Sugar Rush (Offensive Line #1) (21 page)

COLT

December 6th

U.S. Bank Stadium

Minneapolis, Minnesota

I have a hangover. Not a good way to be on game day, but it is what it is. I went out with Tyus last night to a club. He got the inside scoop on it from a stewardess he chatted up on the long flight into Jack Frost’s frozen asshole, and we spent way too much time and money there. I don’t even remember what I drank, but I remember the sound it made spilling into the garbage can by the bed this morning. It was ugly and that seems right. It’s how I feel.

Tyus knew something was wrong with me, but dude didn’t ask. He’s good like that. He doesn’t ask a lot of questions, but when you tell him you need to get fucked up, he makes a plan. He gets you there and back, safe and sound. He even puts a water on your nightstand.

Then the sadistic motherfucker makes you run wind sprints with him to warm up for the game. I almost puked again.

Now I stand on the sidelines staring at the white chalk marking out the yards. I run them in my head, getting myself psyched up for the game. This stadium is one of the indoors, the kind that you always find out east where it gets too fucking cold to play outside in December. I don’t like them. Ceilings a mile high and they make me feel closed in. I like the sky over my head. I like fresh air and sunshine.

I don’t like Minnesota.

I’m trying to get used to it, though, because this is where we’re playing. Surrounded by purple and assholes in Viking hats. They shout shit at me as they find their seats. I don’t listen. I never do. I’m good at ignoring, and right now I need to be ready to fight this one war on this field, not a scrap in the stands. If we take a loss here tonight it could steal our momentum and put us out of the running for the Super Bowl, and I’m not about to let that happen.

“You okay?”

I turn to my right to find Luxe, one of the assistant athletic trainers standing next to me. She’s in her gear for the game. The team colors and a red emergency bag slung over her shoulder. Her long, caramel hair is pulled back in a serious bun, her golden skin devoid of makeup. She doesn’t need it. The girl is a knockout in any crowd, a Hispanic beauty with all the trimmings; full lips, deep, dark eyes, curves in all the right places. Today she downplays it, the same way Sloane downplays the fact that she’s a woman when she’s doing business. Both take their jobs seriously, and I respect the hell out of that. They’re not out to win beauty pageants. They’re here to work.

“I’ve got a monster headache,” I admit to Luxe.

She nods as she digs into her bag. She produces two white pills and hands them to me. “Do you need water?”

“Nah, I can swallow ‘em dry.”

To prove my point I tilt my head back and drop the pills down my throat.

Luxe watches me with a small grin. “You must be sick.”

“It’s just a headache.”

“That’s not what I meant. You talked to me about ‘swallowing’ without making it weird. That’s not like you. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“And you’re lying. That’s not like you either.”

“Thanks for the meds,” I tell her, turning my back to exit the conversation. It’s not the headspace I need to be in right now. Not ever, actually.

“How’s your knee?” she calls after me.

“Strong,” I answer, same as always.

Because Luxe is wrong; lying is nothing new to me.

Three hours later I’m in my gear. I’ve got my game face on. I’m smiling for the camera as it cruises past me, catching me take a big bite out of the Snickers in my hand. I act like I love it. I act like I’m happy. Like I’m amped, but inside I’m a wreck. I’m exhausted and sick. I’m alone.

I’m back to before. Before the bakery and the candies. Before the cookies. Before Lilly. It seems impossible, like it all happened so fast that I didn’t have time to really enjoy it. I met her, I fell for her, I lost her. One, two, three – gone. It has to be some kind of record.

Colt Fucking Avery,
I think morosely, tossing the other half of the candy bar into a trash can.
Neck breaking speed in everything he does. Even breaking his own heart.

I’m jostled from behind, my body thrown forward from a hit to my back.

“You ready, baby?!” Fiso shouts at me. “You ready to do this shit!”

I push him back. “Yeah, bitch! Fuck, yeah!”

I smack the side of his helmet hard. He laughs, doing the same to me. Son of a bitch nearly takes my head off.

I yell in reply, primal and full of rage.

“That’s right, Avery! Wooo!”

This feels good. The adrenaline, the fight. This is what I need more than anything. I need these hours on the field with my body pushed to the limits, hammered into the ground, bouncing back up to do it again. This is what I’m built for, nothing else.

This win is all that matters.

We win the coin toss. We opt to go offense.

We line up for the kickoff. I’m on the twenty, bouncing on my toes, waiting for my shot. I’m hoping their kicker is a dud. Andreas said he’s inconsistent because he broke his foot two years ago and he’s been gun-shy ever since. If that’s true, if he drops that ball anywhere near the twenty yard line, I’m running it. No fair catch. No out of bounds. They’ll have to kill me for it.

