11

 

 

 

Morning weight room sessions aren't the most interesting of events.

They follow the same predictable routine: Show up, pump some iron, break a sweat, shower, leave.

Very 'Wham, Bam, Thank you Ma'am' type of deal.

But Tuesday's sunrise sesh is different.

Despite the early hour, the team seems much more alert and awake on this particular day. Curious gazes follow a certain member of the squad around the state-of-the-art facility, everyone wondering what is up with the new dude.

Zion Pierce.

It's the first day he's been cleared to join our strength training and practices, and the asshole is already causing a scene.

Not a vocal disruption or a fight or anything of that nature. He's too anti-social for that. The moment he walked through the door, he popped in some Air Pods and headed for the most isolated machine he could find.

It's the fact that he's lifting weights while decked out in designer clothing. I'm talking brand names head-to-toe: Tom Ford, Yves Saint Laurent...shit I only recognize because Weston's older bro, Rhett, is one affluent motherfucker who likes to show off.

Pierce is working out in those gaudy Golden Goose sneakers and wearing sunglasses indoors, for crying out loud. Weston's vampire theory might not be so far-fetched after all.

One thing that's for certain?

Zion's got some serious $$$.

It's not that people have an issue with the money he or his family obviously possess. Nothing like that. There are more than a handful of dudes on the squad who come from wealth. You'd just never guess because they don't go out of their way to flaunt it.

But it's not just the rich-prick vibes Z's sporting that are rubbing everyone the wrong way. Anytime someone attempts to strike up a convo, he flat out ignores them. He won't even acknowledge our strength and conditioning coach, which I'm thinking he's gonna regret sooner than later. Getting on Assistant Coach Jones' bad side will not bode well for him come Thursday morning field sprints.

Still haven't shared a single syllable with the guy, but I highly doubt my assessment of his character is too far off the mark.

He's a fucking tool.

An hour and a half of strenuous exercise drags by. The session finally comes to an end and everyone heads to the locker room. After I take a quick shower, Weston asks if I wanna go to a brunch spot around the corner. I don't have class until four in the afternoon, so I accept the invite.

"Sweet. Lex is coming, too. And I'm gonna ask Z if he wants to go," Weston says.

"Dude, why?" I roll my eyes. "Sounds like a sure-fire way to ruin the morning."

"Don't worry. A hundred bucks he says no."

My brow arches in confusion. "Then what's the point of asking?"

"'Cause," he begins as he shuts his locker and faces me. "I wanna show you what it's like trying to interact with this guy. Fucking impossible."

I grab my shit and follow him towards the back corner of the locker room.

"'Sup, roomie?" Weston slaps Z on the back, the friendly gesture met with a tight-lipped frown. "How's it going?"

"What do you want?" Zion asks, his tone apathetic.

"Collins and I were thinking about hitting up Gigi's for some grub after this. You should come with."

"I'll pass."

"What—you have class or some shit?"

Zion rips his sweaty shirt off and tosses it aside. "Nope."

"Then what's the deal? Why don't you wanna go?"

He slams his locker shut, the echo reverberating off the walls. Pure annoyance flickers through his creepy silver eyes as he turns our way. "Do I need a goddamn reason?"

"Guess not, bro."

Weston glances at me, eyebrows high and a hint of amusement on his face. His head shakes back and forth as if to say 'can you believe this bastard?'

After we leave Zion with an unreciprocated goodbye, we push through the gym doors and head out into the blinding sunlight.

"So that's what I'm fucking dealing with," Weston grumbles as he slides his sunglasses on. "Stick in the mud, man. I'm telling you."

"You don't have to convince me." I drain the rest of my water bottle and toss it in a recycling bin. "Hollywood's a douchebag—no one's gonna fight you on that one."

"Hollywood? Fits him perfectly." Weston laughs. "Can't believe I thought Liam was an asshole when we first became roommates. Wright's a damn saint compared to this dick."

We continue our stroll through campus, arriving at Gigi's just a few minutes later. Due to its prime location and mouthwatering menu, the mom-and-pop brunch spot is a Windhaven favorite. On weekends, it's not uncommon for students to wait three freakin' hours for a table.

