Follow the River (River of Rain Book 1) Read online

  I hate the words as they leave my mouth. I can’t stand apologizing, admitting I was wrong. And while I might not be wrong in this circumstance, I’m most definitely not in the right.

  I also fucking hate the kinship I’m feeling for him right now.

  Seems we aren’t all that different when it comes to the relationships with the men who raised us. They are both complete trash.

  River reaches up, turning the volume dial of the radio down, letting Deadset Society’s “Like A Nightmare” fade softly into the background.

  “My father…” River starts, taking a deep breath as he turns in his seat to better face me, “he had a hard time accepting it when I came out as bisexual back in high school. And since, most often, I leaned more towards men, it was even worse.” His eyes shoot up from his lap, looking at me with pleading in his eyes.

  What he wants from me? I have no fucking idea.

  To listen? To understand? To get it?

  “I don’t want to hear your fucking queer pride story, Lennox,” I growl under my breath. The way he winces, I immediately regret being such a fucking dick.

  But…what the fuck?

  Why would he think he should be sharing this with me of all people?

  One disaster of a Thanksgiving with his family and a shared hatred of his piece of shit father does not make us friends.

  Swallowing hard, I break eye contact and fiddle with the door handle. I’m stewing with how uncomfortable I am sitting in this car now.

  River lets out an anxious laugh and my eyes dart back to him as he pulls his snapback off and runs his fingers through his hair before putting the hat back in place. It’s a nervous tick if I’ve ever seen one, but it's out of place. Sure, I’ve seen him flustered, but never to this extent. Even on the football field or in the locker room before a game, he’s cooler than a penguin on ice skates.

  I think back to the first game this season, the way he sat there tapping his hand on his knee to his favorite song of the week, and I catch his hand twitch, as if to tap along to the beat of an imaginary song. I briefly wonder which song.

  Probably Beartooth again.

  “What song?” I whisper, before I can stop myself, moving my gaze from down the street to his face.

  River looks down at his hand on his knee, subconsciously tapping in slight movements. “‘Hated’ by Beartooth,” he says softly after a moment.

  Called it.

  And I hate that I know that about him.

  That I would think to care.

  Fuck me, but that’s all he wants right now. I can see it written all over his face.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, guilt rising. “If you need to get it off your chest, you can. I can’t promise to be fucking nice or whatever, but…” I trail off, glancing up at him.

  He gives me a nod and a soft smile filled with gratitude before continuing.

  “That night, he and my mom fought about it while I was up in my room. They shouted at each other and my mother told him she was just as displeased by my announcement, but they were still my parents. And she told him if he can’t get behind that, he needed to get out. Apparently he was so against it, so furious about it, he did just that.” I watch tears well in his eyes as he shakes his head, looking down at his hands in his lap again. “Afterwards, he came up to my room and when he looked at me, I could tell it was only going to get worse. He yelled at me, screamed even. He was so disgusted with me, he even had the audacity to ask me to just be straight until I went away for college. When I told him I couldn’t pretend to be someone I’m not, someone he could live with, he packed a bag and he just. Fucking. Left.” He clears his throat, focusing his gaze out the windshield. “He moved out and filed for a divorce not even a week later. It broke me, and I don’t think I’ve ever fully healed.”

  My pulse quickens as his revelation sinks in, burning me alive from the inside out. I know more of what he is saying than I’m willing to admit.

  A family, the worst kind of scum to walk the Earth.

  Being told you have to keep a piece of who you are hidden from the world.

  It’s for different circumstances, sure.

  But I know what it feels like all too well.

  “He comes by for weekly dinners and we spend all our holidays together, which is probably the worst part. He likes to feel like he still has control over the three of us. Me most of all.” He lets out a sigh and licks his lips before shaking his head. “I’ve never told anyone that before. Besides Taylor,” he whispers, finishing his thoughts before meeting my eyes. I can see the truth in them. They’re coated with a glossy sheen, and my cold, dead heart actually manages to ache for him.

  It’s stupid of him to say this to me, his sworn enemy. The amount of ammunition I gained from his disclosure is astronomical if I ever decided to use it.

  Only, I know I won’t.

  I let out a breath, the heaviness sitting on my chest making me feel like I’m drowning in his pain. My jaw ticks, my teeth grinding while I debate what to say in response.

  Because I have to say something.

  I nod once, twice, before sighing and rubbing my jaw. Opening the door, I prepare to bolt.

  But then I speak the truth.

  “You aren’t disgusting, River. He is.”

  “C’mon guys, get your heads in this. We’re only down by ten. This game is far from fucking over,” I hiss to my offensive line in our huddle on our opponents forty yard line.

  We’re starting the fourth quarter in the last game to clinch a spot in the playoffs.

  And we’re losing.

  Not by a lot, it’s completely conceivable that we could come back and win this game.

  Well, maybe if a certain wide receiver got his head out of his ass and started playing the way I know he can play, because the number eighty-three on this field is not the Ciaráin Grady who was nominated for a Heisman two years in a row.

  No, the guy playing right now would be picked dead fucking last to play badminton in gym class, that’s the level of trash he’s playing at right now.

