“You watch too much Bridgerton.” I sigh but decide to humor him. “My sweet, sweet Aleks. Your kisses are unlike any other, and no other can dare to compare to you. You are but a hot, roasting sun rising in the morning—”
“You know what else rises in the morning?”
I snort a laugh. “Sh! Where was I? Ah, yes, you vanquish my darkness and illuminate my life—all with your sweet, passionate kisses. Well, kiss. Once. Three years ago.”
Silence fills the line, and then, “Oh, Gin. I am drunk on your love.”
My stomach drops at his words, but I ignore it, knowing he can’t see how my smile instantly falls. The phone in my hand trembles—or am I trembling? No, it was an innocent joke, that’s all. A play on the nickname I don’t want. But I’m strong. I can persevere. I am not a victim of my pas—
“Is that your Jeep pulling in? Yay! I was getting lonely!”
Needing a moment to compose myself, I hang up the phone as Jay circles the lot to the drop-off spot. I’m thankful for how slowly he drives, as if he knows I can use all the time he can give me. Deep breath. A sip of my smoothie. A quick check of my hair. Plaster on a perfect smile. Good to go.
When Aleks throws open my car door, the smile on my face is slowly becoming more natural than forced. The guys greet me, and we mess around until time to board the plane.
I am strong.
I can persevere.
I am not a victim of my past.
I am happy.
CHAPTER 4
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
Robert Mathis is the best coach I could have asked for coming into the NFL. He catches a lot of hate for being a younger guy who only played five years in the professional league. The media blames some unknown injury for being a catalyst for his early retirement, but anyone who has ever sat in a practice with Mathis knows his passion is for coaching. He’s understanding and supportive and not so old that he’s forgotten just how hot we can get in our uniforms and pads during practice.
We’re all crammed in the midsized conference room at the hotel in Denver, and Coach is giving us the usual before-game-day speech. It’s the first of the season—even if it is only the preseason—so we’re all a little hyped more than usual. Mathis knows us so well he can sense our spiked adrenaline during his speech and wraps it up early. He ends with a smile, informing us that, as usual, the team has reserved the hotel restaurant for the night so we can eat without the public gawking at us.
I know some of the guys will order food delivery to their rooms, but Aleks and I almost always prefer to eat in the restaurant when the team makes an effort to reserve it for us. Once we’re dismissed, I follow my best friend and a few other guys across the lobby to the dining area.
The restaurant is dim, with mood lighting over nice, cloth-covered tables. A fully stocked bar is stationed on the far side, and much to my dismay, the guys in my group head right for it.
Gallon immediately orders a light beer, making Aleks cast him a disapproving look. “What?” he questions defensively. “Coach didn’t say anything about drinking tonight. He knows we’re full of preseason jitters. Have one.”
I balk as the others give in and agree to drink with him. Aleks, Tank, Blow, and Kit all settle on the barstools with their glasses of ale in front of them, perusing the pub menu without a second thought. Meanwhile, I gulp mouthfuls of spit as they toss back their beers. I try to focus on anything but the drinks in their hands. Sweat beads on my forehead and between my shoulder blades.
Frustration wells inside me. Years. It has been years, yet I still cannot control the way my brain instantly reacts when put in this position. It makes my blood heat—because how weak am I that someone else’s actions are disrupting my life in such a way? I don’t want that drink. I don’t. So why can’t I take my eyes off the amber liquid in their glasses? What the hell is wrong with me?
“Gin, look. They have vegan burgers.” Aleks’ voice is a reminder that I am with friends. In public. My mouth instinctively stretches into a picture-perfect smile 0.2 seconds before he spins on the barstool to face me. I’m the only one still standing from our group, but with the restaurant being flooded by the majority of our other teammates, I don’t look too out of place. Yet.
Aleks motions for me to take the seat beside him. With a deep, calming breath, I summon my signature carefree attitude and join my friends at the bar.
The bartender sidles my way, his hand already reaching for another pint glass. “What can I get ya?” he asks with a smile that says he knows exactly how attractive he is. And yeah, objectively, he is. Dark hair pulled back in a low bun, small gauges in his ear lobes, and tattoos on his hands, the ink disappearing into his sleeves.
“A glass!” Aleks whoops while slinging an arm over my shoulders. I shoot a worried glance at his already nearly empty beer. “Because you, Mr. Bartender, are a tall drink of—”
“Water,” I interrupt my friend’s attempt at flirting with an apologetic look at the man just trying to do his job. “We’ll all take a very large glass of water each, please. Do you have sweet tea?”
He shoots a wink Aleks’ way, and I internally groan, knowing that will only encourage my friend. The bartender turns back to me—just to break my heart. “I have iced tea and sugar packets.”
My nose wrinkles at the suggestion, and I politely decline. Plain water is better than bitter tea with undissolved sugar circling the bottom.
We place our food orders, the guys choosing greasy burgers and wings while I gladly request a vegan burger.
“I didn’t know you’re vegan,” Tank says to me, leaning around Gal and Aleks to meet my eyes. He shovels a handful of bar fries into his mouth while waiting for my reply. “That’s neat,” he mumbles around the food.
“I’m not.” Picking up a single french fry, I place it in my mouth, chew, and swallow like a normal person before continuing. “I just prefer the taste if it’s an option. It’s better nutrition-wise, too. Less grease, high protein, and good fats.”
“Yeah, but”—Tank pulls a face—“it’s vegan.”
I chuckle to myself, taking the more than familiar criticism with good spirits, and the conversation moves on. It’s only been a month and a half since the walk-on tryouts where I first met Tank, but he has quickly become a staple in our group, fitting in a lot easier than Avery has. Training camp can be chaotic, with different groups coming in on different days at all hours, so even though I haven’t spent a lot of time with the guy due to our nearly opposing positions—he’s new, I’m a veteran; he’s an offensive tight end, I’m a defensive cornerback—I can tell he’s a chill, easygoing guy. Too bad he isn’t my roommate instead of Avery.
“You guys ready for the game tomorrow?” a tipsy Aleks hollers for no apparent reason. “We’re gonna kick some ass!”
“It’s just our first preseason game. We need to focus on us, not beating Denver,” I point out as the only entirely sober one.
Aleks ignores me to point at Kit. He’s such a lightweight he’s already swaying. Or . . . wait, is his glass fuller than it was earlier? The bartender must be secretly topping him off. “We’re gonna run the bean play, aren’t we, Baby Boy?”
“Hell, yeah!” Kit clinks his beer against Aleks’, and the two gulp greedily at the alcohol remaining in their glasses.
Tank lets out a belch before asking, “Why do you guys call it the bean play?”
I let out a loud, dramatic groan, tipping my head far back. “Don’t ask, man. It’s so crude—”
“It’s great!” Aleks declares over my complaining. Kit, Gal, and Blow all voice their agreement. “Tell him,” my friend instructs, pointing first at Gallon, then Tank.
