Matched By My Rival by DJ Jamison

9

PARKER

Iwas still floating on happy endorphins Monday morning. The lack of sleep didn’t even faze me. The afterglow of sexting with BiCuriousStud and the great sleep following a more satisfying climax than I’d had in ages had more than made up for it.

“Someone’s peppy,” Cruz said as I joined the guys in our private gym for our regular workout before classes. “You get laid, Reed?”

“That why you been ditching us?” Johnston called out. “You got a booty call that’s more important than your teammates? I’m hurt.”

“I haven’t been ditching anyone,” I protested as I crossed the room to the weights.

“You haven’t gone to a party in two weeks,” Hinkel pointed out.

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, Mom.”

Hinkel reddened. “I just meant—”

Johnston threw a beefy arm over Hinkel’s shoulder. “The kid is right. You’ve been off doing your own thing.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Or maybe doing your new thing? Who is she, huh? Have we met her?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh.” He couldn’t have sounded more skeptical.

I rolled my eyes, grumbling, “Whatever, guys. It’s too early for this shit.”

My bad mood didn’t linger. Not with memories of BiCuriousStud so fresh in my mind. Just calling up the pic he’d sent me of his cock, even with the crappy lighting and angle, was enough to make my mouth water. He hadn’t exactly been the Casanova of sexting, but there was something extra sweet about watching his inhibitions lower.

“Okay, guys, enough chit-chat.” Martinez clapped his hands. “Let’s get to work.”

Martinez supervised our workouts to ensure we pushed ourselves hard enough but not so hard we strained ourselves. It was a delicate balance.

He glanced up as I neared. “Pause squats today, Reed.”

Great. I fucking detested pause squats. He smiled evilly. The fucker knew it too. But you didn’t get to be the strength and training coach unless you were a bit of a sadist.

I gave him a lazy salute, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a groan of dismay, and set to assembling the barbell and weights. A pause squat meant I’d be lifting weight over my shoulders, while also dropping into a squat, pausing in a full stop, then driving upward while maintaining control.

Martinez nodded approvingly and turned to Hinkel. “We need to push you a bit more if you want to step up next season. I want to see you on band-resisted vertical jumps today.”

Hinkel looked like an excited puppy. “Really? You think I might get more opportunities next season?”

Despite being a wide receiver, he was still young, and he didn’t get as many passes from the QB as better-positioned receivers with more experience.

For the next twenty minutes, we were all focused on our workouts. There were grunts and groans. Pause squats took damn near everything I had, but I did have a good view of the room. A few of the linebackers spotted for each other at the bench press, making casual conversation. And Hinkel was still speaking between jumps like a little Energizer bunny, excited by what Martinez had said about next season.

“If you really want to up your game, you need to learn from Reed,” Johnston said. He’d taken Hinkel under his wing, teaching him the ways of the jock: mostly how to drink without making himself sick, how to pick up girls at parties, and how to do just well enough academically to stay on the team. “With Cortez graduating, our boy is going to be top in the conference. Shit, we might actually get to see someone from Hayworth get drafted.”

Hinkel looked awed. “Really? He’s that good?”

I finished my rep set, taking a breather. “Not fucking likely.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Reed,” Johnston called. “You stepped up in a big way last season.”

I didn’t like the reminder. I’d stepped up because Simon was injured, then because he was gone—leaving a fucking void on the team. A void I still didn’t feel adequate to fill.

“Prentiss was better.”

Martinez had drifted closer at some point. “Prentiss was a damn good wide receiver,” he said. “But you and Prentiss are different players. You have a completely different approach. Prentiss was a workhorse, and you’re…”

“A lazy bastard?” I joked.

The guys laughed, and Martinez shook his head, lips quirking. “You’re raw talent, Reed. If you put in half the work Prentiss did, you would get a look from the NFL scouts.”

“Hayworth isn’t exactly known for pumping out NFL’ers, no offense.”

Martinez chuckled. “Maybe not. But Coach has a few contacts at regional teams. The Chiefs, the Cowboys.”

I grabbed my bottle of water and drank, knowing that my break would be short-lived. I had at least two more sets of pause squats to get through.

“Leavens got drafted six years ago,” Cruz pointed out.

“And Smith got signed to an undrafted agency,” Johnston said. “That was, what, only four years ago?”

Martinez nodded. “It’s a long shot. But hell, you’ve got as good a chance as anybody if you lead the conference, Reed. Why do you think Coach has been riding your ass so hard?”

“I thought he was pissed about us being hungover a few weeks back?”

