Follow the River (River of Rain Book 1) Page 5

  No. The ball ends up in my hands on game day because I’m a damn good player and everyone on this team knows it. I’ve more than proven myself to them at this point.

  Except today, it doesn’t feel like I am.

  What it does feel like is that my feet might fall off or even be burnt down to nubs on the rubber floor of the gym with how fast my legs are moving. But it’s not enough.

  I know without looking at the stopwatch in Drew’s hands I’m slower than normal. Despite how hard I’m working, I know I’m not hitting the mark today.

  That tends to happen when your head isn’t in the game.

  The thing is, my head is never not in the game. At least not when I’m on the field or the weight room. Those are the two places where I can let loose, work out my aggression and rage in a conducive environment.

  My sanctuary.

  Except this garden of Eden is tainted with a slippery fucking snake who goes by the name of River Lennox.

  He’s everywhere I am. Always. Like he seeks me out and watches me just to make me uncomfortable.

  Sure, I know that isn’t necessarily true. We’re teammates, we have to see each other on the field and in the weight room or whatever. But seeing him on campus randomly, in a lecture hall or the team cafeteria?

  At the fucking grocery store on a Sunday night?

  Yeah, all that, I could do without.

  Glancing over to where he’s currently doing leg presses with Garrett, I feel a growl work its way out of my throat, a low rumble from deep within my chest as I continue to pound my legs into the floor.

  Yet if I’m being honest with myself, a majority of my irritation is with myself, not River.

  Because I don’t know why I had to go off on him the other day. It’s not a damn crime to be bisexual, I’m not some sort of ignorant asshole. Hell, Roman was bisexual and I never felt weird around him.

  Until he decided to kiss you the night before he left for college, leaving you not only with a broken friendship, but behind in hell, my brain reminds me.

  Not that I’m one to hold grudges or anything.

  Okay, that’s a bold faced lie, but not necessarily when it comes to Roman. I’d like to believe we somehow would have gotten past it, after an awkward phase, and by now we would be able to drunkenly laugh about it whenever we got together like hey, remember the one time you kissed me but I’m not into dudes?

  But him kissing me and then just…leaving? Leaving when my life was spiraling down into the darkest pit of hell with no cord to pull to save me from impact?

  Not to mention him confusing the hell out of me.

  It was like a final nail in the coffin of what was a friendship, a brotherhood, from the time we met at eight and nine years old.

  That is what makes me hold grudges.

  So why is it a big deal River is bi, but not Roman?

  I pull up and step out of the ladder at the end of my reps, waving Drew off before he can tell me my time. I already know it’s fucking terrible, but I don’t need to know how terrible.

  Instead of forcing myself into the proper headspace, my eyes find themselves on River once again, taking in the way the muscles in his legs flex with each press he makes on the machine.

  Even I can admit the guy is good looking, what with those eyes I swear change from blue to green on the hour, his brown hair cut in a neat high fade, and two dimples popping in his cheeks. And on top of that, he also has to be charming and funny and nicer than easily eighty-percent of the people I’ve ever met.

  He’s the poster child for every parent’s golden boy and every girl’s perfect man.

  Except he isn’t just into girls…

  Goddamnit, I don’t know why my brain keeps latching onto that. I don’t know why I felt the instinct to tell him to basically go fuck off because he is more fluid sexually. That’s not any of my fucking business anyway. But it was the same feeling that hit my stomach the night of the party, when I first found out.

  It was like fight or flight, in a sense. Self-preservation.

  And for the life of me, I don’t get it. I wish I did.

  Because, truth be told, I enjoyed getting to know River a bit the few times we talked. I don’t know much other than he’s originally from Colorado and went to school with Elliott and Andrew, as well as Coach Scott’s son. That, in addition to his pretty decent taste in music, sums up every piece of information I know about the guy.

  As I watch him hop off the leg press and playfully shove Garrett into the seat, I start to see it though. Why my gut is telling me to get the hell away from him.

