“Well, aside from working here most nights, my sources say she’s a local, too. Lived on the south side most of her life. But don’t let that fool you. She’s not like one of those skanks looking for their next sugar daddy. Your girl managed to crawl her way out of the sewer somehow. She even attends Richfield like us.”
“First things first—she’s not my girl, she’s a target,” I reprimand, making it clear to him that whatever happens—whatever I need to make happen—will be done strictly out of a cold heart and a calculating mind. No compassion. No mercy. Just like on the field, I play to win, and no one likes winning more than me. However, this bit of information that Easton just shared does work in my favor. “Let me guess. She’s a scholarship kid, huh? Happy to know the girl’s got some gray matter working for her,” I add, thinking maybe I can find an excuse to meet up with her at school rather than this dump.
“That she does. Top of most of her classes, from what I’ve heard. However, that tidbit wasn’t the first thing my buddies told me about her.”
“Oh yeah? So, what did your so-called buddies tell you?” I goad back, making childish bunny ears over the word buddies.
Aside from me, Lincoln, and Colt, Easton doesn’t have friends. He has a lot of assholes who owe him favors, but friends, not a single one. Hey, again, not judging. None of us exactly have sparkling personalities—I’m a dick, Easton is a conceited prick, and Colt is a moody fucker. The only one that something nice can be said about is Lincoln. But that’s just because he’s genuinely a good guy underneath it all. Sure, he might ruffle some feathers here or there, but he’s not nearly as much of a douche as the rest of us. Or at least up until last summer, he wasn’t.
Then everything changed.
Lincoln has to live with the blood on his hands, and I’m not sure if he’s equipped to deal with that shit without turning into someone who none of us will recognize. I sure as fuck didn’t think I could handle it. Yet here I am, doing my best to clean the fucked-up night away with more underhanded scheming. Guess we take after The Society more than they would have liked.
“So? What did they say?” I ask again after Easton takes forever to spill what he’s obviously dying to.
“They told me she hates us Northside fuckers, and that’s a direct quote, my friend.” He laughs into his fist, loving that my task is already doomed from the start.
“Fan-fucking-tastic.” I roll my eyes, letting out a frustrated growl.
Isn’t that just the icing on the cake? I somehow have to get in this girl’s good graces, and she already hates me on mere principle alone. Just fucking great.
“So she has a chip on her shoulder. Nothing you can’t thaw out, right, Romeo?” He wiggles his brows sarcastically.
The asshole knows I suck with chicks. So much so, he’s always on my case because of it. So of course he’s loving the fact that I’m going to have to make nice with one, and by the looks of it, she’s going to give me a run for my money. I haven’t even laid eyes on the girl yet, and I already resent her.
“You got anything else?” I ask Easton, as his eyes scrounge through the bar instead of paying me any mind. I snap my fingers in front of his face, and he slaps my hand away. “I asked if you have anything else on this chick that I can use?”
“What? And do all your homework for you?” he challenges with a smirk.
“No one has ever done my homework, asshole, and you know it.”
I might be a jock, but I’m not a fucking moron. Actually, if I had it my way, football would be the last thing I would be doing with my time. But thanks to my father, the thing I want to do most will never be in my grasp. Not if I don’t want to lose my whole family just for following my dreams. My father would rip me in half if I told him what I really wanted to do with my life.
The thing is, I really couldn’t give two shits if he laid it out on me with his disappointment. I don’t even care that he’d take my inheritance away from me. Fuck the money. The only reason why I don’t confront him is that my father is a vindictive prick. He’d forbid my brothers—and worst of all, my momma—to ever set eyes on me again, just because I went against his football wishes and Super Bowl ring dreams.
It’s not like I didn’t see firsthand while growing up what happens when you defy my father. One of my older brothers foolishly tried once. Beau must have been drunk with bravery the day he told the old man he wanted to teach instead of playing football. My father kicked him out of our house so fast he never even saw the foot up his ass showing him the way out.
The only reason Beau was even allowed back in was that my momma came up with a compromise both Beau and my father could live with by getting him a job coaching ball at the local high school. This way Beau could still teach—in a manner of speaking—and Dad could still brag that all of his sons have football in their blood. And even though that argument took place eons ago, to this day, our father sometimes glowers at Beau across the dinner table, as if still tasting my brother’s defiance on the tip of his tongue.
Shit, if he ever found out how I truly spent my summer in Florida, I would be shunned in a heartbeat. However, it’s something I’ve come to terms with. I’ll do what everyone expects of me and go pro next year. The only reason why I haven’t been drafted yet is that I made it clear I want to finish college beforehand. Big teams don’t usually like that very much since it increases my chances of getting hurt on the field, which would make me useless to them.
My father was of the same mindset too, but thank fuck my momma wasn’t. She put her foot down on that one. ‘Degree first, football second, Hank. And if you push the boy more on this one, expect to spend your nights sleeping in the guest room,’ she had warned. And even though my father is the man of the house and his word is law, he knows better than to piss off my momma when she’s made up her mind about something.
In any event, it only bought me some extra time. Whether my heart is in it or not, I’ll eventually end up doing what they want. My father will be happy, Momma will be happy, and I’ll have them both out of my hair and not catch shit for doing my own thing as a hobby. I guess that will have to be enough. No one ever said you were born to be a hundred percent happy, right? You do what you have to and grab whatever joy you can in the little moments afforded to you.
I crack my knuckles, my wayward thoughts sullying my mood further. But thankfully, I don’t have time to dwell on things I can’t change, since Easton nudges me on the shoulder, grabbing my attention back to my current fucked-up predicament.
“There she is. That’s your girl,” he announces eagerly.
I’m about to correct, yet again, his absurd comment, but my coherent thoughts leave me when my eyes lock on the girl I’ve been destined to ruin.
Standing bored while taking the order from the table in front of us, she is exactly what I suspected a Southie-born girl to look like—only so much more. Her bluish-black hair is purposely wrapped in a messy bun to proudly showcase her numerous earrings on both lobes and the barbell piercing on her brow. The way she’s playing with her tongue as she writes down her patron’s order, tells me she’s got more piercings hidden on her body—the only thing she’s probably hiding since most of everything else is on display.