When practice is dismissed, I’m the first out of my seat. I set my gear on the bench and tear my bag out of my locker, shoving things inside, and shoving things in my locker, and shoving my thoughts to the back of my mind.
A low whistle tickles my ears and has all of my muscles tightening. “Troubles in paradise?” Hoyt asks.
Luis sets his hands-on Hoyt’s shoulders and steers him away. “That was his concussion he got last fall, talking,” Luis says.
Arlo stops beside me, Ian next to him. Arlo doesn’t look at me or say a word, digging into his locker with the same level of aggression that’s burning through me right now. Seeing it, on the other hand, creates an opposing sense of guilt. Arlo is without a doubt our best running back, and more than that, he’s one of my closest friends and my roommate. I talked to him like a dick, and he deserves to be angry with me—he deserves an apology—an apology I’m not currently capable of delivering.
Ian stares at me long enough that I turn to acknowledge him with a silent glare. I’m not in the mood or mindset currently for anything but to get out of here. “Ready to go celebrate?” he asks.
“I don’t think I’m going.”
This gains Lincoln’s attention, his gaze hard and critical as he looks at me, accusations clear without a single word.
“The entire team is going,” Ian says, his voice quiet and far too reasonable. “It’s an important optic for the team.”
I hate that he’s right even more than the fact he’s encouraging me to go.
“I’m ready to get on that plane tomorrow and hit Vegas,” DeSantos, one of our defensive linebackers, says as he takes a seat on the bench. Everyone’s mood is calm with an edge of excitement. It’s not the same feeling as Christmas Eve, not yet, but it’s the loading of the family car before the big trip. Anticipation is feeding everyone a natural high, like our victory this weekend is an inevitable outcome. I on the other hand, am trying not to think about the game because then I realize the chances of us pulling this off in back to back years are slim, breaking that thin veil of invincibility that I’ve been clinging to this year.
“You know you’re not actually going to hang out on the strip, right?” Cooke asks.
“After we win, I will,” DeSantos says, oozing the same level of confidence that many of the guys are as he reclines from his seat on the bench. I am so damn jealous of where he’s at mentally that a familiar itch and anxiousness twists in my stomach, telling me that a single drink would silence all these thoughts and simplify shit—Poppy, Candace, the game, my future.
“After we win, we’ll be heading home and studying tape until you’re inside of our opponent’s heads,” Ian says. “Every win leads to a more important game.” He pushes DeSantos’s foot with his, sliding it back so that it’s closer to the bench and widening the path to the lockers.
DeSantos sits straighter, and for a second, I think he’s going to say something to challenge Ian, but instead, his cheeks balloon, and he blows out a long breath. “We’ve got this. We kicked ass last week. This is the best our team has ever played together.”
Ian nods. “Because we’re focused. We’re playing smart—we’re acting smart.” His gaze travels to me, a silent reminder of the promise I made to him and the others.
When I grab my bag to leave, Lincoln does as well. I shake my head. “I don’t need a chaperone,” I tell him.
“What the fuck are you about to do?” he asks me.
“Have you always been this paranoid?”
Lincoln keeps pace with me. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he says the word like a door being slammed, silencing the rest of my excuses.
I breathe out a sigh. It’s useless. He’ll learn from Rae in a matter of minutes, or I can tell him now. “Poppy’s pissed at me.”
“What’d you do?”
I scowl at him. “I need to talk to Candace and make sure she’s not making waves, and find out why in the hell she told Poppy I was going to hang out with her tomorrow.”
Lincoln stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You didn’t tell Poppy?”
“Candace isn’t a part of the equation for me. Tomorrow is about getting to meet the team I want to play for, my chance to show them the rumors from earlier this year don’t define me. It has nothing to do with seeing Candace.”
“So tell Poppy that. And for fuck’s sake, be sure you tell Candace that. I told you she would go after Poppy. I warned you.”
I growl out my frustration. “I’m trying to. That’s why I said I wasn’t going to the party. Poppy’s not going, and I need to go talk to her. We left shit in a bad place.”
“She’ll be there,” Lincoln says.
I shake my head. “She was pissed.”
“Because you’re seeing Candace tomorrow? That doesn’t sound like Poppy...”
“Because Candace told Poppy she was at the house this morning and made it sound like way more than it was.”
Lincoln’s brows jump. “Why the fuck did you let her come over?”
“I didn’t. She randomly showed up, saying she needed to get some shit she’d left. What was I supposed to do? Slam the door in her face?”
“Yes.” He’s exasperated, exhausted by the conversation. “Why in the fuck are you wasting your energy and time and potentially your relationship on fucking Candace?”
“She was there for thirty minutes. She got her shit, and then…” I look both ways to make sure no one’s around. “She saw the rules Poppy and I made, the ones for when it was fake.”
“Oh shit.” Lincoln winces.
“I told her it was a joke, and that it was real. That I’m with Poppy a hundred-and-ten percent. And then we started talking about how it was the anniversary of her dad passing away.”
Lincoln shakes his head. “That’s not your role.