  He’s…so much like Roman.

  Yeah, they have the same color hair but that’s where the similarities in looks end. Ocean eyes versus dark hazel. Built for highly skilled contact athletics versus lean and limber, like a runner or swimmer. Preference of shorts and a tank top over a three piece tailored suit.

  And don’t even get me started on the fact that Roman would never in his life get a tattoo, where River has multiple.

  On the outside, they’re nothing alike.

  But right now, the way River is laughing and joking and is fucking happy even though we’re working our asses off in the middle of practice? That has Roman written all over it.

  Fun, carefree, outgoing. So likeable it’s sickening to see.

  Shit, I’m sure the guy would give the damn shirt off his back, just the same as Roman would. Making this all the more confusing.

  I never truly dealt with my fallout with my best friend for over half my life. In fact, I’ve been holding onto it in the most unhealthy way possible; shoving it to the back of my mind and pretending it doesn’t exist.

  So, is the fact that they are so similar what rubs me the wrong way? Or is it because of this overwhelming sense of…maybe kinship I feel with him?

  I honestly don’t know how to fucking describe it, only whatever it is, it’s a double edged sword. Easily the greatest thing to happen to me, at least when it comes to my football game, but also lethal to it if today is any indication.

  It’s moronic to think this, but sometimes I wish we didn’t have any on-field chemistry. That the two of us didn’t make such a great team when it comes to the game.

  Not entirely true.

  I love winning and the high I get from a great pass or a touchdown will never lessen with time. And if I didn’t have a quarterback I could mesh with on a decent level, that would never happen.

  I just wish we couldn’t read each other to the point it seems like our brains and bodies are a single unit. Our minds have blended together into one and I don’t even have to look at him to know where the ball is going and how fast I need to run to make sure it ends up safely in my arms. And from some of the insane passes he’s been throwing at me this season, he feels this connection too. There’s no way he’d trust me to nab some of the bombs he’s been lobbing towards the end zone otherwise.

  That’s the part that frustrates me, as much as it shouldn’t.

  It’s unlike playing with any other quarterback. And still, as much as it might infuriate me on a personal level, it’s fucking exhilarating.

  “Is it my turn yet?” Drew mumbles loud enough for me to hear. I do, and it snaps me from my thoughts long enough to look over at him

  I shake my head and motion for him to get ready to start the timer again.

  I need to get my crap together and make this practice worthwhile. Which means I need to take my mind off River fucking Lennox.

  “Let’s go,” I say, not waiting for his response before setting a grueling pace in the ladder once again.

  And just like the last time, I know I’m not up to par. My entire body feels like it’s moving slower than a turtle stuck in tar, and my brain continues to wander on thoughts of Roman and River, only increasing my frustration from a simmer to a damn boil.

  The muscles in my back tense when I hear his laugh from across the gym, deep and husky, the sound like rich scotch sliding over my body.

  God fucking damn it.<
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  Stepping from the ladder again, Drew lets out a low whistle when he looks at the stopwatch, and gives me a wide-eyed look.

  “Yeah, I know I’m off my grind today,” I tell him, grabbing my water bottle from the bench a few feet away to take a swig.

  “Um, man, I hate to break it to you, but you’re—” Drew cuts himself off when the sound of River’s laughter floats over to us, snatching both of our attention.

  He and Garrett are acting like idiots, clearly done with their reps because they’re not actually working out anymore. A glance at the clock tells me we’re close to the end of practice and my heart sinks.

  I didn’t get jack shit out of today’s lifting session. Unless reaching an obscene level of irritation is considered an accomplishment.

  And all because of one annoying as fuck quarterback who happens to be causing a damn ruckus with Garrett. Like right now, they’re shoving each other until River grabs him from behind, his arm wrapped around Garrett’s neck in a headlock.

  When I catch myself watching him yet again, the tattoos on his arm rippling with the movement, I inwardly wince.

