Chapter 03
I found someone!
Mark it in your calendar
That’s a gameday for you but we can do it afterward
What?
I found someone! For the threesome?! Someone cute and curious and it’ll be awesome. You’ll be SO HOT together. WE will be so hot together!
WHAT?!
Guy or girl?
Both
Okay, no, guy. But I’m working on a girl.
I’ll get there!
Who is it?
I squint past the spiderweb-like cracks across my screen as I read Mia’s flood of messages.
My clumsy ass dropped it yesterday in the parking lot when showing Seb a video from the party.
But it still works, so I pray it will hold until my scholarship kicks back in.
I’m on a full ride, but the semester breaks aren’t covered, and Coach has strong opinions about what jobs I can take during the off-season.
Usually, I’d be home with Dad right now, but with my senior year and the draft looming in front of me, I need to put a good number of extra hours into training, even if it’s voluntary during the summer.
“Mahoney! You back in?!” Evander Young, our center, yells over from the field.
We’re currently running a 7-on-7, with me standing in for one of the wide receivers.
It was supposed to be an easy match, but with the sun hammering down on us, sweat’s already running down my forehead, burning in my eyes.
“Just a sec!” I call back when Mia’s next message pops up on my screen.
Don’t you trust me?
I groan, shaking my head. I didn’t think Mia would come back to this—I’ve known her since freshman year, and she’s hashed out a lot of wild ideas influenced by cheap tequila and neon lights that never made it past dawn.
That’s why I didn’t even bother bringing it up to Seb during these past few days.
Unfortunately, this time, she’s serious.
Mia. I’m not getting into bed with some random European guy you picked up on your hot girl summer.
Or someone who knows me!
I’m not planning on killing my career before it started
I’m offended right now.
Do you think I’d really do that?!
Sorry but this is a bad idea. just enjoy your vacation, sweetheart
NO! wait. I’ll tell you. He said he’s fine with it as long as it’ll stay between the three of us.
Yeah no shit, I’d’ve found out anyway, but it doesn’t matter
It’s Mike.
I raise a brow at my screen.
Mike.
I probably know a hundred Mikes and none at all at the same damn time. It’s such a common name, but I can’t come up with anyone in particular. On my screen, the little dots start dancing again.
Big M from BU? Whitaker?
My jaw drops at that. Big M is BU’s center, a massive guy with a dopey smile and soft brown hair that makes him look more like a teddy bear than a football player, if you haven’t seen what he can do to a D-line.
Like Seb, he’s royalty: his dad won back-to-back Super Bowls in the nineties and came very close on many more.
The name Whitaker is the most feared coaching name in the league right now.
You’re shitting me, I type back just as Mia deletes her earlier message. So much for trust, I guess—although a screenshot like this hitting the internet could tank Mike’s career before it even started.
Not shitting you. we went on a couple of dates during spring break
His dad is a client of my dad
Anyway, he mentioned he’d like to try it
And he’d be super discreet
He also said you’re pretty
“MAHONEY! Move your ass back onto the field!” Evander yells again from somewhere to my right.
My eyes are still glued to the screen, flying over the messages, until a shadow crashes through my peripheral field of vision.
I drop the phone. My hands snap up and catch the ball an inch from my face.
The guys hoot and holler as I push off the grass and toss the ball back to Seb.
He grins at me, catching it easily. Just before my screen turns dark, I catch one final message from Mia.
And he could introduce you to his dad. Think about it.
I play like absolute garbage for the rest of the game.
Last season, a popular sports blog crowned me ‘The Most Underrated Tight End in College Football,’ but today I play like the most overrated.
I fumble passes and drop so many catches that my teammates start groaning.
Not the look I was aiming for after celebrating my captaincy a few days ago.
At least there are no coaches around to witness this shit show.
I finally jog off the field, claiming dizziness.
It’s not a complete lie—my head’s been spinning ever since Mia’s last text.
I drop onto the grass and immediately reach for my phone again.
It takes me three tries to unlock it—sweaty fingers, maybe, or the broken screen.
Either way, her last text is still there.
He could introduce you to his dad. Think about it.
I stare at my smashed phone, trying very hard to be appalled that she thinks I can be bought like this.
But the memory of the broken car sitting in the yard pushes back against my morals.
I have one season left to get my ducks in a row and go from most underrated tight end to a valuable draft pick instead of becoming another Mr. Irrelevant.
The sun is directly overhead by the time we wrap up.
Stepping into the parking lot feels like walking right into a concrete wall.
Sweat slides down my freshly showered back before we’ve crossed half of it, pooling just above the waistline of my pants.
To make things worse, little black dots dance in front of my eyes as I follow Seb to his Audi.
Skipping breakfast was a dumb idea, but I figured I'd get some calories in at the training center.
Unfortunately, Seb has other plans, and I depend on him to get home.
“You okay?” he asks when I put my bag into his trunk, my hands trembling.
“Yeah, of course. Just hot.” That's not a lie. The asphalt in the parking lot has been absorbing heat all morning, then magnifying it before throwing it back in our faces.
“You can have this,” he offers, holding up a bright red plastic shaker. “It’s uh…something-something vanilla-matcha-flavored, I think. Here, I just have to post a picture on my Instagram, and it’ll be yours.”
