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

  It’s the first day of practice, and it’s a scorcher here in Boulder for the first week of August. If I’m being honest, it’s always hot as fuck this time of year in Colorado, something I’m used to, being a native to the state. The temperature is reaching nearly one hundred degrees and the sun is blistering on my shoulders. Smoke still lingers in the air from the recent forest fires, but at least I can breathe outside without feeling like I’m drowning in ash like a few weeks ago.

  Truth be told, that’s the only thing I don’t like about Colorado. The fires every summer. They paint our clear blue sky with smoke and debris, clouding the view of the mountains almost entirely. Sometimes for months, like this past summer.

  Instead of spending my weekends out in Crested Butte mountain biking or rock climbing in Estes Park, I was forced to stay inside, keeping my lungs safe from the toxins in the air.

  So, the fact that I’m outside playing football right now? God, I’m thrilled. I was beginning to go damn near stir crazy being locked up in my apartment while the fires made it unsafe to be outside for extended periods of time. The only interaction I was having with my friends or family was coming from FaceTime and playing video games, and for an extrovert like myself, it was a nightmare.

  I snap out of my reverie once I reach Coach Scott. He’s a recently retired NFL running back from the Denver Broncos turned college level coach right here at CU. He started coaching a couple years before my freshman year, a good chunk of the reason I decided to stay local for college, even when I was scouted and recruited by some of the best teams in the SEC and BIG-10.

  He also happens to be a man I know extremely well, almost like a second father, seeing as he has known me since I was in diapers.

  “Hey Coach,” I say, pulling to a stop beside him. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of aviators, a ballcap on his head sporting the University’s logo. He looks every bit the intimidating man the world sees him as. Ruthless both on and off the field, never taking his eye off the ball.

  Something he ingrained in not only his son, and my best friend, Taylor, from a young age, but myself as well.

  Don’t lose focus and the world is yours for the taking.

  “River,” Coach replies in a way of greeting. His eyes are still locked on the field where different players are practicing various drills.

  “You have a new receiver.”

  My brows shoot up. This is news to me.

  We’ve been trying to recruit another high caliber wide receiver since my freshman year when Taylor decided to follow his gut and play baseball at University of Michigan instead of football here. He had options, since he’s talented as fuck in both, but he decided to step from under his father’s shadow and forge his own path playing the game that called to his heart more. And while I fucking miss playing with him, I respect the hell out him for doing it.

  Still, a new wide receiver is fucking exciting. Andrew Benson has been one of my receivers for not only my time at CU, but also in high school. By now, we have pretty good on-field chemistry, especially since we’ve been great friends since childhood. But I can’t always count on Drew, that’s too predictable and unrealistic to rely on a single wide receiver all the time. I need someone else I can trust to go long and catch whatever I throw at them.

  “Who is it?” I ask, my eyes searching the field for an unfamiliar form, number, anything. But the issue is we have plenty of new faces and practice uniforms on the field right now, since we lost quite a few players last year to either graduation or the NFL draft.

  “Transfer from Clemson. Junior,” Coach finally tosses me a glance. “He tossed up some very impressive yards last season. Could be our ticket to a bowl game this year if the two of you mesh on the same level you and Drew do.”

  I wrack my brain, trying to think of receivers from Clemson, but I come up blank. Keeping track of stats for other teams isn’t high on my list of priorities, but especially if it’s a team we never face during the season.

  I roll my eyes at Coach before whipping my gaze over to where the wide receivers are running through alone ladder drills with the running backs. I notice a couple new numbers in the mix, but none stand out. “You act as if I should just know who you’re talking about. Again, I ask. Who?”

  Instead of answering, Coach raises his megaphone to his lips. Covering my ears just in time, I hear a muffled “Grady, over here!” shouted to who I’m assuming is my new wide receiver.

  Grady? Doesn’t ring any bells.