Their kicker jumps up and down, getting ready. Finally he runs at it from the right, coming in hot and drilling it high into the sky. It’s a line drive kick. It sails over our guys waiting on the fifty. Over me and Matthews on the twenty. It drops in a slow arc down into the end zone, right into Anthony’s waiting arms.

He hasn’t called a fair catch. He’s running it.

Dillon, a special teams player, and I sprint toward the center of the field to close ranks around him just as he bursts out of the end zone and across the ten. The fifteen.

I block a lineman in purple looking to crush Tyus. I hit him hard on the left, spinning him out and dropping him to the ground. I scramble to stay on my feet. When I’m upright again Anthony is blowing past me, his body a blur of orange and yellow diving and weaving between linemen. Two Kodiak defensive linemen are there blocking for him, but I fall in line behind him, giving it everything I got. I cover his ass in case anyone gets around him and I’m there if he gets jammed up and has to unload the ball. Or, worst case scenario, he takes a hit and it pops loose.

I feel someone coming up on my right. It’s a Viking, pushing hard to reach for Anthony. I turn on the juice and crash into him. I knock him sideways, making him stumble, taking Anthony out of his reach.

Tyus ducks and weaves, faster and faster. He’s pulling away from us all, even me, until he’s at their thirty. Their twenty. He’s all alone at the ten. The five. The end zone.

Touchdown!

Thirty seconds off the motherfucking clock and we’re on the board.

I sprint into the end zone where Tyus is standing with his back to the field, his face thrown up to the sky, and his arms open wide. He’s howling like a wolf at the moon.

I crash into him, lifting him up off the ground and shaking him like a ragdoll. I carry him like a trophy to the sidelines. He pounds on my helmet as he keeps on howling, as his yell merges with mine, then Matthews’ and Lowry’s. Hibbert’s and Lefao’s. Domata’s. The crowd’s. We’re brothers and animals. Fighters and family.

We’re unstoppable today, I can feel it. It’s one of those days where nothing can go wrong. And five minutes later when Trey hands off the ball to me and I see that opening to the end zone, I honestly believe that’s true.

I make a fake to the right to draw out the defender covering the line. He falls for it, stuttering two steps to the side, leaving me a window only three feet wide, but it’s all I need. I only have to get the ball across the line. My body doesn’t matter.

I sprint into the opening with everything I’ve got. I see it closing fast as the lineman realizes his mistake and moves to block me, but he’s too late. I’m diving for the ground, stretching out my arm in a dangerous move that could either cost us the play or get us the score.

I take a hit from the left. Shoulders drive into my side, knocking me away from the line. The ball bursts out of my hand. I shout in rage as everyone scrambles to recover it. As this mountain plows into me and drives me into the turf, away from the fight. Helmets and pads crash, men are shouting, whistles are blowing, the fans are on their feet screaming. It’s a deafening, mad mess.

And still, in the midst of it all, I hear it when my knee pops.

LILLY

Culver City, CA

My hands are clasped over my mouth. They’re clammy, the hot air of my sharp breaths trapped inside them. My family looks at me with concern but I’m staring at the screen. I’m watching the pile being pulled off Colt and I’m waiting for him to get up. Why isn’t he getting up?

“Something’s wrong,” Dad mumbles darkly.

It pitches my soul, sending it down, down, down.

I’m gravity. I’m a stone in the bottom of the sea.

As the last man is pulled away, Colt curls in two. In agony. He’s reaching for his leg and rolling from side to side.

It’s not just wrong. Something is horribly, terribly, painfully wrong.

“What happened?” I whisper into my palms.

Dad shakes his head minutely. “His knee. He injured it in college.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“He tore his ACL and MCL. They’re ligaments that help hold the knee in place. He was lucky he didn’t dislocate it the way Marcus Lattimore did. Cut his career short. He retired when he was younger than Colt. It was either that or he might get hurt so bad he’d never walk on that leg again.”

My stomach turns angrily. “Oh my God.”

Dad looks at me sympathetically. “He’s not hurt quite that bad, Linda. He’ll be okay. Look, he’s getting up. If they’re not carting him off the field, it’s not the worst case scenario.”

My heart clenches painfully. “Lilly,” I whisper.

Dad frowns. “What about Lilly?”

“I’m Lilly.”

“Honey,” Mom tries to intervene.

I shake my head, putting up my hand. “I’m done. I know. I’ll stop.”

“What’s happening?” Dad asks, his eyes bouncing anxiously between the two of us. His frown deepens. “Linda, what is she talking about?”

