re having a party.”

“Excellent.” He holds his hand up, and I give it a slap. “Please say there will be women there beyond Sienna.”

Everyone knows Cooper’s sister. We’re all used to having her tag along, and most of the time when we get together, we want it to be chill. She’s one of the only girls allowed to “chill” with us.

“I’m sure we can wrangle some up,” I say. “And hey, you’re a player. You can bring a few of your own if you want.”

“I can do that. I know a couple of ladies who’d love to party with us.” He rubs the side of his face with one of his big hands, tapping his long fingers on his cheek. “I hear you have a hottie living with you.”

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