  I watch as all the heads in the group snap up to look at us except the one player running the ladder drill. No one moves to come our way, so that leaves one option on who must be Grady.

  Number eighty-three.

  His head is down, dark hair wet with sweat as he keeps his attention on his feet. He’s laser focused, moving with a profound amount of agility back and forth through the ladder. The ease in which he maneuvers his frame screams athleticism, and my heart pounds in my chest as I continue watching him stay zoned into his task.

  Immediately, my brain latches onto the fact that he has every component to make the kind of receiver I prefer to work with. Not only because he is clearly built for this sport and is dedicated to honing his abilities. There’s also the fact that he will put his training as a higher priority than listening to the order to come over here while he was in the midst of a drill.

  I even catch Drew nodding his approval at Grady disobeying Coach to finish out his drill.

  This defiance for the sake of growth, it’s something only Drew and his twin brother, Elliott and I know will gain the highest respect from Coach. It’s a secret we keep from the rest of the team, hoping they learn it for themselves and earn that level of reverence from an NFL great like Graham Scott.

  But this little trick is something we only learned by being raised with Coach Scott in our lives. If Taylor wasn’t part of our friend group or our team back at Summit Academy, I don’t think we would have been smart enough to figure it out.

  But Grady somehow managed to do just that on his first damn day.

  My eyes stay trained on number eighty-three as he works through the rest of the drill, not stopping until he hits his mark and the offensive coach stops the time on his watch. The second he steps out of the ladder, his eyes snap up to look in our direction.

  I’m unable to tell the color of his irises from here, but what I do know is whatever they are, they carry a lot of heat with them. I can feel them burning into me from fifty yards away as he bends to grab his helmet from the ground, only growing in intensity as he jogs closer to us.

  Crossing my arms to watch him approach, I take in his tall, lean form. He might only be about an inch taller than my six-two, but his presence is loud, large, and dominating in itself, even at a distance. He’s not built like a brick shithouse seeing as he is made to run, but the skin of his arms and legs that are visible under his practice uniform are well defined and toned. Veins pop in his forearm from his grip on his helmet, bulging out from beneath his skin like a roadmap. At least, that’s true on the skin that isn’t completely covered in ink. Which is only the lower part of his left bicep.

  When he pulls to a stop in front of me, I blow out a breath, because I do know who he is. I don’t know how I didn’t put the pieces together earlier when Coach mentioned his last name.

  Because Ciaráin Grady has been throwing up astronomical stats the past two years at Clemson, being in the running for the Heisman both years.

  And now he’s here at a college that isn’t exactly known for its football.

  Which begs the question...why?

  His attention is focused on Coach, not even giving me a second glance, when he says “Coach?”

  That one single word, sliding over me like a smooth, rich whiskey, has my stomach doing somersaults and backflips and every other gymnastic move in the book on an instant.

  Coach grunts before nodding to me. “Grady, I’d like you to meet your QB. My hopes are you’ll be able to mesh well together. Even despite the fac
t that you haven’t played together the previous two years.”

  For the first time since he’s stopped in front of us, his eyes leave our coach and zero in on my own. They’re two deep pools of honey whiskey, the most distinct amber I’ve ever seen on a human. Seems fitting they match his voice.

  “River Lennox,” I tell him, ensnared by his gaze as I extend my hand to him. “The guys call me lots of shit besides that though. QB, Riv, Len. Whatever works.”

  Those golden eyes stay on mine as his own arm reaches out to shake my hand. But the second our palms touch, fingers wrapped around each other’s hand, fire licks at my skin.

  Actually, fire is putting it mildly. It’s more like a bolt of lightning, zapping each and every nerve ending in my hand, sending shockwaves of electricity and heat coursing through every inch of my body. All from a simple handshake.

  From the flare in his eyes before he quickly looks down at our joined hand, he feels it too. That is, before he drops my hand like it literally burnt him and his gaze returns to mine.

  “Ciaráin Grady.” He speaks his name slow and fluidly, sounding like keer-en.

