Chapter 5 Hollis
Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty.
I hop to my feet and stretch my arms out to the sides. The short burst of adrenaline from the quick workout provides me with both a distraction and a blast of endorphins—two things that I crave.
My body is rested. The wounds from the season are starting to heal. I can bend without groaning, and my shoulder only needs popped back into place every other morning now.
Despite the physical benefits of the season being over, I already hate it. The fact that I’ll never have another season to look forward to is something I try not to think about.
Grabbing a water bottle off the dresser, I walk to the window and yank the curtains apart. The room floods with early afternoon sunlight, and I gaze down the street. Remnants of Christmas hang oddly in the trees and on the lampposts lining the sidewalks. They look as out of place as I feel.
“I’m out of place everywhere. So what does it matter?”
Taking a long drink of water and letting my heartbeat settle, I let my gaze slide up the street until it lands on Paddy’s. A grin tickles my lips.
Larissa.
I’ve never known a Larissa before, but the name somehow fits her.
It matches her sweet, kind smile and the vibe she put off that made me want to tease and joke around with her.
But it also coincides perfectly with the sexy curve of her hips and the sparkle in her eye that made me want to do nasty, delicious things to her.
I glance over my shoulder. Tapping the beat to the song I was listening to on the side of my leg, I eye the device that holds Larissa’s number.
It took every bit of self-restraint that I had last night not to shoot her a text.
I constructed no less than fifteen possible ice-breakers—everything from Hey, it’s Hollis (which felt like a vintage sitcom) to Just checking that you made it home all right (which screamed that, while I might be considerate, I might also be lame because no one leads with that) to Wanna fuck?
That one is self-explanatory.
They all felt legit. They all also felt wrong.
River told me to combine all three texts and hit send. Crew told me to sleep on it. And if there’s one thing I know from lots of past experiences, it’s to go with Crew’s advice. He’s never led me astray. River, though? Found myself naked and covered in strawberry-flavored lube once, thanks to him.
I stretch again and head for the shower. Before I can make it far, my phone rings.
I don’t recognize the number. My body tingles, hoping it’s Larissa on the other end—even though I have her number saved under her name, and this isn’t it.
“Hello,” I say, trying my best to sound cool.
It’s a good thing I didn’t lead with a line from last night—any of them—because the voice on the other end is not Larissa.
“Is this Hollis Hudson?” The tone is deep and gritty—decidedly not female.
“Yeah. It is. Who is this?”
“Hey, this is Lincoln Landry. How are you doing?”
Holy shit.
I run a hand over my head and try to ignore how the little boy who watched this guy play in the Majors is freaking out inside me.
Stay calm.
“I’m good,” I say, trying to seem nonchalant about being on the phone with a Hall of Famer. “How are you?”
“Not bad. Thanks for asking. I just wanted to touch base with you and thank you for accepting the Catching-A-Care award.”
I laugh. “What do you mean? Thank you.”
“Apparently, you had my team over here worried you were going to be the first nominee who refused to accept.” He laughs too.
“I …” I stammer as I try to figure out how to explain it and not seem disrespectful or unappreciative. Because I’m neither. “The stuff I do with the kids got exploited my freshman year of college. The school newspaper did a piece on it thanks to a girl I was …”
I gulp. Choose a word, Hollis—one that doesn’t make you sound like a dick.
“Involved with,” I say, finishing the sentence.
“So you were sleeping with her?” he jokes.
“Basically, even though there wasn’t much actual sleeping.”
“Ah, the best kind.” Lincoln chuckles. “I get it. Been there, done dumb shit too. Lots of it. It’s too easy to get in trouble when you’re great looking and full of talent.”
“You feel me then.”
“Hell, yeah.”
I grin. “Well, in that case, I was worried that your offer wasn’t real. That the call was a scam. Besides the campus paper, I’ve managed to keep most of my shit on the down low, so I wasn’t sure. There’s a girl who threatened to ruin my life a while back, and … you can’t trust anyone, you know?”
“You’re damn right I do. I trust my family. That’s it. Well, maybe my brother’s bodyguard. It would be shitty of me not to trust him when he’s taken a hit for me a time or two. Or ten.”
“I get it. I have two guys on my team who I trust implicitly. That’s about as far as I go.”
“Sounds like you have one key of life figured out already.”