I look at my mom, at Linda, and I wonder if she’s who he’s talking to. Or is it me? Has he made a simple mistake, the same one every parent makes when they call their child by their sibling’s name or sometimes the dog’s? Or is he looking at me and seeing the memory of my mom when she was my age, when she looked just like me and I wasn’t even born? When I didn’t exist. Is that the reality we’re in right now? The one without me? Should I go home now? Should I hide, fade away, to make things easier for everyone else?

“I have to go,” I tell them abruptly. I grab my phone off the coffee table as I stand, leaving Michael alone on the couch. He looks up at me with worried eyes as I shuffle past his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside. I have to call Colt.”

“I doubt he has his phone on him right now.” Michael points to the live feed of the game. “He’s kind of busy.”

“I’ll call Sloane, his agent. She’ll know what’s going on.”

“Is she in Minnesota?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s still on the field. Even if she’s there she won’t know anything.”

“I have to do something,” I tell him sharply. “I can’t sit here and do nothing.”

Dad leans back to look at Mom. “Who is she talking about?”

“Colt Avery’s agent. Her name is Sloane.”

“How does she know Colt Avery’s agent?”

I hurry outside to the backyard, pulling the heavy sliding glass door shut behind me before I can hear the rest of that conversation. Before I can hear my dad call me ‘her’ again instead of using my name. Once I’m out I immediately start to shiver against the cold. I should have brought my jacket.

I know he won’t answer, but I try Colt’s phone first. It goes straight to voicemail.

What’s up? This is Colt Avery. Leave it at the beep. Or better yet, text me, you dinosaur.

The sound of his voice makes me smile. It makes me sad. It makes me hurt and hate myself for what I’ve done. Ro was right; I overreacted to what happened last Sunday. I freaked out and I ended it with him because I was scared. Because I was a coward. Because I’m mist, a ghost, and I’m terrified that that happy, whole feeling I get when I’m with Colt can’t last. That I’ll get used to it, I’ll fall in love with it and him and us, and one day he’ll leave, and he’ll take it with him. He’ll take the last of me, and I’ll be nothing. I’ll be no one.

And that thought scares the absolute shit out of me.

I scroll through my text messages to find Sloane’s contact info. The last thing she said to me was,
Get your cute little ass to the bar. We’re all waiting for you guys.
It was the night I sang karaoke and he told me I was worth more than diamonds. It was a good night, right up until it wasn’t. Right up until it started the landslide that sent me running.

“I don’t know anything yet,” Sloane answers brusquely. Her voice is muffled, like she’s holding the phone with her shoulder. “I’ll call you as soon as I do.”

“Are you in Minnesota?” I ask anxiously.

“No. I’m in my office in L.A. but I’ve got my Go Bag and I’m heading to the airport now.”

“What’s a Go Bag?”

She grunts faintly, distracted. “I always have a packed bag with a few days’ worth of gear in it here at the office. I have three clients spread all across the country, not to mention Trey. I have to be ready to go anywhere at any time in case they need me.”

“I wish I could go with you.”

“Get to LAX in the next hour and you can.”

My blood rushes at the thought. “I don’t know if… I’m not sure he’ll want to see me.”

“Are you talking about your fake breakup?”

“It wasn’t fake.”

“It’s stupid though,” she replies candidly. “You guys are great together. You don’t walk away from that over, what? What was the break up about?”

“It’s private.”

Sloane laughs. The sound of her voice changes. She’s holding the phone in her hand now, giving me her full attention. “Can I be real with you, Lilly?”

“Have you not been already?”

“I’ve been nice. This is real; there is no private. Not in this business. You try to keep something private and it will blow up in your face. You’ve gotta go all in or get out. Right now you’re out. How does it feel?”

I look at the ground, my eyes stinging cold and sharp. “It feels like shit.”

“If you go all in with Colt every single one of your stones may be turned. They might not. There’s no guarantee either way and you absolutely cannot ask him to give you any. But he will give you everything else in the world, Hendricks. Colt would pull down the stars for you if you asked him to, so you need to ask yourself which is more important? The strongest, most passionate, faithful love you will ever know in your lifetime, or your privacy?”

I look through the door to the living room. I look at my family, at my dad, and I wonder and I worry. I wonder what will happen to all of us in the coming months. In the next couple of years. I wonder where we’ll be.

I worry I’ll be alone.

I worry I’ll have given up my future to preserve something that’s impossible to save. Something that’s slipping through my fingers at a rate that makes my head swim and my stomach curl.

I worry I’ll lose my dad.

I worry I’ll lose myself.

“Look, Lilly, I gotta make this flight out to Minnesota or I’ll never hear the end of it, so are you in or are you out?”

I worry I’ll lose this love. This deep, intrinsic, irreplaceable love.

I step back into the house, heading straight for my shoes. “What gate do I meet you at?”