12. Mack
CHAPTER 12
MACK
T onight didn’t go as planned, that’s for damn sure. For once, I wasn’t going to bail.
For once, I wanted to stay. To lay down with Gracelyn, wake up tomorrow morning holding her beautiful, curvy body in my arms. To kiss her soft, warm lips as the sun beamed into her bedroom, worship her like she deserves.
I wanted to be with her.
But clearly that’s not what she wants. She practically kicked me out before I pulled on my pants, before I could even protest.
And I’m sure as hell not going to beg.
Ego bruised, I’m letting myself into the dark house when my phone lights up.
Firecracker: It’s been fun, but I can’t keep doing this with you
Ouch.
Been fun.
Past tense.
I read and re-read her text, a dull ache in my gut. She let me down easy, I guess.
She’s one hundred percent right. It’s been fun, but we have no business being in a real relationship together. A go-on-dates, meet-the-parents kinda thing. We wouldn’t work.
Gracelyn’s too young, and I’m not the right guy for her. It’d be messy and complicated. We’re all wrong for each other.
We had a fun fling, but we absolutely need to leave it at that.
Much as I hate seeing the harsh words there on the screen.
And hate the feeling I have right now even more, loneliness creeping in and filling the empty house with deafening silence.
I want to hear her laugh, see her bright smile light up the room, feel her soft breath on my skin as she lays peacefully beside me.
It’ll never work, though. Both of us know it. She was just the first to admit it.
I delete the text I typed out on my phone before I pulled out of her lot: Want to go out Saturday night? , the letters disappearing one by one.
Tossing my phone onto the counter, I head to bed, working hard to ignore the bitter disappointment weighing heavy on my chest. After all, Gracelyn and I had a casual hookup, nothing to carry on about.
But laying alone in my bed in the dark, all I can think about is her.
Her big, blue eyes, pupils blown wide as she gazes up at me through a fringe of dark lashes. Golden curls spilling over her shoulders, the creamy skin of her chest turning pink as she bounces up and down on my cock. The sweet sound of her voice as she cries out my name, panting. Her thighs squeezing me tight, nails clawing at my skin as she unravels.
God, she’s beautiful.
It’s going to be tough seeing her car next door, knowing she’s right there and I can’t talk to her, see her, touch her. I mean, technically I could do all those things, but I shouldn’t.
Not after she sent me the old It’s been fun text.
No matter how good her body felt in my hands, how right everything between us is when we’re alone together. Just the two of us, without any preconceived notions or small-town bullshit.
Leave her alone, Mack.
Not bothering to turn on the light, I rip my clothes off and flop into bed. I’m more than happy to leave the last hour of today behind me.
The brush off always sucks, but this one hurts a little bit more than usual.
* * *
As the days roll by, I expect to forget about Gracelyn. Put what happened between us in the rearview and move on with my life.
Turns out, that’s easier said than done.
I spend more time thinking about her than I’d like. Doesn’t help that I live next door to her place of employment. I catch myself glancing out the window more than is strictly necessary, hoping for a quick glimpse of the sassy, curvy blonde.
Guess I’m a masochist or something.
But surprisingly, I hardly ever see her. She must sneak in while I’m working and by the time I’m home from football practice in the evenings, her car’s already gone.
Probably for the best.
Much as I’d love to pursue her, she made it pretty damn clear she’s not interested in anything more from me. I need to let the spark between us fizzle like a Fourth of July firecracker dunked in a bucket of cold water. Keep us both safe from combustion.
So I go about my normal life, waiting for the memory of Gracelyn—the way she lit me up inside—to fade.
After a long and grueling practice, I pull into the lot of the grocery to grab something for dinner. Thunder rumbles off in the distance. Thank goodness the weather held out and we made it through drills this afternoon. We have a big game on Friday night and the team needs every repetition we can get.
Head down, I hurry into the brightly lit store on a mission. Soft rock plays over the speakers as I make my way over to the deli in search of a rotisserie chicken. I’m in luck—there’s one left, sitting all by it’s lonesome in the metal warming tray.
Homed in on the target, my hand darts out to grab the food. Stomach growling and mouth watering, the delicious scent of salty, spicy chicken floats through the air. I’m downright starving and cannot wait to dig into that bird. Hell, I may even feast in the parking lot.
“Hey!” A familiar, tinkly voice stops me in my tracks, my fingers brushing against hers as we both grip the greasy paper bag.
Gracelyn.
