Page 13 of Trust Me Always

Right?

How dare he say he’s falling in love with me.

No, that he’s “pretty sure” he’s falling in love with me. Like, boy, fuck off, ’cause guess what? I’m “pretty sure” I hate you.

I groan, covering my face with my hands.

Pretty sure that’s a lie.

Alister

Game daysin the locker room are an experience like no other, especially when it’s a home game. It’s that first part of the day you look forward to.

There’s the juice of waking up knowing you get to take to the field for real that day, ready for all the hard work at practice to pay off. Then there’s the drive or walk to the stadium, where you rock out to your favorite hype music, feeling those nerves starting to bubble up. Reaching the parking lot is when the excitement starts to kick in.

Coach gives a single time to arrive, so most everyone is piling into the parking lot within minutes of each other. That’s when the earbuds are ripped out and the shouting and shit begin, amping up to the next level of anticipation. But that’s nothing compared to when it comes time to suit up.

The locker room is pure chaos. It’s loud and overstimulating and carries a sort of magic. There’s anxiety and anticipation and every other emotion in existence.

Your buddies are screaming and shouting across the space, calling you out for a fuckup last week with a grin or jacking you up more by asking for a repeat of some sick-ass play you pulled off the week before. There’s dancing and singing and videos being made for social media. There’s bickering and shoving and full-on fights sometimes, but when Coach comes around that corner, it’s forgotten. Done.

You don’t snitch and you don’t bitch.

You turn to your boys and get back to the good shit, running down all the ways you’re going to attack or defend against the jerseys you’re facing on the field.

I’ve always looked forward to the pregame locker-room nonsense.

Which is what has me clenching my jaw as I enter on my own, groups of players at my front, a few not far behind, and as I round the final corner leading to where my locker sits, another good dozen—not a single one acknowledges my presence, looking through me as if I’m a goddamn ghost.

The shitty part is I deserve it. Everyone knows you don’t throw punches at your starting quarterback without consequences. Hell, hit him by accident on the field and you get the cheap shot you had coming.

Coming at him off the field at the football house no less?

Yeah, I’m officially iced out like a kicker on a crucial play, only worse.

My own damn team is against me.

Not that it’smy team.

I could have had my own team. I had a starting quarterback position of my own, and I turned it down to come play second-string here at Avix U.

Why?

Why else do men do stupid, poorly thought-out shit?

For the love of a girl.

My high school sweetheart, who graduated a year ahead of me. We made all these plans about what our future would look like, and when she went off to college, it was okay. I played my heart out on that high school football field and it paid off.

My offers had offers.

I knew coming to Avix meant I’d have to, one, battle it out for the starting position and hope I earned it or, two, prepare to play a few downs a season until it was my time. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be with my girl.

Imagine my surprise whenmygirl was clearly pregnant and I hadn’t touched her in a lot longer than what would have made that possible.

Grinding my teeth, I unzip my bag, shoving my phone inside, but I don’t take out my earbuds just yet.

She could have thrown out any random person—Joe Blow at the corner store would have been better than the route she took—but instead, she told me the quarterback who I’d have to go up against for playing time was the man she was having a baby with.

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