Lucky for us, it's an early weekday morning so the place isn't exactly bustling with activity. When we get seated, we immediately order a pitcher of bottomless mimosas and some of their famous buttermilk biscuits.

Lexie shows up just as the spiked orange juice does. Before sitting down, she checks her watch and frowns at her boyfriend.

"Don't you have class right now?"

"Yeah." Weston shrugs. "But I can't go."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I'm sick."

She slides into his side of the booth and gives him a skeptical perusal.

"You're sick..." she repeats in an unconvinced tone.

"Yup." A mischievous grin breaks across his face. "Sick of that fucking class. It's boring as hell."

"Weston!" Lexie laughs as he swings an arm over her shoulder and tugs her close. She reaches up, mussing his hair playfully. "What am I gonna do with you?"

He presses his lips to her forehead and plasters on one of his signature dimple-popping smirks. "I can think of a few things."

Her cheeks go pink and he exhales a heavy sigh.

"Why didn't you move into the Redhouse, Barbie? You should've been my new roommate. Shit."

"Well, for starters, I'm not a member of the men's soccer team. Just in case you forgot," she jokes before taking a small sip of her mimosa. "Also, us living together? It would be way too much of a distraction. We wouldn't get any work done. Like, ever."

"You got that right," he concedes with a grin. "Getting us out of the bedroom would be an impossible task. Fuck, we'd never leave."

"Dammit, Paine. I'm sitting right here," I point out. "Keep that shit to yourself."

"Can't, dude. Have you seen this girl?" He squeezes Lexie's shoulder. "Dirty thoughts flood my mind anytime she's around—a few are bound to be vocalized. You're gonna have to learn to deal."

"Learn to deal. Right." I reach for my drink, downing the entire thing in one giant gulp.

Learning to deal with Liam and Ellie wasn't too difficult. With Vaughn and Rayne? Not a problem. But when Weston and Lexie became a couple last semester, it suddenly occurred to me that I now hold the "odd man out" title in our friend group. I'm officially the single dude. The lone wolf.

It doesn't exactly bother me, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a pinch of envy every so often for what all three of my best friends have going on.

Like right now, for instance, as I watch the pair across from me nestled up like the happiest damn couple on the face of the earth.

Seriously, somebody put these two in an engagement ring commercial or some shit. They're the poster children for love.

I pour myself another drink—the first of many to come. After two hours, Lexie has to leave for class. Weston and I finish up the third pitcher of bubbly OJ as she bids us farewell.

"How's the kid shit going?" Weston's voice is slightly slurred, both of us rocking a strong buzz from the champagne. "Coach hasn't kicked you off the team yet, so I'm guessing you've managed to keep her alive. Impressive."

"She's still in one piece, yeah." I laugh before shaking my head. "She's a handful, though. Shit. Took her to a skatepark on Sunday and she tried to start a fist fight with some of the guys on the ramp. If Sydney didn't calm her down, it was about to be pre-teen UFC in there. And then afterwards, she—"

"Wait. Stop right there." He cocks his head. "Did you say Sydney? As in Sydney Steel?"

Ah, fuck.

How the hell did I let that slip out?

Screw alcohol and its loose-lipped side effects.

"Maybe. Does it matter?"

I shrug, trying to play it off, but he keeps pushing the subject.

"You've been hanging out with Sydney." He utters the sentence with complete disbelief. "I seriously hope you're messing with me, dude. Tell me you're busting my balls."

Although I know Weston isn't a snitch and wouldn't run his mouth to Vaughn, I really don't wanna get into it right now.

And that's why I choose to ignore his question, waving down our waitress instead.

"What can I do for you?" the older woman asks with a friendly smile.

I tap the empty pitcher with a finger. "Can we get another round?"

"Sure thing, hon. Comin' right up."

As she walks off to input the order, Weston groans.

"Another one? What are you trying to do, Collins? Get me drunk on fuckin' mimosas?"

"Yeah," I say. "That's exactly what I'm trying to do."

He cackles at my response, but I'm not joking.

After letting the cat out of the bag, I've gotta try and remedy the situation.

Getting him white-girl wasted on copious amounts of champagne?

That just might blur his memory enough to forget we ever had this conversation.