“Oh, he was.” Martinez laughed. “So pissed. Because you’re not focused. Because he knows next season could be the best this school has seen in a long time, but only if you guys work for it.”

My gut clenched as my teammates all promised to buckle down. Martinez’s words motivated them. Hell, even the possibility I could be drafted—as unlikely as that was to pass—drove them to push themselves.

They returned to their workouts with a new determination, a group of athletes giving it everything to excel.

So, why couldn’t I muster up any enthusiasm?

Instead, dread tightened my chest and weighed on me as heavily as the plates on my barbell. All my happy sex endorphins leaked out of me like a deflated balloon.

When we’d finished the workout, Martinez pulled me aside while the rest of the guys headed for the locker room.

“Want to talk about it?” His eyes were sharp, knowing.

I shrugged. “What’s there to talk about?”

“Most guys would be jumping for joy to hear they might have a real shot at the pros. But not you.”

I smiled, though my heart wasn’t in it. I wasn’t about to confess to one of the coaching staff that I felt apathetic about the most important sport in their lives.

“That would be amazing. I guess it’s just hard for me to believe.”

Martinez studied me for another long minute. “Uh-huh. Well, believe it, kid. You’ve got what it takes, but only if you work for it.”

I nodded. “The way Prentiss did. You think he’d be the one with draft prospects if not for what happened?”

Martinez sighed. “So that’s what’s going on. Survivor guilt, huh?” He smiled grimly. “Prentiss got a shit deal, but he made his bed, Reed. You’re not responsible for his actions.”

I felt responsible, considering I’d shown up to that party with his ex-girlfriend.

“But to answer your question, no,” he said. “I don’t think Prentiss would get any looks.”

“Why not? You said yourself he put in the work.”

Martinez shrugged. “Too injury-prone,” he said. “Not quite the same field presence. It’s hard to explain, Reed. But even if Prentiss hadn’t left the team, you would have surpassed him.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe that.”

“Well, regardless, Coach Jackson has put his faith in you. Maybe it’s time you do the same.”

I felt sick. The guys were so fucking excited by the idea of a great season ahead. The coaching staff had put their faith in me. And all I could think about was escaping the pressure and expectation.

But how could I leave my teammates, my friends who’d always had my back? That seemed like the worst kind of betrayal.

* * *

SIMON

My sister called me while I was at the bar to pick up my paycheck before heading to House Pledge on Saturday. I’d had a great week of texting with HotPan22, including a lot more sexual innuendo. We’d sexted again too, but he was letting me lead, and I was still a little tentative.

I’d never been timid about sex, but putting what I wanted into words was more difficult than I would have expected. I was the type of guy to take action, not waste my breath on dirty talk. But HotPan? He was a master, winding me up so good that I came as hard as if he were right there in the room with me.

I tugged my phone from my pocket, answering Chelsea’s call while I glared down at my meager earnings. Even with that extra shift, I’d cleared less than three hundred dollars in two weeks. I really needed to improve my flirting game and bring in more tips.

I didn’t have to worry about housing expenses, thanks to the frat. I mainly had to pay for incidentals like food and toiletries. My mom had insisted on keeping me and Chelsea on her phone plan, even if she couldn’t do much more. That meant I could send a little more than half of my paycheck to my grandparents to sock away for Chelsea.

That was barely a drop in the bucket when it came to repaying the money they’d loaned me to make it through my final semester at Hayworth.

“Hey, Chels. What’s up?”

“Just checking in. Seeing how the college boy is doing.”

My gut churned with guilt. “Good. Just picking up a paycheck. I’ll send half of it to Grandma and Grandpa.”

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

My jaw tightened. “Yeah, I do.”

It was the same song and dance I’d gotten from my grandparents. I knew they didn’t want me to feel the burden of paying them back. But why should Chelsea pay for my mistakes?

“No, really,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about my plans.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked warily.

“Culinary school is kind of…a leap, you know? I’ve been working at this little bistro, and I’ve gotten some really good experience. There’s this online program I found that’s about half the cost—”

“Chels, no,” I cut in. “No fucking way.”

“I’d still get the training and degree,” she said. “And I could do it all without leaving home. Joey needs me. I can’t fly off to some fancy school and just leave him. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

I softened, realizing this was about more than just the money. More than just my fuckup. “You were thinking that you’ve got family to help you. You don’t have to go to Paris, but come on, you want more than some online degree that chefs roll their eyes at, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is your lifelong dream. I know you don’t want to be the next Gordon Ramsay and work at Michelin-star, glamorous restaurants, but you still love working with food, right?”

