Side Lined (Rampage Football #2)

Chapter 1

EM

June

Okay, this might sound like a weird request, but can you tell me your weight? I’m a really skinny guy, and yeah, you’re beautiful in photos, but weight really matters to me.

I stared at the absolute asshole-ish text and contemplated literal murder.

Why was dating so hard? Why did men suck?

Why couldn’t I find someone for me? I had dozens of stories and interactions like this, men being assbags, and I had enough.

I stared at the decorated wall in my tiny apartment, letting my attention move from the color swatches to Polaroid photos from the last few years.

I loved this apartment and the way it showed who I was.

Clothes hung off the back of my chair. Mismatched lamps and sequins covered the desk.

It was small, but it was my place. My home.

So how dare this asshole ruin my mood while at home? Chewing my lip, I started my reply before I even thought about the consequences.

Okay, this might sound like a weird request, but can you tell me the size of your dick? That really matters to me.

My phone made the whoosh sound, and the second it landed, I blocked the number. This was why I didn’t date. Men were the worst. The only decent guy in my life who wasn’t an asshole was my brother Theo. Well, both my brothers, but my younger brother Daniel was still a punk.

My dad cheated on my mom after she had a stroke, and my best friend-turned-boyfriend cheated on me my freshman year of college. Yes, that was years ago. No, I wasn’t over either of them. Jace messed me up, and my parents’ dysfunction left me with some family issues.

Being the oldest daughter meant I couldn’t afford to let that stop me though.

When my mom’s stroke hit, Theo was already away at school, living out the dream of becoming the hockey star he is now.

My little siblings were still too young to process anything.

That left me—Em Sanders, professional plate-spinner, official chauffeur, and the one who sat in the waiting room while doctors talked around us instead of to us.

I didn’t resent Theo for chasing his shot.

I hated the universe for making me the one left behind to live in the mess.

To watch our dad fall apart, to carry secrets I didn’t ask for, to plaster on a smile for my siblings when all I wanted to do was scream.

I was freaking sixteen! Theo helped, but he was always at the rink or the ICU for his clinicals.

He got to escape the crying and fear and unknown, where I couldn’t.

And even now, with my mom seven years post-stroke and doing better, I still couldn’t look at my dad without feeling a fracture inside me.

He’d broken my trust, and I wasn’t sure how to put it back together.

So yeah. Dating apps, trust, men in general? Not exactly my strong suit.

But the truth was, I was lonely. Twenty-four, single, living in Chicago buzzing with people, and the highlight of my week was making my dog Sassy’s daycare lady laugh with a new bandana I’d sewn for her.

I wanted more. I wanted my business—my designs—to be more than a side hustle that occasionally went viral. I wanted the next step, the big break. Something permanent. Something mine. I didn’t want to be alone all the time either.

Sassy barked once, sharp and bossy, and trotted back with her prize. She dropped the tennis ball at my feet like she owned me, and honestly, she did. “Fine,” I muttered, tossing it again. “But you’re the only one allowed to boss me around, understood?”

I gave a quick smile, but my chest felt hollow. Sometimes I wondered if people could see it—the loneliness, the ache I worked so hard to cover with jokes and bright lipstick. And I wore the prettiest pink shade that made my lips look great.

I clipped Sassy’s leash back on, patting her damp fur as we got ready for a walk. “We’ve got a big night, Sass. Central State’s alumni event. Don’t look at me like that—you’ll have the place to yourself and a peanut butter bone. I’ll suffer in your honor.”

The truth was, alumni night was a mixed bag. Seeing old friends? Fun. Watching everyone else’s successes lined up like trophies while I stood there with my “still figuring it out” answer? Less fun.

But if I could do one thing, it was dress the part.

Clothes were my love language and my way of communicating with the world.

I loved the uniqueness of what someone wore, what they were thinking.

Clothes were how we expressed ourselves, and picking out what to wear was where I felt the most joy—designing.

I forgot about how lonely I was or how angry I was at my family, and I lost myself in the process.

By the time I showered and blasted music through my tiny apartment, I was determined to make it look like I had my life together, even if my bank account begged to differ.

I worked part-time at a department store, helping high-end shoppers pick out clothes, and the rest of the time was running my own small business.

My income wasn’t much, but it was enough to sustain living in Chicago.

