Page 23 of Christmas Cheer

It’s nothing I ever thought about for myself, something I really should have, but now that I am, it’s not so bad. He looks like just a normal guy. His office is smaller than my freshman dorm. If he’s figured this out, I can get it figured out.

“Allore! Wait up!”

I look over my shoulder to see Calhoun jogging up to me. He’s a good quarterback, enough to carry our team, but the NCAA is filled with good quarterbacks fighting for a handful of spots in the NFL. He’s done what he needed to for us to get to this bowl, and that’s a really big deal, but his odds in the draft are lower than mine. He’ll be lucky to get second string, luckier if his first string QB gets injured enough to be taken out for a few games to give him a chance to show himself off, luckiest if he actually uses that to his advantage. It can be impossible to step into another QB’s spot, no matter how good you are.

And here I am thinking about whether I’ll accept my draft pick.

“What’s up man?” I call back.

“Not much,” he says, casually running his fingers through his hair like we randomly ran into each other here when he was clearly chasing after me. “Just, I don’t know, you good?”

“Uhh, yeah. I’m here, right?”

“Well, you’re here.” He gestures around him, to the mostly deserted hall.

“Yeah, sorry I lied. I guess that was weird. I just wanted to take a walk.”

“Sure, sure. I like taking walks, too. Clearing my head. But you . . . don’t? I’ve played with you for four years, man. I know you. So I just wanted to make sure . . . I don’t know. This was dumb.”

“Maybe not so dumb. Does this last game feel weird to you? It’s feeling weird to me.”

He gives me a curious look but then exhales and says, “Yeah, really weird. Like, I have no idea what I’m going to be doing in another few months, you know? Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know. You’re definitely going somewhere.”

I shrug like I agree. And yeah, I’m definitely going somewhere, but maybe not in the way he means.

Chapter 12

Keira

“What are youdoing here?” Lyddie screeches, the blood draining from her face.

I glance around the small cafe I’ve found at the executive tower of the Grand Marquis, the side the football players are staying on, but I’m only here because it’s a bit of peace and quiet from the masses in our wing.

Seeing no one else she could possibly be talking to, I say, “Enjoying this chicken salad sandwich? What’s going on?” I flip my phone over and realize I’ve got a slew of messages. My phone must have been on silent and I didn’t realize it. “Oh no, what’s wrong?”

I’m already getting up on my feet, terrified that someone on the squad’s been injured or arrested — both have happened — when Lyddie thrusts a reusable grocery bag from Whole Foods at me. I know for a fact Lyddie isn’t a Whole Foods girl. She’s also at Wilm State on an athletic scholarship and on the same Aldi-and-Walmart budget I am. So I’m already suspicious.

“You’re Evan’s rally girl now!”

“Erm, yes. Was I supposed to bring him another care package today? I already did the chocolate-dipped strawberries—”

“Chocolate-dipped strawberries?” she repeats skeptically. “Evan doesn’t like chocolate before the game. Why would you give those to him?”

So he could feed them to me and then dribble the juice that leaked from them on my tits so he could suck it off, apparently, because that’s exactly what he did with the strawberries hedemandedI bring him.

I stare blankly, blinking slowly at her.

She caves after a long moment of us being frozen like this, her sense of urgency bubbling up. “His hair!” she cries out.

I glance into the bag to see if I can figure out what she’s talking about since it’s not like he does anything special with his hair for the games. He’s wearing a helmet. When he takes it off, his mohawk is matted down, and then he tips his head forward, shakes it out, and it magically resets. I’ve seen it hundreds of times. It’s just one of those guy hair things.

The bag contains bowls, brushes, a set of gloves, and two bottles of hair dye.

“You have got to be shitting me,” I deadpan.

I’m not surprised when Lyddie physically grabs my arm to drag me to the elevator bay, though. This is totally on brand for Evan. Of course he doesn’t dye his own hair. Of course he has his rally girl do it. This explains why it’s not dyed in the off-season. We’re busy with other athletes then.

I still have a scowl on my face as I knock on Evan’s door, but he has the most shit-eating grin on his when he opens it. “I was worried you forgot!” he says, his voice booming like this is the funniest thing in the world to him.

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