Let You Love Me (Boys of Riverside #5)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

TEAGAN

One year ago, if you would’ve told me I had my own personal Judas Iscariot living right under my nose, I would’ve told you to get the fuck out.

My band of friends were loyal. Solid.

Raised on the football field together, we grew up with a ball in our hands.

Broken bones, concussions, girls, and our first can of beer, we did it all together. We weren’t just friends or teammates, we were brothers. And although we didn’t share the same blood running through our veins, it sure as hell felt like it.

So when I found out Knox—my boy—was the one who assaulted my sister in high school, I lost it. I almost fucking killed him. Some days, I wish I would have.

This is one of those days.

I stare down at the news article on my phone, oblivious to the men around me, too lost in my own thoughts and the conflicting emotions at war inside of my head to focus on anything else.

Gripping the phone tighter in my hand, I skim the article as a combination of relief and anger swell inside of me.

After my family—a.k.a. my parents and Brynn—decided not to pursue criminal charges against Knox, I tried to find peace with it, but the fact that his actions would go unpunished didn’t sit right with me. Every time I picked up a football or spoke with my sister or saw her face, I imagined that fucker putting his hands on her, and I lost it.

I know Brynn is happy now. She’s healing, has closure, and is at peace; it’s everything I could ever want for my twin sister, but it wasn’t enough for me.

I needed more.

I needed him to pay.

The boys—Atlas, Graham, and Jace— and I were all in agreement. The asshole needs to be taught a lesson.

So, a couple of weeks ago, we solicited Calvin Scott, Graham and Atlas’s dad, for help in getting Knox relieved of his position at Virginia Tech. Since fucking up his relationship with Graham, Mr. Scott has been clamoring to make amends, and this was the perfect opportunity. As a former NFL-star with money and connections, he had all the pull we needed.

He made some calls and two weeks later, Knox was no longer playing for the Hokies.

Fuck me, it worked.

My gaze continues to scan the article and my mood darkens.

As it turns out, once Calvin Scott informed the administration of Knox’s questionable past, several reported assaults from girls on Knox’s campus started to make a lot more sense.

I read the last line of the article, and my jaw clenched.

“Though the investigation into several sexual assaults on the Virginia Tech campus are still ongoing, Knox Brian is being questioned as a prime suspect.”

Yep, should’ve killed the fucker when I had the chance.

We let him get away with what he did, and, lo and behold, he did it again.

But this time, he’ll pay.

Still, that shit doesn’t sit right with me.

I quickly forward the link to the news article to the guys in our group chat, typing out a quick message—Did you see this shit?—then hit send.

“Nichols, eyes up here!” a voice snaps.

I grit my teeth and lift my gaze, stuffing my phone back into the pocket of my joggers, as I meet Chance Lockhart’s cold stare with one of my own.

I know he’s our quarterback, but something about the fucker rubs me the wrong way, and I’m not in the mood for his shit tonight.

We’re gathered outside the Bowman Center on campus for what I hope will be the last hazing ritual of the season. Shot-gunning beers, streaking across campus, and waking at the ass crack of dawn to run bleachers are all good and fun, and we’ve done them all, but none of them will get us any closer to a NCAA Division I Football Bowl championship. We’re one month into our season, and our record is good. We’re strong as fuck, but I don’t see how a gaggle of rookies loitering on campus on a Saturday night, post-win, is going to help us any.

When I signed on to play with the Wildcats last year, I’ll admit, Chandler a.k.a. Chance the Chancelor Lockhart was half the reason. He’s known on campus as the God of football. Who wouldn’t want to play with him at the helm?

But I’m quickly growing tired of his egotistical shit. The douchebag plays games both on and off the field, and I don’t like it.

“What are we doing here, Lockhart?” I ask, tone weary.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Nichols. You got somewhere else to be?”

Actually, yeah.

I keep my mouth shut, jaw locked.

Pissing Chance off is a bad idea.

Beside me, my roommate Tommy, stiffens. “So, you called us here after a game, on one of our only nights off, for another initiation stunt?”

Chance smirks. “We do this every year with the rookies. Do you want to be a part of the Wildcat family or not?”

Tommy scratches his head, the crease in his forehead deepening. It’s clear to me he thinks this is as stupid as I do. Hazing and pranks like drinking and running naked through campus are one thing. Dicking around with the cars in the staff parking lot, like Chance wants us to do, is quite another.

“But if we get caught,” Tommy continues, motioning to the cameras on the lampposts above us, “we could face suspension.”

Chance rolls his eyes. “They’re not going to suspend you. It’s a simple prank, but if you’re too much of a pussy–”

“Come on, man. We’re not rushing,” I say, my tone lazy as I add, “this isn’t a fraternity. We’ve already made the team. What’s the point here?”

A few of my teammates shoot me a nervous glance. I know they seek Chance’s approval, but Coach Turner runs a tight ship, and I can’t imagine a world where get caught dicking around with a professor’s car would go unpunished.