And she’s every bit as beautiful as she is in my dreams, wearing tight jeans and a satin blouse, her hair pulled up in a messy bun. Bright, blue eyes shining beneath the fluorescent lights of the grocery, she stares straight at me, hand on her hip.
“I was gonna buy that.” She points at the chicken we’re both clutching, her pretty bow lips scrunched up.
I shift my weight, not loosening my grip on the bag. “Me too. How about a sub instead?” I tip my head in the direction of the meat counter and she frowns.
“Not really feeling it tonight.”
“Huh. Could be a problem. Maybe they have more chicken in the back.”
Gracelyn waves at the woman behind the counter and she sidles up behind the display.
“Yes, honey?” The woman squints at the two of us from behind her oversized glasses. “What can I do for ya?”
“Do you have any more rotisserie chicken?” Gracelyn asks in the sweetest voice possible, not a trace of aggravation in her tone.
“Sorry, sugar. It’s late. What’s out is all we’ve got.”
Gracelyn blinks once, twice, exhaling a tiny sigh. “Well, shoot. Thanks, anyway.”
She glances over her shoulder at me, not loosening her grip on the bag. “Looks like this is the last chicken.”
“Appears so.” My lips quirk in amusement as Gracelyn’s foot taps double-time on the linoleum.
“How about we play Rock/Paper/Scissors for it?” She tips her chin up at me.
I quirk a brow, somehow managing to hold in a chuckle. “You want to play a game for the chicken?”
“Yeah. Unless you’re willing to cede to me right now.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Okay, then. Let’s go.” Mouth set in a tight line, she has on her game face now and it’s fucking adorable.
“I didn’t say I’d play.” I lick my lip, stringing her along.
“Oh, c’mon. It’s only fair.”
I exaggerate a sigh, shrugging. “Fine. I’ll play the damn game.”
“Best out of three.”
“Okay.” I nod at the bag. “But you’re going to have to let go of the bird.”
She narrows her eyes, debating the wisdom of that move. Like I’m going to steal the chicken when she lets go or something.
“You are too.”
“Obviously.” I loosen my grip and she follows suit, both of us backing away from the warming display.
“Alright, on the count of three—” Gracelyn squeezes her fist, ready for battle. “One, two, three!”
We both shoot our hands out, Gracelyn’s palm flat and mine squished into a tight ball.
“Yes!” She pumps her fist in the air, victorious. “Paper beats rock. Let’s go!”
“Lucky try. It’s best out of three. Your rules, remember?”
“Yeah, dammit,” she mutters, taking position. “Let’s go again. And if I win, that tasty chicken is all mine.” She rubs her hands together, eyes gleaming. “One, two, three!”
This time I make a fist and she throws out two fingers.
“Crap!” She stomps her foot and the corner of my lip tips up.
“Bummer. Rock beats scissors.” I point out the obvious. “Guess we’re going with a tiebreaker.”
Gracelyn rolls her shoulders, stretching her neck side to side.
“You ready there, Rocky?” I tease, smirking at her pre-game routine. She’s cute, all animated over this rotisserie chicken.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t rush me.” Squatting down a little, her brow creases in concentration. “One, two, three!”
She throws out two fingers again and I make a last second decision, laying my palm out flat.
“Yes!” She jumps up and down, beaming. “I win!”
Judging by the celebration, you would have thought she just brought home the gold at the damn Olympics.
“Looks like you did, Firecracker.”
“Fair and square.” She beams up at me with rosy cheeks and my gut clenches—and it’s not from hunger. She’s so damn beautiful. The fact that I can’t have her, can’t be with her, physically hurts.
Gracelyn grabs the lone bag from the display with one hand, inching closer to me. The scent of rosemary mixes with her sweet perfume as she moves into my space, one hand reaching up and patting my chest.
“Better luck next time, Mack.” She winks at me, then spins on her heels, bag of chicken in hand.
I stare at her gorgeous ass, swaying back and forth as she trots up to the front register. The soft rock’s drowned out by the thudding of my heart directly below the spot where Gracelyn’s hand rested a few seconds ago, the skin still burning.
Hope she enjoys that chicken at least half as much as I enjoyed watching her win the stupid game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Letting her beat me was one-hundred percent worth it, even if I have to eat a frozen pizza tonight instead.
* * *
Football season Fridays are my favorite. There’s nothing quite like the vibrant energy of the crowd sitting on the metal bleachers at Thunder Creek High on a crisp autumn evening, cheering on their home team. Most folks in the stands are alumni, making each victory that much more special.
