“There he is,” Zack Palmer, my teammate, and close friend says, racking a barbell. “We thought you were ghosting us.” Beside him, our core group of friends, Hudson McKinley, Greyson Meyers, and Corey Bishop are already started on another arm and shoulder day at the gym. The four of them are more than my teammates, they’re my brothers. Guys that I’d lie, cheat, and steal for without question, and I know they’d do the same for me.
“My class was on the opposite side of campus,” I tell him, dropping my bag. I went to class in my gym clothes so I could skip the locker room and meet them here. This isn’t a mandatory football practice because the league limits official practice hours, instead, this is one of the many additional weightlifting sessions we do independently, striving to be the best team in the league, just like every other asshole in our conference. I set myself up with a pair of dumbbells, spread my feet, and begin a set of lateral raises.
Grey looks at me from where he’s deadlifting. “I thought you were swapping your Wednesday afternoon class?”
“I am, but my advisor and Stephens said I had to be there in case I’m not able to switch into global business.” Stephens is one of our team’s tutors. He spends most of his time ensuring the team is signed up for enough credits, attempting to find the precarious balance we struggle to maintain between football and school.
“Global business?” Palmer asks. “I thought you were swapping for an easier credit class?”
I scoff. “Global business is the easier credit. I’m currently in some financial theory class that is all about studying financial equilibriums as an extension of economic equilibriums.”
Palmer looks from me to Corey, and then back at me before he shakes his head. “I don’t even know what in the hell you just said.”
I nod, feeling the pull on my shoulder as I complete a set. “Exactly.”
Hudson McKinley, our team captain moves to the bench beside me. “Peters was trying to hunt you down earlier. He’s looking for your signed packet.”
Coach Peters is a bastard who’s held the title of Camden’s head football coach for nearly thirty years and hasn’t done a goddamn thing to change our team’s playbook since, relying on our skill and strength in every game because we never have the advantage of surprise.
“Shit. I haven’t turned mine in, either,” Corey says.
“Half of the team hasn’t,” Hudson says. “Peter’s is going to be a vindictive asshole next week if we don’t get them all turned in before the game Saturday.”
“He’ll be a vindictive asshole regardless, so we might as well enjoy making him sweat a little,” I say.
Hudson tries to hide his smirk, but I catch it before he wipes it away and lifts the bar to bench press. Palmer and I are the most outspoken about hating Peters, but I’m fairly sure Hudson hates him most, and as the captain, he’s forced to endure him more than the rest of us, which has me trying to keep my bitching to a minimum—most days.
“Also, the men’s soccer team reached out to Krueger about their balls all being deflated,” Hudson lifts his eyebrows as he looks at me. “I was right to tell him we had nothing to do with it, right?”
“That sounds like a personal condition,” I say.
Palmer howls with laughter but Hudson shakes his head. “Can’t we just leave this feud alone?”
“Get the asshole who lives in the room next to me to move out, and it’s over.” I switch arms.
We both know this isn’t possible. Camden spent a shit ton of money building the dorm we all reside in a few years ago as a way to recruit athletes, unaware of how appealing apartment-sized dorm rooms would be. They quickly ran out of space and have been juggling angry coaches and news stories who all want equal treatment and access for their teams, which has had Camden chasing their tail, trying to find space for a second hall.
Hudson releases a near silent laugh. “Don’t get caught.”
“Hey. I thought we were meeting at four?” Lenny Russo, our tight end asks as he rolls his shoulders, and looks at me. Lenny is our team’s hardest partier. He’s the one who thinks up ideas that often verge between stupid and hilarious like sledding down stairs, flooding a basement for a pool party, and the one guy everyone refuses to bunk with when we travel out of fear of being on the receiving end of a prank that would likely end like a scene out ofThe Hangover.
“I just got here,” I tell him, grabbing a clean towel. “They’re just being overachievers.” They are, but I omit mentioning that we’ve been meeting before practices since the end of last year to discuss anything game related. It’s also our time to chill and relax before the rest of the team or coaching staff arrives. Plus, Grey’s tolerance for Lenny tends to taper when we’re not playing football.
Lenny grins. “Typical.”
More guys from the team stream into the gym, filling machines, and stations.
I swap hands again for a final set and release a heavy yawn that has my eyes feeling as weighted as the dumbbell in my hand.
“Did that blonde wipe you out?” Lenny asks suggestively, waiting for details. “She was hot. Her boobs were a little small, but—”
Grey clears his throat.
Lenny’s eyes grow wide. “Was it Mila? Shit. Tell me it was Mila.” His gaze skirts to Hudson. “Captain, you might need to step out because I’m going to needallthe details.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t Mila or the other blonde,” I quickly say, noting the way Hudson’s shoulders go rigid as he grits his teeth. Mila Atwool is practically Hudson’s little sister. They’ve known each other their entire lives. For the better part of last year, I felt slightly infatuated with her, maybe because I knew I shouldn’t since Hudson had warned all of us to stay away from her, or maybe it was because she looks like a model, has the mouth of a sailor, and the intellect of a philosopher that kept me intrigued and fascinated for months. Our near tryst fizzled out before catching flame, much to my relief because my relationship with these guys is often my only sanity. “The asshole soccer player beside me was using the goddamn wall as a receiver last night.”
Grey winces, likely because he knows from when we travel that every goddamn thing wakes me up, so having someone throw a ball at the wall above my head repeatedly is my own personal hellscape. I resented the obligation to live in the dorms before my new neighbor set out to make my life miserable, now I loathe it.