Page 83 of Matched By My Rival
I tensed. “Not too likely.”
Hayworth had a couple of draft successes in its recent history, fueling hopes that it could happen again. It used to fuel my hopes too. Now I wished I could rewrite that history to make my change of heart easier for others to swallow.
It wasn’t something I thought Mom would understand. Dad would be okay. While he loved football and was proud of my accomplishments, he wasn’t as driven by lofty dreams as Mom was. Mom was a superfan, which was great, because she’d always been so supportive of me. But she also checked in with Coach, kept tabs on me a little too much, and watched and read every scrap of sports industry news to feed me tidbits about team business plans, player trades, and drafts.
But I didn’t want to go pro. I wanted Simon in my future—not the limitations that would come with being in the NFL.
I couldn’t be me if I went pro. I couldn’t have the life I really wanted.
I’d continue to be closeted. I’d have to watch what I said and did even more than I did now. And I’d push my body to the brink of its physical limitations, only to last a handful of years.
No, I was ready for something else. Not that anyone would ever understand. Walking away from the possibility of fame and fortune wasn’t easy. Even though I was relatively sure it was right for me, it felt wrong. Like throwing away a winning lottery ticket.
But the ticket came at a steep price.
“You’re a natural talent,” Simon added. “It comes easily to you. Not everyone has that gift.”
I wanted to dismiss his words, but I knew that they cost him. Simon would have rather died than compliment my athleticism a few months ago.
“Life after sports still comes, whether it’s at the end of college or a few years down the road,” I pointed out. “Even if you go pro.”
“I guess that’s true. At least then, you’ve lived the dream, right?”
“Right,” I echoed.
This would be the perfect opening to explain that I didn’t want to live the dream. But listening to Simon’s wistful words, the ache he must feel in his heart where football once belonged, I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t want the one thing he’d longed for most of all.
23
SIMON
People streamed into the frat house Friday night. Dirty, messy, disgusting people who were sure to leave spills and stains and trash—empty cups, condom wrappers, and who knew what else?—all over the house that my grandparents were going to see in less than twenty-four hours.
I groaned inwardly. Why had I joined a frat again?
Of course, they’d saved my ass when I lost my scholarship. Without their free room and partial scholarship, I might not even be in school. I wouldn’t have met Parker. I’d probably be back home, more bitter than ever, instead of picking myself up and moving on.
I forced a semblance of a smile onto my face as I checked a redhead’s ID, then stamped her hand when she held it out. Over-21’s received a stamp so they could get served beer. We couldn’t entirely prevent underage students from drinking, but we did our best to prevent any outrageous oversights.
Ever since a kid had nearly died of alcohol poisoning, the whole Greek system at Hayworth had agreed to take the issue seriously. It was that or be shut down by the university.
I waved the redhead through, checked the next ID, and the next. After a while, Linc took over for me so that I could make a circuit of the party.
I’d volunteered for the unpleasant duty of DSS—designated sober schmuck—in the hopes I could keep a handle on just how messy this party got. I had no doubt I’d be up at the crack of dawn to clean like a madman, but anything I could do tonight could potentially mitigate the damage.
Sadly, Cooper had a brunch in the morning, so he wouldn’t be much help to me in making the house fit for family to see. I’d extracted reluctant promises from a couple of younger frat brothers to pitch in, but I wasn’t holding my breath. They’d probably be hungover.
I wound through the party, the chatter washing over me as I eyed all the surfaces covered in abandoned beer cups. At least the food was mainly contained to the kitchen, where people stood grazing at a spread of chips and crackers and cheese. No doubt, the counters and floor would be covered in crumbs. That was the least of my worries, though. If I could ensure my grandparents didn’t stumble upon any condom wrappers or random undergarments—and that the house didn’t reek of beer—I’d be happy.
Linc had been ecstatic when I’d volunteered for DSS duty. He often got stuck with it as an underage but senior member of the frat. He couldn’t drink anyway, so it made sense. And he wanted a room at the frat next semester, and a seat at the table as a leader, so he could hardly refuse.
“Aren’t you working?” Cooper had asked me.
I spent most weekends behind the bar at Tracks. But with Grandma and Grandpa coming up, I’d requested the weekend off.
“Nope. I have to keep you idiots from burning down the place before my grandparents see it.”