And we win—a lot. Coach Carter’s the winningest coach in the entire state of Georgia. I like to think Baker and I have a little something to do with it, too. But most of the credit should go to him. The man’s a legend. A football star here himself, and now he’s coached the school to the state championships each of the last five years.
I expect this year to be no exception, given how strong our team is. But that’s the thing about football—you never really know what’s going to happen.
“Listen up, boys.” Coach Carter claps his hands once and the entire locker room falls silent, waiting to hear what he’s about to say. “I know y’all have heard the rumors about the Sandalwood team and the wide receiver already getting recruited. Yes, he’s good. But we’re better. We train harder, longer, and more often than any other high school team. I have absolute faith in each and every one of you. Now, huddle up—Mustangs on three.”
Everyone puts their hand into the tight circle and counts down: “One, two, three, go Mustangs!”
The deep roar of the chant echoes off the metal lockers and it’s go time. Helmets fastened, mouthguards in, the athletes run out of the locker room and the coaches follow quietly behind.
We’re each lost in our own thoughts, thinking about plays and the lineup. None of us speak as we make our way out onto the field, bright white lights blaring down on the grass, the band playing the school fight song. I block out all the background noise of the crowd and thumb through the playbook as I take my usual position on the sideline. Baker’s next to me on one side and Coach Carter’s on the other, huddling with the offense.
“Sandalwood won the coin toss, so we kick off. Mack, what you got?” Coach Carter elbows me and I call out my starting line. The players take the field and the game’s on.
Within five minutes, Sandalwood scores. The quarterback finds the infamous wide receiver and it’s all over, my guys totally blowing it. They somehow manage to forget every defensive play we practiced all week, and the ball’s in the end zone before the stands fill up.
“Shit!” I mutter under my breath, crushing the pages of the playbook as the kicker launches the ball through the uprights to score an extra point. I wave my arm through the air and my guys jog off the field, shaking their heads in disbelief.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath of cool air, I work on keeping my temper at bay. Not an easy feat, hot anger burning my chest.
“Boys, have a seat.” I motion at the wooden bench and they slump down one by one, helmets dropping to the ground.
I smash the playbook into my back pocket and press my lips together in a tight line, trying to figure out the nicest way to say this.
“Respectfully, what in the heck was that?” I catch each player’s eye, shaking my head in disbelief. “I’m going to forget about what I just saw and we’re going to hit refresh, ‘kay?”
They all bob their heads, gazes downcast. I spin and face the field, arms crossed over my chest as I watch our offense march the ball down the field. But we fail to score and the defense is back out on the field, the score still seven to zero.
Shouting the play, my guys take their positions. Griffin’s lined up with the wide receiver and he’s squatting low, like we talked about. But damn if the kid doesn’t cut the opposite direction and outrun Griffin, spinning to catch the quarterback’s perfect spiral.
“Dammit!” I growl, shaking my head as the demon sprints into the end zone again. The scoreboard flips to thirteen-zero and beads of sweat form under my ball cap. We’re too early in the season to suffer a loss like this. These kids need to get it together right the fuck now.
Unfortunately, they go for the two-point conversion and we fail to stop them—again. Now we’re down fifteen-nothing.
The second quarter doesn’t go much better. We look like a pee wee team compared to this Sandalwood lineup, and the once-rowdy crowd’s stunned into silence as they roll up the score. By halftime, we’re down twenty-two to eight.
“Locker room, now.” Coach Carter points down the field and the boys file off the turf, helmets hung low. Carter doesn’t say anything to the other coaches, either, and by the time we hit the fluorescent lights I have a pounding headache and a pit in my stomach.
The room’s quiet, no one daring to speak. That phrase about being able to hear a pin drop? You definitely could in this space.
“Y’all are playing like toddlers out there tonight. Langley, I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but whatever it is, figure it out. And defense—you’re getting beat on every play. You can’t get beat off the line! You hear me!” He raises his voice, face flushing. Very atypical of him. He’s usually calm, cool, and collected.
Not right now.
“Defense—get with Coach Mack and figure out what the hell you’re doing. Special teams—talk to Coach Baker because we need to do something different if we’re going to win this game. Offense, huddle up.”
We all take our respective boys and regroup. I try my best to give them a pep talk, buoy their spirits after Coach Carter tore them down. Feels weird because I’m hardly ever the good cop in the locker room.