“Yeah, I do. But I have to be realistic. You knew you weren’t going to make the NFL, right? This is the same thing. Dreams change. They have to. Otherwise, we’re bound to go through life in a fog of disappointment. I don’t need a prestigious degree some snooty chef will respect. I’m not going to the big leagues. I want to find a way to pursue my love of food right here, without sacrificing time with Joey.”

“What do you mean, I wasn’t going to make the NFL?” I joked. “You wound me.”

Well, it wasn’t entirely a joke. A tiny part of me had wished, even when I knew how unrealistic it was. But even knowing I’d have to give up playing, it was easier said than done. Some days, I missed it so much I ached. But it had never been a choice for me. Maybe I was struggling to accept my sister’s decision because I never would have made the same one.

“Sorry,” she said lightly. “I mean, you’d have been drafted if it were up to me. You definitely worked hard enough to deserve it.”

I sighed. “So have you. I just don’t want to be the reason you’re holding back.”

“You’re not, I promise.”

“Then you have to do what’s right for you,” I said. “I should go. I’ve got a check to mail Grandma and Grandpa.”

“But Simon, I just explained why that wasn’t necessary.”

“Agree to disagree,” I said, clicking off before she could try to change my mind.

Maybe Chelsea really would pursue a more affordable program. Or maybe she’d change her mind once the financial hardship didn’t weigh so heavily. Either way, I’d cost my family more than I ever intended—and I wouldn’t feel right until I’d repaid their generosity.

If Chelsea didn’t need the money for school or business start-up costs when she finally got the opportunity to open her own restaurant, then my grandparents could use it to fatten up their retirement fund.

Which is where the money belonged anyway.

If not for my father’s irresponsible actions, they’d have a nice little nest egg to last the rest of their lives, instead of using it to take care of his kids.

I went by the post office, still in a dark mood—and not only because I felt guilty about Chelsea’s plans. It would have been easier for her to go to school years ago, while Joey was a baby, but I’d gotten my stupid football scholarship and we’d agreed as a family that I’d go first, then help support Chelsea when it was her turn.

A few of the things Chelsea had said to me had burrowed under my skin. That dreams had to change. That the NFL had never really been my future—which, okay, I knew that. But there was knowing, and then there was hearing someone else say it aloud.

I had accepted I wouldn’t go pro. I had a plan for my future. With a sports management degree, I could find a job managing an athletic department or recreation league. I didn’t have to give up sports entirely. But I felt disconnected from that path. I’d spent so much time being a player, defining myself as an athlete, that now I felt like a puppet who’d just had its strings cut.

All the energy and passion I’d channeled into my sport had nowhere to go.

I feared that, unlike Chelsea, who seemed happy to adapt to her changing situation, I might be lost in a fugue of disappointment for the rest of my life.

Thankfully, my phone chimed, distracting me from my dark thoughts.

This is one of those days I’d like to call in sick to life.

Despite everything, I grinned to see the message from HotPan. How was it that even as virtual strangers who’d never met face-to-face, we always seemed to be on the same page?

That bad, huh?

HotPan22: Worse

BiCuriousStud: Maybe I’ll play hooky with you. I’ve had a crappy morning, and I’m not looking forward to the rest of my day

HotPan22: You too, huh? Maybe we could hide out together...

My heart lurched. I liked him—a lot—and the tentative sexting we’d begun had been great too. But taking it offline added a whole new layer of pressure. What if it ruined the magic? We had a great thing going. Then again, what if not meeting him cost me everything? He might grow tired of waiting.

He’d been a patient guy, but everyone had their limit.

I can’t today,I told him, not quite ready to promise anything. More of that expectations crap.

Yeah, me too.

You’re stuck doing a favor for a friend that sucks donkey balls?

*snort* More like I’m trying to do myself a favor. Get to a better place with someone.

There’s that people pleasing again.

HotPan22: Guilty…maybe we can meet up some other time? Even if it’s just as friends?

I hesitated. There was really only one answer I could give.

HotPan had become my confidante, willing to listen anytime I wanted to vent about my day. He shared little jokes and memes that made me laugh.

If I were going to explore this side of me, get to know a man intimately, this guy was the right choice.

Yeah,I typed. Sometime soon.

Awesome. You just made my day.

I puffed up, chest swelling at the thought of making him happy. Maybe there was something to this people-pleasing crap.

Don’t take too much grief from whoever you’re trying to make nice with,I tapped out. You deserve better than that.

Thanks. You’re a good guy too.

I wasn’t so sure about that, but it was good to know I’d convinced someone. Maybe if HotPan believed it, and my family believed it, eventually I’d be able to live up to their expectations.