At least for another year… if I didn’t find something more solid, I’d have to move back in with my parents. Something I refused to do.

I pulled on my favorite pair of vintage high-rise denim shorts, perfectly frayed at the hem.

A cropped Central State tee knotted at the waist. Chunky white sneakers that gave me an extra inch of confidence, layered gold necklaces, and oversized hoops because subtlety had never been my strong suit.

My nails were painted a glossy cherry red, and I swiped on another lay of lipstick for good measure.

I topped the look off with my faded Wolf logo hat—broken in, sun-bleached, perfect.

“Be good, Toonpie.” I kissed Sassy’s head, breathing in her scent.

My one-year-old lab was pure energy, and in case anyone wondered how Sassy’s nickname became Toonpie, the process was simple.

Sassy--Sasskatoon--Toon-Toonpie. Pet owners understood.

Nicknames were bonkers, and the faster you accepted that fact, the easier it was for everyone.

She gave me a wet kiss before I locked my door and caught the L to Navy Pier.

The second I stepped onto Navy Pier, the smell of fried food and lake water hit me. I’d forgotten how much the place buzzed on summer nights—tourists lined up for boat rides, kids dragging sticky cotton candy, alumni already clustering in Central State’s orange and navy.

I tugged my hat lower, smiled when a classmate squealed my name, and let myself be pulled into the sea of hugs and too-loud reunions.

“Em Sanders! No way.”

I turned to see Lauren Cho barreling toward me, her maroon alumni tee tied in a knot at the waist. We’d survived Bio 201 together—mostly by bribing each other with iced coffee—and I hadn’t seen her in years.

Behind her was Benji Ramirez, who’d once been my lab partner and the reigning king of sarcastic commentary.

“Lauren! Benji!” I laughed, hugging them both. “You two still hanging out?” A slice of jealousy went through me that they remained close.

Lauren grinned, hooking an arm through mine. “We both ended up here after graduation. Crazy, right? He’s at some finance firm, I’m teaching middle school science, and we still text each other during thunderstorms like remember when Dr. Phillips said cumulonimbus clouds were sexy?”

Benji deadpanned, “In his defense, they are pretty powerful clouds.”

I cackled, nearly spilling my drink. “God, I missed you guys.”

We fell into easy chatter, filling each other in on jobs, roommates, failed attempts at adulting. There were promises of brunch dates and no really, let’s actually do it this time hand squeezes. And for a second, I let myself believe them.

Chatting with them both was…nice. Nostalgic. Even if the “what have you been up to?” questions made me want to tattoo still figuring it out on my forehead.

I ducked out to refill my plastic cup of cheap chardonnay and nearly collided with a tall brunette in a sleek blazer and sneakers that probably cost more than my rent. Something prickled in the back of my mind with recognition. I knew her.

“Ivy?”

She turned, blue eyes flicking over me before recognition softened her expression. Ivy Emerson. Central State royalty. The woman every kinesiology major had worshiped, now head athletic trainer for the Rampage, if my occasional doomscroll through sports articles was right.

“Em Sanders,” she said, lips tugging into the faintest of smiles. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”

“Same,” I admitted, clutching my wine like a shield. “I think the last time I saw you was…in the rec center? Sophomore year? You were making everyone cry during conditioning.”

Her mouth curved a little. “Sounds about right.”

I braced for the polite small talk before she surprised me by pulling out her phone. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to say—your stuff always pops up on my feed. Look.”

She scrolled quickly, then angled the screen toward me. There it was: one of my posts, a cropped Rampage hoodie I’d hand-stitched into a bomber jacket, saved in her screenshots folder. Another swipe—custom jersey corsets, bright colors and clean lines, tagged EmSandersDesigns.

My stomach flipped. “You…kept those?”

“They’re amazing,” she said simply, as if me seeing my work in her phone wasn’t the coolest thing anyone had ever told me.

“A couple of the guys on staff passed them around the group chat when they went viral last month. I had to explain why a linebacker probably wasn’t going to get his hands on a lace-up crop top. ”

I barked out a laugh, heat rising to my cheeks. “Oh my God. That’s—ridiculous. And kind of amazing.”

“Don’t downplay it,” Ivy said, calm as ever. “You’ve got an eye. Players love gear that feels different, not just the standard issued stuff. Fans are obsessed and are always looking to be a part of something. Don’t be shocked if you get calls.”