“We’re going to try a different formation, guys. Cover 2 zone defense. Deep safeties and double coverage on that kid. Let’s get out there and stop ‘em!” I pump my fist and determination flashes across their young faces.
With halftime over, we jog back onto the field. The Sandalwood cheerleaders are hyping up the crowd and our squad’s doing their best, although our stand is unusually quiet.
Langley manages to launch the ball down field and we score a big touchdown. Baker high-fives me and Carter’s shoulders relax a touch, now hovering only halfway to his ears. We go for the two-point conversion and we’re back in the game.
“Alright, boys—remember the new coverage. Go get ‘em!” I slap the defenders on the back as they hustle out to the line.
The ball’s hiked and the quarterback searches for the wide receiver, but for the first time all night, he can’t get open. He’s jammed up by my guys and the QB has to find another target. He hands off to a running back, who’s immediately tackled.
Sandalwood can’t get anything going and the ball’s back to us. The offense doesn’t execute like the defense, though, and we don’t manage to score. The whistle blows and it’s already the fourth quarter.
I huddle quickly with my guys. “Fourth quarter and it’s a close game. Stop them here and don’t get beat. Understand? We are not giving up any more plays.”
They all nod, blue-and-white helmets bobbing up and down in unison.
“Get ‘em, boys. Scootch and slant. Got it?”
“Got it, Coach!”
Defense takes the field and I hold my breath, willing them to stop the ball. The first play goes nowhere, the cornerbacks doing their job and holding the wide receiver at bay. But the second play connects and they get a first down.
I lift my ball cap, run my fingers through my hair. The pressure’s on as I work through the team’s options.
“Press!” I shout as the team lines up again, tension sitting in between my shoulder blades.
The quarterback has the ball and miraculously, the defense presses. The receiver scrambles, but the timing’s messed up and I clap my hands as Sandalwood doesn’t make forward progress.
“Two more like that!” I yell and we go again. Same execution, same result.
“One more, boys!”
The hike and the quarterback’s scanning, trying to find an open receiver. He’s got nothing and throws the ball away.
With four minutes left, it’s a six-point game. But at least we have the ball.
Coach Carter and Coach Baker huddle together. I pace the sideline and try to think positive. I know we can do this, Carter’s pulled off tougher feats than this before. But our team’s young, and this is Langley’s first season as starting quarterback. The kid’s still green, even if he is talented.
Sandalwood blocks the first two passes and Langley’s shaking his head, his fingers flexing around the ball. Coach Carter calls a timeout and waves Langley over, giving him a quick pep talk. The cheerleaders pump up the crowd during the brief delay and I scan the stands. Tons of people I know fill the seats, but only one stunning blonde catches my attention.
Gracelyn.
Wearing a Thunder Creek High T-shirt stretched tight across her ample breasts and a pair of ripped denim shorts that barely cover her upper thigh, she’s gorgeous. And surrounded by a big group of guys I don’t recognize. Of course I don’t, seeing as how she’s a decade younger than me. I force my gaze back to the field, gut churning.
I have no right to be upset she’s hanging out with other guys. She called it off.
Still, jealousy rips through me, white flashes of light dancing in my peripheral vision, neck burning.
Focus, Mack. This is definitely not the time.
The whistle blows and Langley walks back out on the field, his mouthguard moving up and down as he gnaws it nervously. He catches the snap and lobs the ball twenty yards down the field to an open receiver. The kid runs for ten more yards and we have another first down.
Two minutes left to score and win the game. I hear the tick of the clock in my head, the red numbers counting the seconds down one by one. Langley throws another good pass and we move down the field, but we’re still twenty yards away from the end zone with one minute and thirty seconds left to play.
We have to score here or the game’s over.
Langley winds up and tosses the ball to the far right. The wide receiver catches it and the crowd goes wild, the band starting the school’s fight song and everyone cheering.
The kicker takes the field and I hold my breath as he makes contact with the ball.
“And it’s good! Thunder Creek beats Sandalwood!”
The cheerleaders chant, the band plays, the dance team runs onto the field, and our players high-five as the other team hangs their heads in defeat.
I spin my head around and stare up at the stands. Part of me hopes Gracelyn waves or smiles at me, acknowledges my presence somehow. But she’s chatting with the guys next to her, oblivious to my presence.
Chest tight, I turn my attention back to the happy whoops of the team and try to block out the hollow feeling in my gut.
I’ve never been less excited about a win in my life.