  When he doesn’t say anything else, I quirk a brow. “Do you just go by Ciaráin?”

  He smirks slightly. “I guess my old team used to call me G or Grady, so that would be fine too. You’re welcome to come up with something else, so long as it’s more creative than asshole or dickhead.”

  “Not asshole or dickhead. Duly noted.” I nod in all seriousness. “Well, Garrett over there—” I point to my backup QB on the other side of the field— “goes by G, so for clarity’s sake I think I’ll stick with Grady.” I give him a wry smile before continuing. “But welcome to the team, man. I have to say, you transferring might be a gift from God. I've needed another stellar wide receiver for two years now.”

  “I aim to please, Len,” he retorts. The way my nickname slips off his lips sends a shiver through me. I want to hear it again just so I can watch the way his lips form the letters as he says it.

  My brain is latching onto the single syllable like my life depends on it and replaying over in my mind on a loop in the span of only a second. As irrational as it is and no matter how much I don’t understand it, I crave it. My name on his lips.

  “Did you need anything else, Coach? Otherwise I’m going to get back to it,” Ciaráin asks him, flicking his gaze back to our coach.

  “Not at all. Go finish up the drill,” he replies, dismissing Ciaráin before tossing his chin at me. “And River, go get Garrett. Once they’re done, I want to run some routes. Get you two used to each other as quickly as possible.”

  And that’s where we are ten minutes later, running easy routes, easily getting the feel for each other’s speed and playstyle. He’s quick, very light on his feet, giving me the freedom to throw faster and for more yards than I normally would with another wide receiver. Hell, even Drew.

  Simply put, our chemistry is off the fucking charts and it’s got me all kinds of jacked up.

  The next time it’s his turn for a route, I give him a wicked grin before giving him the universal go long signal with my hand. I catch his smirk and subtle nod before stepping back into position. And then back further and further until he’s far enough away that I’m ready to let it fly.

  And fly it fucking does. Sails down the field through the air, landing safely in Ciaráin’s arms over halfway down the field.

  I let out a holler, never feeling so high in my life. Ciaráin returns my excitement with a whoop from his spot down the field. And yeah, we both completely ignore Coach’s glares from the sidelines. Though, if I know Coach Scott, he’s secretly jumping up and down like a kid in a candy store on the inside.

  Adrenaline is coursing through me and my hopes are through the roof for the season if this is the kind of shit we can do together on day one of practice. There’s definitely no false hype around this guy’s ability when it comes to football.

  I could get used to this.

  Ciaráin comes running up to me, panting slightly before tossing the ball into my hands from a few feet away. “Nice one, Len. Though, you think you could send it further next time? If I can break into the record books for receiving yard, there’s no way I’m not getting the fucking Heisman this year.” He gives me another smirk, one I’m noticing seems to be his signature. And before he turns to head back to the end of the line, he bites his lip and...winks at me.

  And my heart drops to my stomach and out my ass.

  Wait, what? Was he just...flirting with me?

  I blink after him a couple times, and for the first time today, I let myself take a good look at him. The kind of look that, if this was a hundred years ago—fuck, even fifty years ago—I could be beat to death and strung up in the town square.

  Okay I might be slightly over dramatic, but I’m not far off.

  But still, I fucking stare at him. Taking in his muscular thighs encased in his pants, the pads doing everything to make his ass look like a goddamn peach I’d give my left nut to take a bite into.

  The way I’m studying him, it portrays…interest.

  And interested, I fucking am.

  Despite the rules I’ve put in place for myself regarding my teammates, which are only two—don’t look and definitely don’t fucking touch—and despite the fact that I try to limit my hook-ups with the male population at CU…I’m fucking interested.

  Really fucking interested.

  My eyes take in his form again while he bullshits in line with Drew, letting Garrett have his run through with the receivers. His helmet is dangling from his fingertips, the pad of his thumb toying with the strap absently while he talks.

