Page 8 of Maverick
I kicked myself for the thought. Of course it was fucking familiar. He was one of the faces of the Auburn Yellowhammers—his voice was all over ESPN.
Heat burned into my back, but it wasn’t the sun. I was being watched, and I knew by who. Though that was one elephant in the room I had no desire to address. Especially today.
Training was grueling. The sticky Alabama heat seemed to skyrocket once we started moving and in all our gear, it was hell. My stomach roiled, the protein shake from earlier threatening to repeat on me. I was exhausted and to top it all off, my throat hurt.
Unfortunately, the universe was far from finished with me.
Hours later, I stood on the sidelines, chugging Gatorade like my life depended on it and trying everything I could think of to settle my stomach. Sweat glued my hair to my face and seemed to pour in buckets down my back and over my face, and yet I still shivered. Then I heard Quinton calling my name in conjunction with one that I’d really rather avoid.
“Crawford! Taylor! Get over here!”
My feet felt like concrete as I trudged in my captain’s direction. My stomach flipped, and I swallowed against a bout of nausea. Reese Taylor was one of the biggest names in the league—and the bane of my existence. His blond hair and blue eyes and utter…perfectiondid nothing but boil my blood. He never faced any consequences for his actions, whether that be drunken antics—or breaking my heart.
The other major thing about Reese Taylor? He was my ex-boyfriend.
Though calling him a “boyfriend” was being generous. “Experiment” was more accurate. We’d played on the same college team in Tuscaloosa and to two closeted guys from small towns, there were a lot of… discoveries to be made—in the bedroom, in the showers…
Reese wasn’t my first, but I was more than prepared for him to be my last. Unfortunately, the feelings were one-sided. It took me way too long to realize that I was nothing more than a hookup to him. I was never good enough—on the fieldorin the bedroom.
When I didn’t get chosen in the first round of the draft—and he did—he ghosted me. Later, I confronted him at a draft party. He pretended not to know who I was. I left Alabama that night and moved home. My best friend and I moved into a crummy college-town apartment, and I never saw Reese again.
Until now.
I towered half a foot over him, but that never stopped him from intimidating me. When he looked up and his lip quirked into that classic Taylor grin that I used to love, it only fueled my anger. “Good to see you again, Crawford.”
Quinton’s suspicious attention flickered between the two of us. “Is there going to be a problem here?”
“Mav—”
“Not at all,” I said, cutting Reese off before he could air our dirty laundry. “What are we doing?”
Quinton’s silence told me that he didn’t buy a word of mybullshit, but he chose not to call me on it. The man was an absolute tank, and the last thing I wanted to do was piss him off, so I wasn’t about to get into my history with Reese on the field. “Block shedders. There’s an hour left before we hit the books.”
“You got it, Webby.”
So fast that it made me flinch, Quinton had Reese’s shirt in his fist, damn near hauling him off the ground. “Keep trying me, Taylor. I’ll have you benched until your ass rots away.”
Reese snickered, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Quinton let him fall to the floor, and I bit back a grin when Reese stumbled. Our captain turned his attention to me. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
“Fine.” I strapped on my helmet. “Just tired.”
Again, he read right through the lie. I might pay for it later, but I just wanted to hurry up and get home, so I averted my gaze. “If you say so…” he finally said. “Make sure you stay hydrated.”
“Sure thing.” As he walked away, I felt like I was being watched and sure enough, Reese was staring a hole through me. “What?”
“You do look a bit rough. You know you can take the day if you need to. We all?—”
“Shut up. Can we just get this over with?”
To avoid further unnecessary conversation, I shoved my mouth guard in place, effectively silencing him.
Or so I thought.
Apparently, the shedding method I’d been using my entire career didn’t have the Taylor seal of approval. “Follow through,” he would tell me.
“Keep your hands on me.” Fat chance of that happening.
“Iknowyou can do better than that.”
