2. Grady
GRADY
I can’t tell.
I can never tell a fucking soul that I walked in on Blake Wilson bare-ass naked.
Oh shit, her bare ass.
I only saw the side of it, but that curve…
I can picture my hand molding over it, cupping those perfect white cheeks and giving them a squeeze.
Her skin’s so pale. It’s porcelain, delicately painted with a dusting of freckles.
Damn, the shape of her is fucking beautiful.
Delicate lines that douse me with guilt every time I think of them.
I wish I could block her out of my head.
I’ve been doing everything I can to forget about what I saw, avoiding her at every turn. But it’s like she’s making a game out of it.
Every time she sees me, she gets this playful twinkle in her eye, like I’m her target and she’s gonna enjoy bringing me down .
But I can never let that happen.
She’s Wily sister. He’s my teammate, one of my best friends, and I respect the guy too much to let myself go and do what I want with that hot sister of his.
Fuck.
Even now as I’m on the field, doing light fitness drills to keep us active in the offseason, she’s haunting me.
It’s like my brain took multiple photographs of her smoking hot body and has been torturing me with them ever since.
Every morning, I wake up with a granite woody, and I’m not proud to admit it, but I gave in to temptation this morning and pictured exactly what I wanted to do with that woman as I stroked myself, then pumped until I had nothing left in me.
But the image of holding her up against the bathroom wall and burying myself inside her while she cried out in my ear was too fucking much.
I couldn’t resist it.
And I’ve been racked with guilt ever since.
Are you fucking kidding? You’ve been racked with guilt for days! And that’s not the only time you’ve pictured her while you polished the banister, my friend.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a beat before sprinting back down the field.
It doesn’t seem to matter how fast I run. I can’t shake her.
And it’s making me feel like shit.
I’m still processing my breakup with Teah. She tore my heart out, and now I’m lusting after my best friend’s little sister? What the fuck is wrong with me !
“Flash, let’s go, man. Pick up the pace!” Carson barks at me. “Don’t let those fuck nuggets beat us!”
I glance to my right and put on an extra burst of speed, reaching Carson just before Lincoln reaches Peters.
Fuck, this race makes me feel like I’m five years old, but during the offseason, the coaches like to mix it up and give us drills that are lighter and more fun.
It definitely brings out our competitive sides, and I force myself to join in, clapping and encouraging Carson as he sprints back toward us, slapping Zander’s hand when he crosses the line.
We watch our quarterback compete against Fleischer, Carson yelling extra loudly.
“Don’t you fucking let him beat you, Zan Man!”
I snicker and shake my head, watching my captain dominate.
He deserves to play pro ball. He belongs on that field, and I’m so fucking proud of him.
He had the best time at the Scouting Combine, and things are looking good for him.
He’s not sure who he’ll get drafted to, but he’ll definitely be picked up by someone.
Just the way Wily should have been.
Shit, it’s such a tragedy what happened to him.
Can’t believe it.
The guy’s still set on making it, but it’s gonna be a long, hard road to recover from the injury and get himself back into playing condition. Coach Jones says it’s never too late, but I can’t tell if he’s just using words like that to comfort Wily or whether he actually means it.
Our head coach seems pretty determined to help Wily get there.
And I believe it .
If anyone’s gonna go the extra mile for his players, it’s Coach Jones.
Wily’s in good hands. He’s counting on Wily getting drafted with an injury.
He’s pretty sure it will happen. Sometimes teams take injured players with big potential, so it’s not out of the question.
That’s what Coach keeps saying, anyway. Wily won’t be a top pick anymore, but he’ll still be in the running.
“We just gotta have faith.” Coach’s mantra rings in my head.
We’ll all do everything we can to support the guy.
Shit, I hope it comes together.
I know from experience that life doesn’t always turn out the way you want, even if you map it out in painstaking detail. I don’t mean to do it. My brain’s just wired that way. I like to plot, plan, picture my future.
After my parents’ divorce, I became obsessed with scheduling my life. I thought if I had a plan, set my goals and fought hard to achieve them, then I could control everything.
And it worked.
It fucking worked great.
I got into the school I wanted with a full scholarship. I’ve been playing running back for the team I wanted. I scored myself a gorgeous girlfriend who was everything I wanted.
My life was set.
Until she dumped me. I didn’t even see it coming, although I probably should have. We’d been bickering a little more than usual before she slapped me with the breakup talk. I thought we’d just hit a rough patch but would work our way through it.
But nope .
She was done.
And I was shattered.
My plans were unraveling around me, and that thread got pulled a little harder last week when I saw her making out with Finn Macalister. Everybody calls the badass basketball player Mac for short, but I don’t give a flying fuck what his name is.
His hands were all over my girl.
His tongue was in her mouth.
And I wanted to tear his fingers off… smash his face into the concrete.
How dare he touch her!
How dare he? my brain scoffs, mocking me for my stupidity.
He dared because she wasn’t mine anymore. She hadn’t been mine for two months, and I was still pining like a fucking sap while she was moving on.
So, no, you can’t control life with long-term plans and goals.
Life is still gonna kick you in the balls and point at you, laughing its head off while you writhe on the ground in pain.
And it’s fucking doing it again.
Mocking me with thoughts of a blonde hottie who likes to shave her legs butt naked in my bathroom.
Fuck!