  But even from ten yards away, I see his eyes dance with the same excitement that was taking hold of me not more than two minutes ago.

  A thousand questions run through my head.

  Is that glimmer there from the high of the game? Is this chemistry between us just from being two players in sync? Or is it something more than that? Does he feel this physical attraction too?

  Is he also…into guys?

  Fuck me.

  This is the hardest fucking part about being bisexual. Girls are never this hard to figure out, contrary to what straight men might think. All I have to do is flash my dimples and a heated smolder and poof, their panties are gone. It’s practically magic.

  But with dudes, it’s like trying to teach a monkey advanced statistics. In Spanish.

  Case in fucking point, I’m standing here gawking at this sexy as fuck wide receiver when I should be, I don’t know, paying attention to the drills that we are running or talking to coaches or going over the playbook or literally anything other than gawking at this sexy as fuck wide receiver.

  And for the entire rest of practice, that’s what I keep catching myself doing.

  Watching. Sneaking glances. Flat out fucking creeping on the guy to see if I can catch anything that will alert my gaydar if he might be down for a roll in the sheets.

  And I don’t need to be thinking with my dick on the field.

  But those thoughts are only taken further the minute practice is over and he pulls his pads and practice jersey over his head in one fell swoop, revealing a glorious, sweaty chest and a set of abs Ryan Gosling would be jealous of.

  He’s tanned and trim, ink covering his entire right arm in what looks to be some sort of Celtic design. The left forearm has a wing of maybe an eagle, two thick black bands circling about halfway up with a date in Roman numerals above them. He even has some words scripted on one side of his hips, running on the diagonal of his perfect cut V that tapers into his padded pants.

  In short, he was crafted to be the downfall of any bisexual man and Jesus Christ I might be drooling.

  No, seriously. I actually checked to be sure I wasn’t.

  And the second he lifts his arms—how the fuck did I not notice those arms?—to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his biceps fucking glowing under the sun, I become insanely grateful these pants make it damn near impo
ssible to pop a boner.

  Yeahhhh...I’d definitely fuck the shit out of him.

  “Good first practice, yeah?”

  I jump at Coach’s voice beside me, not realizing he had stepped up from behind me.

  “Yeah, definitely,” I cough, doing my best to remove my eyes that are currently super glued to Ciaráin’s body. Which I cannot do. They are firmly cemented in place, memorizing the way every muscle twitches and flexes as he starts stretching himself out next to Drew.

  Coach catches the direction of my gaze and lets out a laugh. “He’s something, ain’t he? We fell into some serious luck when he decided to transfer out here.”

  That he is, Coach. And hell yes we did.

  But I just nod, keeping my eyes on Ciaráin.

  “He’s going to be one helluv an asset to this team. You two keep up the good work. Maybe get to know him on a personal level off the field.”

  How about biblically, Coach? Sound like something you’d be okay with?

  “Absolutely,” I respond instead, because yeah, Coach might know I bat for both teams, but it’s not like we shoot the shit about that kind of thing.

  Talk about awkward.

  Coach pats me on the back in the way he has always done since I was playing peewee football with Taylor, Drew, and Elliott. “Hit the showers, kid. I’ll see you in the morning.” I glance at him as he walks away for a moment before my eyes find their way back to Ciaráin, who is rising to his feet and grabbing his pads to head into the locker room.

  “Coach Scott doesn’t fuck around, even on the first day,” he says as I head over to him, my feet carrying me closer to the object of my newest obsession.

  “Nah, but would you expect anything less from someone with five rings?”

  He shakes his head, half a smile peeking out and I get my first glimpse of perfect, white teeth. “I suppose I shouldn’t.”

  “You get used to it,” I say, attempting to remove my eyes from his mouth. Shockingly enough, I’m able to, only for them to be caught by his eyes once again. “He’s a tough nut to crack, but he’s the definition of a teddy bear.”