  Truth be told, he’s been off his game ever since that day in the locker room. We’d barely spoken three words to each other up until that day outside the gym when I forced him to come to Thanksgiving.

  Fucking Thanksgiving.

  Shit, after that disaster this past week—the most awkward Thanksgiving in the history of the holiday, by the way—it’s like he turned into a fumbling idiot.

  Literally.

  The idiot has fumbled the ball twice in the first half of this game. If he could have kept his shit together on either of those passes and not ended up turning the ball over to the other team, it would have resulted in some kind of score.

  And for the life of me, I can’t understand why.

  Yeah, it was awful by any meeting the parents standard, but this wasn’t even that. He was there as my guest because contrary to what he might think, I do my best to be a genuine, nice person. That’s how I was raised, and even if my father can’t accept who I am at my very core, I still hold onto those values he and Mom instilled in me as a kid.

  And he decked my father, not the other way around.

  Rain’s threatened to punch and even maim and kill me without batting a fucking eye, yet he gives my father what he has coming and now he’s, what? Embarrassed?

  Nah, that shit doesn’t fly.

  “Grady,” I growl at him, attempting to get his attention, but he won’t look up at me. He hasn’t looked at me once since the night he got out of my car and practically ran into his apartment.

  After he told me I wasn’t disgusting.

  I don’t even have it in me to unpack the meaning behind that one because I’m so fucking sick of having hope we’ll be anything but the bane of the other’s existence. Even when all I really wanted was friendship.

  “Grady,” I snap again, grabbing the front of his facemask, yanking his head until it's directly in front of mine. And for the first time in almost a week, I’m met with the golden
hazel eyes that haunt me.

  And they look…exhausted. He looks exhausted.

  “Are you good? Can you get your shit together enough to help win this game so we can get in the playoffs?”

  He doesn’t answer, just narrows his eyes at me.

  Whatever.

  I release him and cast a glance at Drew, who is watching with amusement. Just like the other eight guys in this huddle. “Can I count on you if I need to go long?” I ask him, cocking my head.

  “Always,” he nods, but not before his eyes flash between Grady and me.

  I haven’t said much to E or Drew about the shit going on between Ciaráin and I. Fuck, I haven’t talked to anyone about it. Not even Taylor.

  But how exactly do you call up your best friend and ask for advice in this situation? How the hell do you slide that into a conversation?

  Hey, T. I know you’re busy with your own shit and getting ready for baseball season, but I blew my arch nemesis in the locker room during practice after your dad kicked us out for an altercation on the field. And then to top it off, I invited him to Thanksgiving where he proceeded to punch my father for insinuating he and I were fucking. But anyway, how have you been?

  Yeah, not gonna happen.

  Breaking the huddle, I shake my head as I watch Rain jog over into position. Even the way he’s moving, it’s off. Slow and sluggish.

  Has he not been sleeping or something?

  Fuck, why do I even care?

  I can sit here until I’m blue in the face, screaming to myself that it’s only because we have a damn game to win, but deep down I know I care just because I fucking care.

  I wear my heart on my sleeve, caring about people who couldn’t give a damn about me, and unfortunately, it’s a fatal flaw. One I can’t seem to break free from.

  Positioning myself behind my center, Aiden, I call out the play and the ball is in my hands not a moment later. Looking downfield, my eyes immediately catch on Drew, who is being double covered.

  Of course.

  The defense knows Rain has been off his game, otherwise he would be the one they have under double coverage.

  My eyes find number eighty-three down the field as I dance around the pocket, looking for an opening. He’s got a bit of space between him and his defender, so trusting my gut, I launch the ball in his direction.

  I watch as it sails through the air, a perfect spiral, and lands safely in his arms at the twenty yard line. But the moment he turns and starts making forward progress, he’s slammed into from behind by his defender.

  And the goddamn ball is loose on the field.

  For the third time today.

  And all I can see is red the second the opposing team scoops up the ball and starts running it back toward me. I continue to watch in horror as he evades three of our players before finally being tackled on their own thirty yard line.

  Jogging over toward the sidelines, I spot Ciaráin with his helmet off, rubbing the back of his neck as he runs toward me to get to our bench. But like he can sense me, he looks up and fury instantly crosses his features.

  “What the actual fuck, River!” he screams at me when he’s only ten yards away from me.

  I go to grab him and pull him off the field when he rips my hand from its hold on his jersey.

  “Don’t fucking touch me!” he screams as our defense starts running onto the field around us. “What the hell was that crap? You said you were throwing to Benson!”

  I yank my helmet from my head and scowl. “That might have been the plan, but you have to be ready for anything. When you’re on this field, you are ready to have the ball thrown at you. He was in double coverage and you were open, so I made the choice to throw to you.”

  “You could have run the damn ball!” He shouts the words, getting in my face.

  I roll my eyes, feeling my temper rising to dangerous levels. “We needed yards I can’t fucking run, Grady. Use your head and think about what you’re saying.”

  “Well, your decision just caused us to turn the ball over again!”

  I scoff, getting up in his face, our noses brushing against each other as my hand grips his collar. “I made the decision to throw you the ball, yeah. But don’t sit here and try to pin your fuck ups on me because you’re the one who fumbled the ball again and that’s on you and you alone.”

