Chapter Five

*Noah*

At the table, Dillon is recounting to everyone the only big play he was part of during the game where we ran a fake kick in the first quarter and he threw me a touchdown pass. “…and then out of nowhere Noah rises up and catches the ball with one hand. He cradled it like a little baby and landed on his back. I thought my pass was intercepted for sure, but he bailed me out!” He raises his glass. “To Noah! A Buckeyes legend!”

Yeah, right—but what’s next? A tingle of dread goes down my spine. If the NFL doesn’t work, I’ll probably just end up selling cars like I do in the summer to earn extra money.

“Lighten up, man!” Dillon says as he claps me on the back. “Lose that frown and let’s celebrate.”

Right, right.

“Maybe he just knows deep down that he didn’t have anything to do with our big win,” adds Archer with his Cajun drawl. “Defense won that game. Then you pretty boys get all the glory. Please.”

I swivel my head and take him in. Tall and lean with a sleeve of tattoos up his arm and short Billy Idol bleached hair, he thinks he’s the best thing on our team. Pompous dickhead.

I just grin because he hates it. “Poor Archer. Your feelings hurt by all the attention the offense gets?”

His lips curl. “Fuck you, Stark. You may have made some big plays, but who really cares? NFL scouts don’t.”

“No arguing tonight,” Dillon says subtly as he slides between us and squeezes my shoulder.

“Later, assholes.” Archer laughs and heads off to another table of defensive players and a few jersey chasers.

I shake off the comment, determined to not let Archer ruin the win for me by bringing up my lack of media coverage. We haven’t gotten along since last year when he was a little too aggressive with Ryker, our first-string quarterback and one of my roommates. Sure, that all turned out fine, but there’s a thick line drawn between us. We may play on the same team, but both of us are fighting to get into the NFL now. So far, he’s winning.

Later, after we’ve played several games of beer pong, the crowd has thinned and the party breaks apart. Jess and Connor leave, and Dillon heads out with a brunette tucked up next to him. He drove me here, but I don’t want to block his game. I can always find a way home.

I stand to leave and weave on my feet just a tiny bit. Truth is, it’s mostly exhaustion fueled by a few beers. I’m not trashed. I don’t get trashed, not when there’s so much at stake with football.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” Dani says. Her eyes are sweet and imploring, and I wince. I like her, I really do, but…

“I’ll call an Uber.”

“We’ll both get you home and safely in bed,” adds Candi with a crafty smile as she and Dani exchange knowing glances.

A couple of the guys overhear and again raise their glasses.

“NOAH! An Ohio state legend in more ways than one.”

“Whatever.” I say it with a wide grin, but inside, something else is pricking at me—and I know exactly what it is. My head is still on Caroline’s face when she walked out the door, that bruised expression…

I was fine, totally fucking fine, until I saw her.

* * *

Outside, the cold wind slaps my face. Dani leads me to her little BMW, and I get in the passenger seat while Candi gets in the back. The car ride is quick, the girls giggling about how excited they are for a new semester and all the plans they have.

I keep quiet and stare out the window. I don’t know what my plans are. My life is on hold until April when the NFL draft happens, and if that doesn’t work out—shit, I don’t want to even think about it.

Inevitably, my thoughts drift to Caroline. What’s she doing now? Is she watching Big Bang Theory? She left Cadillac’s alone, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have some guy over. My hands tighten in my lap. She’s probably fucking him right now, and afterward, she’ll be ready for him to leave. Her and those rules.

“Thanks, girls,” I say later when they’ve walked me up three flights of stairs. “You really are sweet to get me to my door.” I work the key.

“Need some help with that?” Dani scoots in close to me, her tits brushing against my back.

“Nah. Hey, did you know locks for doors were invented in Ancient Rome to create privacy in brothels? Think about it—if they’d put socks on the doorknobs, we might still live in a world without locks. Of course, they all wore sandals, so duh, locks came before socks.” I chuckle at my randomness but just get blank looks in return. Tough crowd. No one gets my sense of humor.

Care did.

That night in my truck she laughed at every joke i threw her way.

I sigh internally.

Don’t go there.

They follow me in, and I face them in the small kitchenette of the apartment-style dorm I share with Dillon and Ryker. It’s a nice space with a den and three bedrooms. Unfortunately, it smells like old fajitas and feet.

I give them a level look. “All right, ladies, I’m not interested in a ménage-a-jersey-chaser tonight. I need rest. I do appreciate the ride.”

“You sure?” says Dani, her eyes gleaming. “We don’t mind sharing, you know.”

I avoid the topic and open the fridge to grab a Gatorade. “Positive.”

“What about a massage?” Candi asks, giving me a lingering look.

I shake my head. “The trainers will take care of that tomorrow.”

