Prologue
See those three boys over there?
Yeah, the kings of football?
The ones with their heads in their hands, nursing their second beers of the night and trying to figure out what the hell happened to their season?
They choked.
That’s right. These All-Americans became the biggest upset in college football and a complete embarrassment to their town.
Can it really be that bad?
Yes.
Former national champions, Braxton College was annihilated this year.
No, not just annihilated, but completely and utterly destroyed.
Three games.
That’s it.
They won three games all season.
Interceptions. Dropped balls. Missed blocks. Fumbles. You name it, they did it.
First, there’s Crew Smith, the protective one. Once an NFL hopeful, he now holds the record for the most interceptions thrown in a season by a quarterback.
Next, is Hollis Hudson, the mysterious tight end who keeps everything locked down. He couldn’t run a route this year to save his life.
And to round out the trifecta of crap, there’s River Tate, the popular frat boy. He’s supposed to be a superstar wide receiver but dropped more passes than he caught this season.
Guys wanted to be them.
Girls wanted their hearts.
But at this point, no one would want to touch them with a ten-foot pole.
The truth is, they’ve screwed up their NFL aspirations.
Maybe their entire lives.
There are three stories to be told . . .
This is Crew’s.
Chapter One
CREW
“God, look at you. You’re positively glowing,” Hutton, my best friend from high school, says when I open the door. He pulls me into a hug and then slides his hand down my back to my ass where he gives it a good squeeze. “Yes, my man. Squats have been good to you.”
“Could you not?” I say, pushing at his chest as he laughs and walks into my childhood home.
“Dude, why the mood? You always like it when I caress your ass. It’s been months since we’ve last seen each other. I half expected you to greet me bent over.”
I shut the door and walk toward the open-concept living room where the sliding glass doors are open to allow in the sound of the ocean lapping against the cliffs beneath the house. December in Long Beach, California, lends itself to nice weather.
“Did you not see how my season went? Or were you too distracted by all the wins you were racking up over at Brentwood?”
“Ooo, you’re salty,” Hutton says, taking a seat on the couch.
“And you’re in an annoyingly good mood. That girl finally giving you the time of day?”
“No need to discuss my love life when you’re clearly in a state of peril.” He turns toward me and props his chin up on his hand while batting his eyelashes. “I’m listening.”
“You think you’re helping, but in reality, you’re just pissing me off.”
Sighing, Hutton hops off the couch and makes his way to the kitchen, where I hear him dig around in the fridge. “You realize I have one day to hang out with you and that I have to report back to Brentwood after Christmas morning, right?” The fridge door shuts and then a cabinet door opens. “Can we not spend our precious moments together fighting?”
I rub my forehead and sink into the couch farther. “Sorry, man.”
Rounding the couch with a cookie tray, he sets it on the coffee table in front of me. Two sodas—one orange for him, one Sprite for me—a block of cheese, Wheat Thins, an apple, and, of course . . . Funyuns. A Smith/McMann household would not be complete without Funyuns.
Hutton reaches for the bag first and pops it open. “I accept your apology. Now, let’s immerse ourselves in the fake oniony flavor of these crunchy cornmeal delights.” He puts one in his mouth, crunches down, and moans. “Every time I see a bag of these in your house, it makes me want to make out with your mom.”
“What the fuck, man?”
He shrugs. “Facts.”
“They’re in the house all the time.”
“Then that should inform you about what’s going on in my head during every visit.” He pops another ring in his mouth and smiles.
“I hate you.”
“Hey, what did I say about fighting?” He points his finger at me.
Sighing, I pick up the Sprite and crack it open while Hutton starts to cut strips of cheese and an apple into thin slices. It’s weird, but whenever he’s at my house, he likes to have cheese with Wheat Thins and to top it off, a thin slice of apple. Knowing he was coming over, my mom made sure to have everything in stock. It’s a weird combination, but it works.
Popping my soda open, I take a quick sip and then lean against the cushion of the couch. “I’m sorry, man. It’s been a rough fucking year.”
Growing serious, Hutton says, “I get that, man. You guys were really close.”
And that’s why he’s one of my best friends, along with Hollis and River. Because they know.
Yeah, the season sucked. It was embarrassing, actually, and hugely detrimental to my chances at a professional football career.
But that’s not what’s on my mind.
It’s my grandpa.
Or Pops, as we called him.
Bernie McMann, the patriarch of the family, the only guy I’ve ever known to swear by using presidents’ names, and my pal, my guy . . . passed away this summer.
And it was fucking devastating.
Crushing.
I couldn’t focus in the classroom. I have some of the worst grades I’ve ever received, and my football season, well, by now you should know how that turned out.
He was sick, something my parents didn’t tell me, something Pops didn’t want me to know. Said he wanted me to treat him the same way I always have.
Unfortunately, I didn’t spend time with him this past summer. To be honest, I didn’t visit him the past three summers, and only saw him during the holidays. I decided to stay home and train instead.
Biggest fucking regret of my life.
“I should have visited him over the summer like I used to.”
“Dude, you didn’t know he was going to pass away.”
“Doesn’t matter, life is too short.” I twist the can of soda in my hand with regret. “I thought he’d be around forever.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Hutton makes a cheese, cracker, and apple combination for me and hands it over. I take it and shove it in my mouth. “Not to make you feel any worse than you do, but do you think your season went the way it did because you weren’t mentally there?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, so you’re aware?”
“Quite aware.” I dust my fingers off and take a swig of my Sprite. “My mental game was completely shot. I was physically there on the field, but mentally, I was with Pops.”
“Glad you’re starting to admit that,” says my dad, who walks into the living room wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. He takes the lumberjack look way too seriously. Doesn’t quite fit in with the vibe here in California, but he owns it.
“Mr. Smith, good to see you,” Hutton says, standing and giving my dad a solid handshake. Dad pulls him into a hug.