  “Yeah, well maybe if we didn’t have a fucking faggot for a QB whose only focus is staring at ass instead of making proper play calls we would actually win this goddamn game.”

  Actually?

  I laugh in disbelief at his audacity. Gripping his collar tighter in my fist, I move my lips to his ear, whispering directly into it. “Or maybe if your homophobic ass could stop thinking about how good it felt to have your dick down my throat then you could actually manage to hold onto the fucking ball.”

  With that said, I give him a hard shove and turn away, heading to the sidelines until I’m needed on the field again.

  Only I don't make it more than two steps before he grips my arm, yanking it so I spin back around. I don’t even have to look to know it’s Ciaráin. The way my skin is scorching under his hand is confirmation enough. It’s searing, actually. The way our sweat mixes on my arm, adding to the burn already present any time he touches me.

  It’s so distracting, I don’t even feel it at first when his fist meets my cheekbone.

  My head snaps to the side as a throbbing pain radiates from the spot where he landed the punch. I stumble back a couple steps, wincing at the pain as a hiss escapes my lips. My hand makes its way to my cheek, cupping it in my palm as I glance up at this asshole.

  My first thought is this fucker actually just hit me.

  And, fortunately or not, my second is an immediate I’m the quarterback. I can’t hit him back.

  No matter how much I want to.

  But what I can do…?

  My hands are on his chest pads, shoving him as hard as I can away from me. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout at the top of my lungs, the words ripping from my throat in a snarl.

  He pulls back for another punch, but I’m prepared this time, ready to block or dodge him.

  Only, I don’t have to because Aiden is behind him, restraining him in a headlock while he fights and struggles to get at me. Drew steps in between us, a palm on either of our chests when I feel someone’s hand on my throwing wrist, holding me in place.

  Glancing up, I find Elliott at my side, his eyes on his twin, Aiden, and Rain.

  “Think about who you’re throwing punches at, Grady,” Elliott says in a low voice, eyes narrowed on him. “Because it isn’t a fair fight when you know he won’t hit back.”

  Ciaráin doesn’t have the chance to respond though, because everyone is crowding around us now, including Coach Scott and the officiating crew.

  “Eighty-three, eighteen, those are flagrant personal fouls,” the white hat says. He turns to Coach, nodding his head at us. “I have to toss these two, Coach. They need to hit the showers.”

  “I understand, Al,” Coach Scott says to the referee, his glare aimed at us. “You two. Locker room. Now. And you’ll wait there for me until after the game.”

  Anger bubbles inside me.

  Ejected.

  I was just ejected.

  Yanking my arm from Elliott’s grip, I stalk toward the tunnel, not bothering to look back at the team. I can feel their stares of disappointment searing into my back, every single eye burning holes into my skin. Hell, the entire fucking stadium is in pandimonuim, shouts and boos rushing over me in waves.

  Fuck.

  Never in my life have I been ejected from a game.

  Never in my life have I gotten into an altercation with another player for any reason.

  And never in my fucking life would I have thought both would happen in the most important game of the season, maybe even my life.

  Pushing through the locker room door, I rip my pads over my head and toss them into my locker, the plastic banging against the wood with a c
rack. I quickly slip out of the rest of my uniform and toss that in too. Grabbing the towel from the top shelf, I head to the shower.

  As I stand under the spray, I attempt to let it wash this bullshit off me, along with my shitty attitude. But the water does nothing to curb my anger. Instead it feeds it, soaking into my pores like toxic venom until I’m ready to burst.

  I hear a stall slam closed and another shower start, signaling Ciaráin must be in here finally. What took him so long to get in here, I don’t know.

  Nor do I care at this moment.

  Fuck him.

  The rage inside me is a new feeling, one I’m not used to coping with. I’m a laid back, go with the flow kind of guy. Some would even say happy-go-lucky. Rage does not mix with any of that.

  But unfortunately, that is the emotion Ciaráin Grady seems to bring forth in me more than any other.

  Turning off the shower, I exit with the towel wrapped around my waist and head back to my cubby to get dressed in a pair of sweats and a long-sleeve tee. I wince as the fabric brushes against my face, already having forgotten I’m going to sport quite the shiner for the next week or two.

  I head over to the mirror in the bathroom, glancing at my cheek.

  It’s not terribly swollen, but it’s red and angry and most definitely will be black and blue in the morning.

  “Aw, damn. Checking out how bad I messed up your pretty face?” Ciaráin’s voice says from behind me, causing me to meet his gaze in the mirror.

  I give him a glare, noting the asshole is once again only wrapped in a towel. It brings me back to the day only a few weeks ago, when I said fuck it and tugged it off him to give him the best blowjob of his life, even if he would never admit it.

  Cocking my head, I turn to face him, leaning against the sink with my arms crossed over my chest. “The joke’s on you, because you’re the one who has to look at it every day, not me.”

  He taps his chin as he looks over my face and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Well shit, in that case, I’m regretting not giving you a matching set.”

  I bite my tongue so hard it starts to bleed because if I don’t do something, I most definitely am gonna hit the dickhead.