  Why do I fucking care what he’s doing anyway?

  Whipping my shirt over my head, I use it to wipe the sweat from my forehead before tossing it to the ground beside Drew.

  “Again,” I growl, motioning to the stopwatch in his hand.

  Drew sighs, clearly thinking I need to break. Or wanting to get another run in before our time is up. But he’s a good teammate and friend, just nodding and hitting the button on the stopwatch in his hand, giving me the go to start my drill again.

  He might think I need to tone it down, get my head on straight, and he’d be right. What I need is a fucking distraction from my already distracting as fuck distraction. And since I’m not allowed to box or do anything that might damage my hands and I can’t exactly go paint or sketch when I’m supposed to be training, this will have to do.

  Tonight though? You can bet your ass my hands will be busy with a brush in hand.

  My heart pounds as I move my legs as fast as humanly possible, lifting my knees, pumping my arms, breathing in steady breaths like my life depends on it.

  And while it doesn’t, in this moment, I swear my sanity does.

  Because even now, as my body is damn near being pushed to the breaking point, I still sense it. His eyes on me, watching my every move.

  I can practically feel him caress each inch of my exposed skin with his gaze, it’s that penetrating. Powerful.

  Gritting my teeth, I grind through the rest of the drill with what little energy I have left, my stamina completely drained at this point.

  I’m left a panting mess of sweat and burnt energy when my foot makes its last step through the ladder. Drew stops the watch instantly and I glance down at him with my hands behind my head, attempting to slow my breathing and heart rate.

  “Well?” I ask impatiently.

  “Dude,” he shakes his head. “That was your best time of the day.”

  Letting out a cough, I take another gulp or water. “Meaning what? I’ve been shit all day.”

  Drew laughs humorlessly and tosses the stopwatch to me, which I catch with ease. “If you call beating any time you’ve ever had while here, then yeah man, you were absolute trash today.”

  I glance down at the time on the display screen. It takes a minute for my brain to register the digital numbers shown and realize he’s right. This is the best time I’ve put up since I’ve been at CU. Hell, maybe even ever.

  How is that even fucking possible?

  Suddenly I hear a slow clap from across the gym and without turning to look, I know who it is.

  But when I do turn to face him and give him a sour look, I’m not prepared for what I find.

  Which is him blatantly checking me out.

  Just like I asked him not to.

  His eyes travel down my bare chest and torso to the waistband of my shorts as he claps, scorching every inch of my exposed skin. His gaze settles on the tattoo I have on my hip, narrowing in on the words that I know are too small to read from this distance, before making their way leisurely back up to my face.

  And then the fucker stops clapping and smiles.

  I bite into my cheek, needing to ground myself before I go over there and fucking kill him for looking at me like that.

  That’s one thing Roman never did. Act this forward with me in a sexual manner. The good friend he is, if there was any attraction he felt, he kept it to himself, thinking it would make me uncomfortable.

  Until that night.

  River on the other hand? He’s got no qualms about letting me know, see, and feel exactly what he wants from me and that is wrong on so many fucking levels.

  We’re teammates. We have to rely on each other to come in clutch when needed. To hone in on the fucking chemistry flowing between us, whether I want it or not.

  But how the fuck can I trust him if he’s constantly making me feel weird and itchy around him?

  How can I know he has my back on the field when he’s now decided to go out of his way to be completely obvious about his attraction towards me?

  The answer is simple…I can’t.

  River walks over, his teeth gnawing at his lower lip in a way…fuck, it ensnares my damn attention. My eyes are glued to his mouth, his lips, a cocky smirk forming on them as he approaches me.

  And when I finally detach myself from the trance to meet his eyes, the gleam in them lets me know I’ve been caught red handed.

  Shit.

  Bile rises from my stomach, coating the back of my throat when he stops in front of me, only a foot away. His cocksure attitude is radiating off him in waves, causing my stomach to churn even more.

