Remember My Name (Less Is More #1)

Prologue

LUC

What am I doing here?

Bright flames flare from the towering bonfire when a couple of guys toss a heavy log onto the pile.

Their carelessness shakes a burst of embers skyward, causing me and the others sitting peacefully to jolt back and cover ourselves.

Over the arm I raise to shield my face, I watch sparks fly into the night sky.

Shooting a scowl towards the careless assholes and their piss-poor attempt at an apology, I adjust my seat away from the circle, further withdrawing into the shadows.

I sit back, staring at the label of the beer I’ve been nursing for so long it’s turned warm and flat.

The smell of burning wood clings heavy in the air, threaded with cigarette smoke, citronella, and salt.

The crash of the tide rolling in lulls me into a more relaxed state.

I guess the party isn’t that bad. Aside from almost having my eyebrows burned off, the bonfire is nice. There aren’t too many people, no one seems obnoxiously drunk, and it isn’t loud. It’s fine. Chill, like Shawna promised.

My best friend is somewhere in the crowd, laughing loud enough for me to hear her over the music and the waves.

She begged me to join her at the beach house she rented for spring break, and I agreed to stay for one night.

After all, this is my last hurrah, as she called it.

The last weekend before my life changes completely.

Before the draft. Before I become someone people watch on Sundays instead of regular, plain Luc Martín from Cane Ridge, Louisiana.

It’s not really something I’m excited about.

I’m not a fan of drawing attention to myself, and the idea of playing in the NFL comes with way too much of it.

I’m not a first-round pick or anything, so there won’t be too much fanfare outside of my small town.

It’ll be a very big deal there, and I’m sure that will present enough opportunities to embarrass myself publicly.

Especially if I get drafted to a home-state team.

The Shreveport Cyclones are my number one choice, mostly because it’s close enough to home that I can still check in on my family and help them when needed.

No matter where I end up, I’ll be grateful.

Football is the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the one thing that makes sense.

My coaches have been telling me since high school that I’m good enough to play professionally, but I wasn’t sure the fame, fans, and celebrity were for me.

Still, it’s an opportunity I can’t turn down.

All I have to do is make it through my first four-year contract, and I’ll make more than enough to help my family. That’s what matters. Not headlines, not jersey sales. Not millions of dollars in endorsement deals and all the excess that gets thrown at professional players.

I just want to make sure my folks don’t lose their house.

It’s nothing fancy–a modest house built on a low hill, surrounded by acres of sugarcane fields.

It’s beautiful, but old. The foundation is failing badly because of the red clay beneath the house shifting and settling over decades of wet and dry seasons.

The work that has to be done to fix it is far too expensive.

Right now, the only chance they have of paying for the work to fix the foundation is to sell the property that’s been in my family for three generations.

My dad is going to hate everything about this plan.

He didn’t want me to even entertain the draft until I finished my degree, but my chance is now.

An opportunity like this might never come again.

And I know my stubborn dad won’t accept my help easily, but as proud as he is, even he can’t turn down an opportunity to save our home.

So, yeah. My life is about to change in incredible and terrifying ways. A little downtime from studying, working out, and practicing won’t kill me. If only I could train my brain to stop thinking about everything it thinks I should be doing instead of sitting on my ass staring into the flames.

And then I notice him.

I’m not sure where he came from. Maybe he was on the other side of the bonfire before we almost got blasted and everyone shifted their positions.

It doesn’t seem possible that I wouldn’t have noticed him in the small crowd congregating around the fire.

He’s only a few feet from me now, sitting in the sand with his back resting against a log with a guitar in his lap.

He’s strumming it idly, not talking to anyone, not even the girls inching closer to him, hoping to catch his attention.

My lips quirk with amusement at the way he’s steadily ignoring them, or maybe he really doesn’t notice them.

It's not surprising he’s got their attention, though.

He’s good-looking, but it’s more than that.

There’s something about him–an energy or aura, something different that makes him stand out.

