Page 40 of Nothing Less Than Everything

“She’s working in your fucking house, bro,” Gideon said with a laugh. “She’s probably reorganizing your underwear drawer as we speak. How the hell does she not know what you do?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t told her and my best guess is that she hasn’t Googled me.”

“Let me guess. You introduced yourself as Tatum—just Tatum.”

Grabbing a clean pair of boxers out of my locker, I dropped my towel and pulled them on. “You know why,” I grumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. “Your old man been giving you trouble since you moved back east?”

“He tried. I haven’t been picking up the phone lately.”

“Good,” Gideon said. “Fuck the noise. Turn your ears off and catch the damn ball.”

* * *

Mandatory fun wasa tradition started by Coach Tyson back when we all played for him in college. Gideon and I had been so obsessed with winning that championship trophy that we did nothing except watch film and study the playbook during every spare moment.

Coach Tyson—urged by a nineteen-year-old Heidi who was pissed that her boyfriend forgot her birthday—instituted the concept of mandatory fun.

Given that we were underage and had no intention of losing our athletic scholarships, Gid, Theo, and I stayed away from rowdy parties. The first time we had mandatory fun, we sat around the off-campus apartment that Gid and Heidi shared, and studied the playbook while a movie played in the background. It counted, right?

Coach didn’t think so.

The next week, he escorted us to a mini golf course and told us we weren’t allowed to leave until we played the course four times. Coach sat in the arcade, eating crappy cardboard pizza while we begrudgingly grabbed clubs, colored golf balls, and score cards.

By round three, we had begun playing mini golf with H-O-R-S-E rules. You had to make the trick shot that the guy before you made.

That damn windmill was taunting me like it had thirteen years ago. Theo had successfully popped the golf ball in the air, let it ricochet against the top blade, bounce back to him, then nailed a hole-in-one.

I was up to H-O-R-S, and dammit if I was gonna miss this time. I let out a breath, flicked my golf club to get the ball in the air and let out a celebratory, “Fuck yeah!” when it hit the top windmill blade and bounced back to me. I putted that fucker straight through and high fived Gid when I heard it rattle in the hole.

“You’re up, Barbie,” Gideon said to Seth.

Seth didn’t peel his eyes off his phone. “Nah, I’m good.”

Theo pushed into the group, grabbed Seth’s phone, pocketed it, and shoved a club in his hand. “It’s your fucking turn, Lady Gaga.”

Seth rolled his eyes, dropped the ball on the dimpled starting plate, and putted. He missed by a damn mile and didn’t even attempt a trick shot.

“Do you even like football?” Gideon asked.

Seth looked like Gideon had just asked him if he even liked apple pie. “‘Course I like football.”

“Good,” Gideon said. “Then you’ll go with us to the concert next week.”

That piqued his interest, presumably because he thought hanging with a couple of professional athletes at a concert would raise his celebrity status. “What concert?”

“Kelly Clarkson,” Theo said in his deep baritone.

I could see Seth’s lip curling in contempt. “Pass.”

I laughed. “Nope. You don’t pass. You catch. Something that you’re actually half decent at. But if you keep the attitude up, Coach Williams and Coach Tyson will cut you. They don’t work for you. It’s the other way around.”

Theo shoved his finger in Seth’s face. “And if you disrespect Ms. Clarkson like that again, you better sleep with both eyes open. She’s an American treasure.”

Gideon shot Seth a look that communicated that Theo meant business.

“Fuck this shit,” Seth spat, pitching his club to the ground. “I’m here to play fucking football. Not sit around play fucking mini golf and sing camp songs around a goddamn fire. I’m not here to fucking have sleepovers and braid each other’s hair.” He glanced at Theo—who had a head full of braids—and had the good sense to offer an apologetic shrug.

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