My stomach is begging me to say yes, letting out a low growl that I cover up with a soft cough. “Nah, I’m good,” I dismiss him while Seb snaps a quick picture. I know he’s careful to leave me out of it, yet I still take a step back to escape the camera.
“You sure? It’s organic. Or from grass-fed cows? I don’t know, probably both.”
“I’m good, promise.” I want that drink, but I also don’t want Seb to ask why I’m this hungry or why I haven’t had breakfast. He already paid for pizza the other day.
And I’ll be good as soon as I get home. Hopefully, by then, one of my roommates will have recognized the dire situation in our fridge and brought home some groceries.
I’m glad when he shrugs and takes a big gulp from his shake. The next moment, his face screws up, and I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me.
“Fuck me.” He pulls the shaker back like it tried to bite him.
“Why are you drinking it then?” I snort, and he sighs.
“My mom landed some kind of deal with the brand, but this is horrendous.”
“Of course she did,” I murmur and watch as he snaps another quick picture of the drink, then hovers with his finger over his keyboard, chewing on his lower lip. We stand like that for a minute or two, me shifting from one leg to the other, the air simmering around us.
“Seb?” I prompt him gently. “Maybe you can post this later? It’s really hot out here.”
He jumps at that, then slides his phone back into the pocket of his sweatpants.
“Yeah, sure. Sorry!” He beeps the car open, and I slide inside. The air is even worse in here, so Seb cranks up the AC. For a moment, I think of my car and how its AC system died long before the rest of it did.
We drive in silence, Seb’s jaw working like he’s still chewing on that terrible protein drink. Stuff like that can bother him for hours, and even when he doesn’t say anything, I notice the way his right hand scratches his left arm every time we stop at a traffic light.
“Stop that,” I tell him when red streaks appear between the black lines of his tattoos.
“Sorry,” he mumbles and fiddles with the music instead. Over the next few minutes, the playlists change wildly from hard rock to ‘90s pop and then to Taylor Swift before settling on one of those deep-focus brainwave tracks. They cut out when Seb stops in front of the Nook and kills the engine.
“Thanks for dropping me off,” I tell him, the moment he says, “About what happened with Mia...”
I freeze. My mind goes to the text messages, then catches up. He means the party.
“Oh, that.” I laugh and sink back into the soft car seat. “Don’t worry about it, man. Mia was a bit bummed, but she already got over it.”
Seb nods, his lips pressed together in a thin line. His fingers scratch his arm again, but he drops them back into his lap the second our eyes meet.
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“No, I didn’t mean…” Seb trails off, gesturing to his arm. “I meant I’m sorry for storming off. And snapping at your roommate.”
“As I said, Mia already got over it, and Linden was okay the next morning. Nothing to worry about.”
Seb hums at that, then shrugs one shoulder. “Not like it would have led to anything anyway. So maybe it was better to cut it off right there.”
“Maybe,” I answer hesitantly. I’m already thinking of Mia’s texts again, debating whether to tell him, but Seb clears his throat.
“I think we should stop doing it altogether.”
I blink at that, then tilt my head. “Okay? I mean, we never had to. You know that, right? If it made you uncomfortable—”
“No!” He interrupts me so forcefully that I lean back.
“Sorry, I—I mean, no, I’m never uncomfortable with you. But…I met someone.”
“Oookay? Someone you like? Or someone your mother likes?” I ask.
It’s an important distinction because Seb is always seeing someone.
Some Alpha Gamma Zeta Phi Tri Thau girl, that is.
Usually, he takes them out on a few dates, treats them like a princess, then drops them right before things can get serious.
He completely disregards my question, though, either pretending he hasn’t heard it or being too deep in his worries already.
“Also, Ro thinks it’s getting out of hand.
People are talking already. He thinks it could lead to bad press for us when we’re making our NFL debuts.
Like, when some of the girls start talking.
Or worse: make things up for money.” Seb’s voice gets urgent now, and he’s gasping a little like Coach just made him run extra laps for being late.
I have to suppress a snort at that because I know Seb’s brother doesn’t give a flying fuck about what the public thinks of me. This is solely about Seb and the legacy he’s meant to carry into the big leagues. The fact that he didn’t answer my question tells me everything I need to know.
“Seb. Hey. Listen: we never did anything wrong, okay? And there’s nothing anyone could use against you—people are talking because they’re jealous or don’t have hobbies.
If you don’t want to keep doing this, that’s okay.
We’ll stop. Just don’t spiral on me,” I tell him.
He’s scratching again, but I don’t interfere this time.
“It’s not just about me, Micah! I’ll be fine.
But what about you? God, I was selfish to ask you to do this with me.
I don’t want to ruin your career over some baseless gossip,” he insists, his dark eyes pleading with me.
There’s a lot between the lines he doesn’t say out loud: he’ll be fine because the Davenport name is a shield.
Three generations of NFL money know how to stomp out an ugly rumor.
But there’s nothing to protect an underdog like me. Not even the truth.
I can’t help myself; I reach out to drag his hands away from where they’re clawing at his upper arms. Squeezing them in mine, I hold his gaze.
“We’ll stop. But you didn’t ruin anything. I agreed to everything we did. No harm done, okay?”
Seb nods, and I think back to Mia.
And Mike.
No harm done.
Yet.