Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I stop at Crew’s door and bang on it. “Rise and shine, Hollywood.”
Just need to see someone’s face before I head out. It’s a thing. And he knows.
“Go away,” he groans.
I tap on Hollis’s door. “Yo, man. You okay in there? Hungry?” Code for Come talk to me.
“Asshole” is the low response.
I smirk. We had a few too many drinks last night at our favorite bar, The Truth Is Out There. It’s a fitting name for a college dive devoted to X-Files memorabilia and newspaper clippings from supposed alien sightings that took place in Walker in the eighties.
Otherwise, Walker, Georgia, is home to Braxton College, a prestigious D1 school with one of the best football programs in the country.
Not anymore.
I swallow down jagged bitterness.
I groan aloud when I see that our cupboards are nearly bare. There’s one piece of bread (I don’t eat the heel), an empty box of Ritz crackers, and a bag of Funyuns. Those disgusting things belong to Crew and he’ll freak if I eat them, not that I would. I have standards.
In the fridge, I find leftover pineapple pizza (Hollis wrote his name on the box) and a box of pad thai noodles (mine) that have green fuzz on top. Well hell.
“Trip to Big Star today,” I mutter as I grab the only thing edible, a half-pack of bacon. I’m nuking it in the microwave when Crew, our quarterback, sticks his head out of his room.
“I just came out so you could see my face. You aren’t normal.” He grabs a hat off the hook in the hall and puts it on his head backward.
“Completely aware. Morning.” I push up a smile, but it’s more of a wince.
He grunts his reply as he comes farther into the kitchen. “Jesus. How can you eat?”
I smirk. “Bacon is manna from heaven. Besides, grease hits the spot after a hangover. I’ll hit the grocery today. It’s my turn.” I pause. “You remember last night?”
He squints. “Do I want to? Aleve?”
“Maybe not.” I toss him the pain meds I grabbed earlier for myself along with a bottled water from the fridge.
We rarely get wasted. Sure, we drink some, but once training camp starts in the summer, we toe the line. Last night was different.
Our season is officially freaking over—before Christmas. Not even a bowl game.
He guzzles the water then drops it and looks at me, a furrow on his brow. “Wait a damn minute—did Crazy Carl hang out with us?”
“Yep.” Crazy Carl is a regular at The Truth Is Out There. He’s in his sixties and a bit wacko.
“It’s starting to come back…like a nightmare.” He plops down on a stool at the kitchen island and rubs his eyes.
I nod. “He said you looked sad and wanted to do karaoke with you, a Lady Gaga duet. You had the sense to say no. Hollis, on the other hand, sang ‘Hello’ by Adele. Brought down the house. The boy can sing, can’t deny that, but that’s a cry for help.” I grab a piece of bacon and eat it fast. “The bar was packed. I think people just wanted to see if we’d show up to our usual Sunday hangout. Carl was the only one brave enough to say we needed to get our shit together.”
I actually dig Carl. He’s nutty but says wise things. Does that even make sense? No, it doesn’t.
Crew grimaces. “Too late. Football is over, man.”
I lean on the counter, needing to talk to let out some energy. “He meant our personal issues. Then he rambled a bit and told me a story about an alien he saw once. People in this town really go crazy about that stuff. Did you know he played for the Badgers when he was at Braxton? Defensive lineman. All-American. I bet he was good. He’s big.”
He lets out a pained groan. “We’re All-Americans. Is it really over for us?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
The promising chatter about us storming professional football has tanked.
We’re seniors this year, but unlike Crew and Hollis, I’m considering coming back to Braxton for a fifth year (and another season). I was redshirted my freshman year and only played four games, which gives me another year to play.
Hollis, our tight end, stumbles out of his room and rights himself on the wall. He’s tall and built with a head of messy dark hair. “Can you assholes please stop yelling?”
Crew and I snicker. I sing the first line of “Hello” (my voice not nearly as good as his) and he flips me off. “Guess you remember,” I say dryly.
He grunts.
I sigh as I gaze at them, and some of the tension in my chest loosens. We’ve been best friends since freshman year.
I love the fuck out of them.
The Three Amigos on the field.
I’m the can’t-shut-up one, Crew’s the mother hen, and Hollis is the mysterious one. We’re gods on campus. Huh…well, former gods.