“Are you questioning me, freshman?” Chance’s dark gaze snaps to mine and I shrug.

I have a lot of things I’d like to say, but I don’t out of prosperity. I might be dumb, but I’m not that dumb. Making an enemy of your quarterback is a bad idea, especially one as powerful as Lockhart.

“Listen,” he sneers, “you can either participate or not. Just know we’ve earned our place as a Wildcat family. The rest of you have yet to prove yourselves. And don’t forget Coach relies a lot on my insight as captain, especially when it comes to the rookies. So, do it or don’t. Just know, we’re taking note of who the real team players are.”

I grit my teeth, the muscle flickering in my jaw.

This is stupid.

“Come on, man,” Greene, one of our running backs, murmurs from behind me. With a nudge, he adds, “Just . . . play along.”

“Yeah. You’re pissing him off,” Ben, one of our defensive linemen, mumbles under his breath.

“Tommy started it.” I shrug.

“Listen up!” Chance snaps. “If you wanna be a pussy and leave, fine. Do it or don’t, but you have exactly ten minutes to remove all four tires of the cars in this lot, place the vehicle on cinder blocks, then dispose of the rubber in the courtyard fountain. That’s your mission. Anyone bailing, do so now.” He eyes us through narrow slits.

I mash my mouth into a tight line and turn to face the other freshmen. “What’ll it be, boys? I say we either face it together or walk, but we’re a team.”

Tommy lifts a shoulder. “It’s just a harmless prank, right?” Then quieter, so Lockhart can’t hear, he says to me, “If Chance wants to pretend we’re back in high school trying to be part of the cool kid club, I say we just fucking do it and get it over with.”

The other men, nearly two dozen of them, all nod their agreement.

“All right, then. We do this, and we do it as a team.” I point toward the six guys closest to me and bark out their names. “Stand guard, let us know if anyone is coming. The rest of us will remove the tires, two on one car, so pair up. Let’s get this shit done and get the hell out.” I turn. “Tommy, you’re with me.”

I spin back around to find Chance smiling. “Me and the boys will be at Patsy’s Pub across the road. You have only ten minutes to complete this mission and send us photographic evidence. Then another five to get your ass to the bar.” Chance lifts his head to the sleek black Jaguar in front of us. “This one’s yours, Nichols.”

I arch a brow.

“Later, ladies,” Miller, a senior tight end, says as he winks and turns.

“If they want to haze us so badly, why the hell aren’t they staying to watch?” Tommy mumbles under his breath.

Because they’re setting us up.

I brush the thought aside. If the boys want to do this, so be it. If I’m anything, it’s a team player, and I’m not going to bail on them on or off the field.

I turn to find everyone paired up.

“Time starts now,” Chance calls out, then backs away.

Everyone rushes into action at once.

Tommy and I hurry to the Jag.

I take one of the back tires while he rounds the front. Living in a small rural town, I’ve changed my fair share of flats, a skill I didn’t expect to come in handy here.

Only two minutes pass before the first tire is off, and Tommy helps me stack the blocks beneath it before he removes one on the front.

Two down, two to go. With any luck, we’ll finish this and put this fucking hazing shit behind us.

The second front tire comes off and we’re down to mine. A rusted fucking lug nut is making it tough as shit to get it off, but I’m determined. Still, time is winding down, so I tell Tommy to take his to the fountain while I work.

“You sure, man?”

A glance around me tells me most of the guys are wrapping this shit up.

I grit my teeth and grunt as I put all my weight into the lug nut. “I’m sure,” I grind out as Tommy takes off with one of his tires.

Finally, the nut starts to turn slowly as I hiss out a breath.

By the time Tommy returns, I’m wrenching it the rest of the way off. “Get the last tire and go,” I say, breathing heavily from the exertion. “I’m getting it off now, but everyone else is done. Make sure the guys are all together and head to Patsy’s,” I say, removing the tire. “I’ll be right behind you. All I have to do is dump this and take pics.”

“I can stay—”

“No.” I shake my head. “Get them and go before someone sees us and busts our asses. I’ll be there in two minutes,” I say, starting to stack the blocks underneath the last axel.

“Okay. See you in a few.” He darts off, yelling for Ben and Greene to follow him, sneakers slapping on the pavement as he gathers the rest of the guys.

I stack the final block and pick up the tire when a shadow looms over me from above.

For a moment I think it’s one of the guys, determined to help. But when they clear their throat, the hairs rise on the back of my neck and I instinctively know it’s not.

Very slowly, I get to my feet, turning at the sound, and all the blood drains from my face.

I’ve been caught red-handed.

And not by a pissed off professor, receptionist, or staff member.

It’s the Wildcats’ head coach, my coach, and the look of condemnation he gives me may as well be a death sentence.

Fuck. Me.