From the way he’s ignoring everyone, he seems a little withdrawn, almost in a broody bad boy way.

His frame is long and lean, although it’s hard to gauge his build through his loose jeans and t-shirt.

I’d venture to say he’s probably over six feet, maybe a couple of inches shorter than me.

His dark, shaggy hair flops over his eyes when he bends forward, and when he rakes it back, his fingernails are painted black and he has rings, or maybe those are tattoos, on his fingers.

Long, almost delicate fingers that bring a lit joint up to his soft, pink lips.

He catches me looking before I even realize that I’ve been staring at him. He doesn’t react or say anything to me, but without glancing up, he holds out the joint in my direction.

I’m so surprised by the gesture that it takes me too long to register that he's offering it to me. I shake my head. “Oh, um… no. Thanks, though,” I tack on quickly, not wanting him to think I’m rude or judgmental about it.

That’s when he looks at me. And smiles.

His direct attention hits like a sucker punch.

His smile is small, barely a lopsided quirk of his lips, but there’s amusement sparkling behind the most vivid green eyes I’ve ever seen.

A ring on the left side of his lower lip catches the firelight and draws my attention.

That’s… something. Like he’s noticed me looking, his smile widens.

I feel it stick in my chest, warm and disarming, and suddenly I can’t look away.

He bites his lip, and I clear my throat, which seems to make him chuckle. Heat rushes up my neck, and I drop my gaze fast, embarrassed to be caught gawking. I turn toward the waves instead, watching them slide in and out over the surf, silver under the moonlight. It’s almost hypnotizing.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” His voice drifts across the fire, shocking me back to awareness. “I love how small the ocean makes me feel. It puts everything into perspective. Life feels so big and important, but existence is nothing compared to the depth and endlessness of the ocean horizon.”

The words alone would’ve been enough to pull me back to him, but it’s the sound of his voice that does it.

There’s a gravelly rasp beneath the softness, a worn edge like his throat has been lived in, scraped raw and broken in just right.

It makes every syllable drag through you, like it’s meant to stay under your skin.

When his gaze flicks back to me, I almost gasp at the brilliant green of his eyes on me again, blazing with the reflection of the firelight.

That voice and those eyes together feel like too much.

A ripple shoots through me, a shiver rolling down my spine so sharp it makes me tense.

It’s sweltering out here with the bonfire heat baking into my skin, the sweat of an unseasonably warm spring dampening the back of my neck, yet goosebumps rise across my arms like I’ve just gotten out of an ice bath.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I don’t get rattled like this. Not by people, ever. It’s not even that he’s a guy. I’ve never reacted to anyone like this.

He shifts the guitar in his lap and starts plucking at the strings, soft and careful, his focus drifting out towards the tide again.

The sound weaves through the waves crashing on the shore and the crackle of the fire.

It’s a slow tune, simple at first, then carrying words, his voice finding the melody.

That rasp of his wraps around the lyrics and turns molten in my veins.

It takes a moment to register the words that fall from his lips, a familiar song bent into something entirely new.

The edges of I Hope You Dance fray in all the right places, catching against his throat, turning every line into something that feels private.

It’s not polished or clean. It’s raw in a way that makes my chest ache, like he’s dragging the song out of a place I didn’t even know existed.

The sound locks me in place. Every instinct I have, every habit I’ve built over the years about staying steady and unreadable, falls apart under the pull of his voice.

It isn’t even the song itself, though I know the words well enough.

It’s him. The rasp, the ache, the way he sounds like he’s pouring pieces of himself into every line.

I’m not used to being moved. Not like this.

My life has always been about control. Of my body, my game face, of whatever storm is waiting for me at home. With just a few chords, a few fractured notes, this stranger is undoing me like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Heat licks at my skin from the fire, the sticky press of summer clinging to me. My beer sweats in my hand and my shirt sticks to my back. Still, I can’t stop the goosebumps prickling over my arms, can’t stop the way my breath keeps hitching like it’s caught on something I can’t quite swallow.