“You mean I have to figure out more?” I joke. “I was hoping that was it.”
He laughs. “You’re still young. When I was your age …” He whistles through his teeth. “We’ll just leave that there. There’s not enough time, and if my wife walks in here, I’d be a dead man.”
“Second lesson—no wife.”
His laugh grows louder. “Nah, man. You have that one wrong. Get you one. Just make damn sure it’s the right one. The wrong one will screw you up faster than that hit you took during that interception on the last play of the year.”
I grimace. I’d hoped he’d missed that.
“Are you headed to the pros?” he asks. “I don’t see any notes in your file.”
I sink back onto the bed.
His question cuts through all the distractions I’ve managed to busy myself with over the past couple of weeks. It’s a topic I need to address, and I know that, but I just don’t want to. I don’t know how.
There are reasons to go into the pros—lots of them. But there are a few that make me think I shouldn’t, too, and I don’t know how to separate it all out.
“I have an invitation to the Combine,” I tell him. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet. I’m not sure I even have a shot now that I basically sucked this year.”
“It’s a big decision to go pro. It totally changes the trajectory of your life and puts everything in someone else’s hands—where you live, what you can afford, how much money you make, how long you’re in debt to an organization.
On the other hand, it’s full of opportunities.
It’s what a lot of people dream about. You can make a ton of money.
Seeing your name on people’s backs and having them buy tickets to see you play is something …
it’s incredible. There’s nothing like it.
But it’s not as easy of a decision as most people think it is. ”
“That’s kind of how I feel about it. Especially coming off this shit season …”
He sighs. “Confidence shaken a little?”
“I guess. I mean, I know I could go out there and perform, but it’s … Do I want to do that? It’s a lot.”
“It is a lot. What do you think happened to you this year?”
“My head, I guess. Wasn’t focused.”
I was worrying about this shit already. Crew’s grandfather died, and River’s mom was sick. Everything else going on felt heavier than football.
I bite my lip as the weight of my life settles over my chest.
So many things to decide, so many choices to make, and not a fucking person in the world to talk to about it. Holidays always suck when you don’t have a family. But it’s times like this when you need a sounding board—or just somebody that actually gives a damn—that makes it the worst.
Sure, I can talk to River or even Crew, but they’re dealing with their own stuff. Coach Herbert would talk to me, too, but it makes me feel even worse to have to get advice from a coach about personal life shit. That’s not his job. He took me under his wing to coach, not to raise.
I’ll be fine, and I know that. I’m always fine. I refuse to be anything other than that.
I just wasn’t prepared to be so off-balance at the start of the season.
“You’ll be alright,” Lincoln says. “I know it doesn’t feel like it all the time, but you will. Just follow your gut. That’s the best advice I can give you. That’s your second key to life right there.”
My grin is shaky. “Thanks.”
“Figure out why you love to play ball to start with and work from there.”
“Football has always been a distraction for me. Therapy, I guess. I’m not sure it would function the same way at the professional level, you know?”
“Yeah, you’re right, and you’re smart for considering that.” Papers shuffle in the background. “You seem to make good choices. Your coach said in the nomination letter that you’re a leader on and off the field.”
My brain stops at the words your coach.
Coach nominated me?
He told me he didn’t know how the organization got my name.
Why did he do that?
“I know this is a very personal thing for you, so I appreciate you coming down here and accepting a few minutes of publicity. Other guys need to see the good that some of you do. There’s a lot to be said for leading as an example,” he says.
Flashbacks of drunk singing Adele’s “Hello” at parties, eating my weight in brownies that I didn’t realize had pot in them, and sleeping my way through half of Braxton’s female body come barreling at me.
“You know, I’m not the best leader—on the field or otherwise,” I admit. “I’ve had my share of … unfortunate circumstances.”
Immediately, I remember calling Crew to come and pick River and me up at the police station after we took a dare to trick-or-treat a sorority house naked one Halloween.
It would’ve been fine if we’d made it there.
Getting pulled over while only wearing banana hammocks—also on a dare—isn’t a good time.
“Haven’t we all?” Lincoln says with an amused tone.
I laugh.
“When are you coming into town?” he asks.
“I’m here. I’m early, I know, but I figured why not come down and relax a little before my last semester starts? And your people hooked me up with this hotel, by the way. Thank you for that.”