“What if you watch us?” Dani asks, edging closer to me. She pulls Candi along with her, lacing their hands together. “Then we work on you, whatever you want…” Her voice trails off, a hungry look in her gaze.

I rub the back of my neck and stare at the floor. “Tempting, so tempting. Maybe next time, girls.” I guzzle down my drink as they whisper back and forth, probably plotting how to change my mind. I can’t make out what they’re saying and don’t try to. My mind is scattered in too many directions.

All at once, I feel utterly exhausted, beat down. My bruises from the game are still healing, and all I can think about is crawling into my bed. Murmuring a final goodnight, I head down the hall to my bedroom. Just as I get my shirt off, I hear the front door slam. Dani’s disappointed, no doubt.

I take my jeans off, pull the small Ziplock bag out of one of the front pockets, and set it on my nightstand. I stare down at the small piece of paper inside, a note written on the back of a silver Big Red gum wrapper. It’s carefully folded into a square, the corners nice and sharp. I contemplate unfolding it and reading it, but in the end, I can’t.

A sigh of relief hits me as I crawl under the covers. The ceiling fan whirls over my head, and there’s enough light coming in from the window to watch it spin. I like it on even in the winter, gives me something to focus on as I try to tamp down the thoughts in my head.

Yet…

I keep circling back and worrying about football and classes.

I turn over and beat my pillow as emptiness creeps in. I don’t normally let dark feelings invade my thoughts, but I can’t let go of the fact that not one fucking person came to see me play my big game. Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Jack, the people who raised me since I was ten, weren’t there, even though I left tickets for them at the gate. Sure, I get that they’re busy and it’s hard to travel, but still, they haven’t shown up for any of my games, even the home ones. It’s as if I went away to college and became a distant memory for them.

And Caroline? My hands reach up and scrub my face. She didn’t even watch on TV.

What did I expect? 

I know I broke her heart that night..

I close my eyes and pray for sleep.

An Ohio State legend indeed.

* * *

I’m eight years old and walking down the candy aisle of the Exxon gas station, my hands holding a Snickers bar and a bag of Cheetos. My stomach rumbles, already imagining devouring them. I haven’t eaten today. Mama likes Fritos, so I grab those. Daddy likes Twix, so I balance that on top of the pile. Drinks, we need drinks. I head to the soda aisle. I’m feeling overwhelmed by the variety when the bell goes off inside the busy store, signaling someone entering or leaving. Instinctively, my head turns to the door as my parents walk out, both of them weaving. Mama stumbles over the curb outside and laughs, her eyes overly bright as she looks up at him. “You overdid it.” I heard Daddy tease her earlier. I know what that means. It means she’ll get that vacant look on her face and stare off into space. Daddy just grins and hooks his arm through hers then leads her to our car, an old white Volvo with a dent on the front fender. I dash back to the candy aisle and put everything back, but by the time I reach the front door, they’re pulling away, a cloud of smoke following the beat-up car. My heart drops and fear slides down my spine. No, no, no! I’m sorry I took too long in the restroom! I’m sorry I talked too much in the car! I’m sorry I can’t sit still! “Wait for me!” I scream as I run outside—

I snap awake in the dark and sit straight up in the bed, stomach in knots. I…I haven’t dreamed about my parents in forever, always able to push those memories away when I need to. I heave in a big breath and stand up, my mind lingering in the past. I recall the gas station incident with absolute clarity, down to the pimply-faced employee who found me hiding in the restroom hours later. He held a toilet scrubber in his hands, and I had packages of eaten food littered around me. I wiped my tears, stood up, and faced him, trying to be brave, terrified he was going to arrest me. I’d never stolen anything, and it had been easier to do than I’d thought it would be. He asked for my parents’ cell and had all kinds of questions, but I didn’t know their number, plus I knew to keep my mouth shut. Once I told a teacher I didn’t have my field trip permission form signed because my parents hadn’t been home the night before, and that turned into a visit from a stern-faced social services lady who sat in our trailer with a clipboard and asked if I was okay.

No, I wasn’t okay.

I fucking wasn’t.

But I didn’t even know it then, didn’t know my family was screwed up.

How was a kid supposed to know what normal was when he’d never seen it?

Somewhere down the road, though, my drugged-out parents remembered me and rolled back into the parking lot. I recall Mama running inside the store and plucking me from behind the counter where I was sitting. She hugged me tight and swore she’d never leave me again.

But she did. They both did.

* * *

After I’ve showered, I bring up ESPN’s draft page online to see if they’re mentioning me at all. Disappointment hits hard when I see I’m still listed as only a possible late-round or free-agent pickup. I need to be first or second round. I need reporters talking me up.

I shut the laptop, grab a protein bar, and head to the athletic center to work out.

What the hell does ESPN know anyway?

The facility is deserted since most guys are still recovering from the game or nursing a hangover from last night. Not me. After spending half an hour lifting, I jump on the treadmill and pound my shoes on the rubber, hoping to get ten miles in.