  Nodding his head before cocking it slightly, he gives me a crooked grin. “You’re looking good. Really damn good.”

  I try not to take it as some form of double entendre. I swear, I do. But I’m standing here half naked before him and for the life of me, I can’t unsee the way his eyes ate me alive only moments before he spoke. It was literal eye-fucking to the third degree.

  More like eye-raping because I most definitely did not want it.

  “Whatever,” I mumble, turning away from him to grab the towel I’d set on the rack of dumbbells, wiping myself off and quickly slipping my shirt back over my head.

  The last thing I need to do is be shirtless around the guy. He’ll probably take it as some sort of invitation.

  Without a glance his way, I head over to grab the rest of my shit, ready to make a break for it.

  Please, just go back to ignoring me and all will be right in the world again.

  “Whatever?” he laughs, following me. “That’s all you have to say?”

  I glance at him before looking at the door, begging to escape and get home. Pursing my lips and pretending to think about it because uh, yeah that’s all I’ve got for him right now, I nod. “Pretty much. Hence me walking away, Lenny. You know, ‘cause that usually signifies the end of conversation?”

  To further prove my point, I start walking to the door. And of course, because the universe has some sort of plot to make me eternally miserable, River is right on my heels. Even as I exit the gym and start walking down the deserted hallway, I hear him behind me.

  “What the hell is the issue here with us?” he hisses, grabbing my arm and tugging. It forces me to spin to face him and see the fury in his eyes, one I’ve never seen on him before. “Because the way I see it, my sexuality has nothing to do with my ability to perform on the field. And that’s the only thing I can think of at this point for why you’ve decided to continuously ice me out for no goddamn reason.”

  I scoff and roll my eyes, waving my hand at him. “Did you not listen the other day? You’re clearly the issue. Not your sexuality, just you in general. So do me a favor by getting out of my face.”

  River laughs in annoyance. “Because having a simple conversation with you, telling you that you looked good running a drill is getting in yo
ur face?”

  “It is when you use the phrase as a fucking come-on,” I snap, closing in on him in barely contained rage.

  “You really need a damn reality check if you think everything I say has some sort of hidden meaning behind it, a hint I’m trying to get in your pants.”

  A sneer works its way over my face as I glare at him in disdain because fuck him. I know the game he’s playing, I see right through it. He’s the kind of guy that’ll take any challenge head on and fight tooth and nail to overcome it, beat it, whatever it might be.

  And that is all he sees me as. A challenge. A game to play and win.

  Yeah, not fucking happening.

  “Go fuck yourself, Lennox.”

  He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you do it yourself, Grady?”

  My jaw practically pops out of its socket in an attempt to keep my damn mouth shut, to keep my cool and not let him get to me, no matter how much it goes against my nature.

  “Feisigh do thoin fein,” I growl under my breath in Gaelic. Because yeah, I’m a mature twenty-one year old guy who just told him to fuck his own ass in a language there isn’t a chance in hell he speaks.

  I turn again to head down the hall, but his hand snaps out and latches onto my wrist.

  “Oh, no you don’t, dickhead. You want to toss out insults? Do it in a language I fucking understand. That way I at least know why I have to fight my instinct to deck you in the face.”

  My eyes are glued to his hand on my arm, where his skin touches mine.

  It’s only the second time we’ve touched skin to skin for more than a brief moment and just like the first, there is liquid ice melting my flesh where the connection is. White hot and molten.

  And it enrages me that he somehow manages to make me feel…whatever the fuck this is. I don’t think I could put a label on it if I tried.

  “Get your… Fucking… Hand… Off me.”

  “Or what?” he challenges, stepping into my space, his jaw hardened. “You gonna call me a faggot again? A queer? A fucking twink? Well, say it all, baby. Give me everything you’ve got. Because there is nothing you can say to me I haven’t heard a hundred times over.” His smile is menacing, filled with venom that doesn’t fit the shiny persona he wears each and every day.