Coach Sanders, one of the wide receiver coaches, enters, and I hit the stop button on the treadmill.

I grab a towel and dry the sweat off my face. I’m out of breath but manage to call out. “Coach, you got a second?”

He looks back and pretends like he didn’t notice me when I’m the only one working out. Not a good sign.

“Uh, sure. Let’s hit my office.”

A big man in his early thirties with dark clipped hair and kind eyes, he’s one of the youngest, sharpest coaches in college football and the main reason I signed with Ohio. I still remember the night he came to my high school game and met me afterward then took me to dinner at a fancy steakhouse. The waiter pulled out my chair, and when he draped the napkin over my lap, I barely kept myself from jumping up and punching him in the face. I legit thought he was trying to touch my cock. So dumb. Even the utensils on the table stumped me. I ended up just watching Coach to see which one he picked up. I mean, how many forks does a person need to eat? Apparently three. I’ve beefed up my knowledge these days to know that forks go on the left and the smaller one is used for salad. On the right—this is where it gets tricky—is the knife, the salad knife, the regular spoon, the soup soon, then a tiny little oyster fork. At the top of the plate is a dessert spoon and another freaking fork. I get overload just picturing it.

Coach gestures toward his office down the hall.

I follow him inside, anxiousness sitting heavy in my gut. I shut the door behind me and sit down in a chair in front of his desk. Clasping my hands in my lap, I try to feign nonchalance, but he has to know why I’m here.

“Have you heard anything about the Combine? Am I invited to Indianapolis?”

The Combine is a huge opportunity. It gives the NFL scouts a chance to look over the top college players and figure out how they compare, see if they want them on their team. It’s crucial if you want to be drafted. Ryker, Maverick, and Archer have all been invited. I haven’t. Dillon hasn’t, but he’s not ready to graduate like I am. He still wants to finish up another year at Waylon and rack up stats.

“No word yet, son,” he says as he shuffles some papers, not making eye contact with me. “Even if you don’t get the invite to Indianapolis, you’ll have a shot here at our Pro Day workout.”

Yeah, but hardly anyone important comes to Pro Day. It’s mostly for the fans.

Swallowing down disappointment, I sit for a second, not sure how to react. My hands clench. I felt sure I’d get invited after how well I played late in the year. Inside, I start to panic, but I battle it down when I see Coach is staring at me with worried eyes. How many times has he had to have this conversation with players? It’s a rare man who makes it to the NFL.

He must read my face.

“Don’t lose hope, Noah. They haven’t finalized the list. My advice? You need to focus on training hard. Do you understand?”

My hands tighten around the armrests on the chair. “No one comes to Pro Day.”

He lifts his hands. “It’s all you have, son. Take what you get.”

Fine. It’s like that. I give him a sharp nod. “I’ll be flying around the gym like Superman, sir. I’ll be a Noah blur every day, all day.”

“Good. You always are, but level up for me.” He gives me a concerned look. “You need that degree too. You need a fallback.”

My body tenses. “Right.”

“What’s your major?”

I’ve been staring at the floor. I look up at him. “History, sir. If the NFL doesn’t work out, I want to teach high school and coach.”

He nods and gives me a small smile. “I did the same thing. I was planning on being a PE teacher until I got a college coaching position. You’d be a fine teacher, Noah. You’ve got an outgoing personality kids would gravitate to. Fine choice.”

“I failed a couple of classes last semester. I’m not the best student.” I try. I really do.

He frowns, maybe because he knows how much I struggle academically. “I get it. You’re a star here, and it’s a fine line balancing athletics and classes. You know the drill: get a tutor, study, lay off the alcohol.”

“Doing that already,” I say. “I’m dedicated, Coach. Any team would be lucky to have me.”

“I know, but we’ve got to get them to notice you first.”

My lips flatten. “If a national championship doesn’t get their attention, what will?”

He frowns and scratches his jaw. “I don’t know. Truthfully, I thought you’d be talked about more.”

Ah, shit, so I wasn’t wrong. For some reason, they just don’t want me. My shoulders deflate as all that anger whooshes out.

I’m not good enough.

Never have been.

Just the product of two meth heads from a nowhere place in pennsylvania.

He toys with a pen. “Let’s not dwell on that. Put the media behind you, get out of here, and get back on that treadmill. I need you in tiptop shape, you feel me?”

“Yes, sir. I’m ready for it.” I stand, my legs heavy and tired as I face him. I don’t want him to see that he’s spooked me. I’ve got to bulldoze my way into the NFL; I just have to figure out how.

I think about the quotes I have taped up on my bathroom mirror.

Push yourself because no one else is going to do it.

You are responsible for your success.

You is all you have.

And fuck, that last one crawls around inside me and sticks.