Hate to Love You - Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Tristan
I was off.
I was just... off.
Practice had been a bitch and my whole body felt like it had been run over by a ten-ton truck. Might as well be true. My teammates weren't holding back, as they shouldn't — but today? I was running on fumes.
It had been like this for the whole fucking week.
I yanked off my helmet and bent over, putting my hands on my knees and taking several deep breaths. It was like my brain had taken a vacation without me. I couldn't concentrate on shit, and I was making rookie mistakes. I was running at half my usual speed, and I couldn't throw a ball to save my life. It was like my hands had developed a sudden allergy to pigskin. They fumbled and flailed every throw. It was fucking embarrassing.
"Fuck," I groaned, running a hand through my wet hair and splitting out the phlegm that had gathered in the back of my throat.
I stayed hunched over, sweat pouring down my face, while I wondered how the fuck I'd ended up in this sorry state. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was the smooth-talking, quick-thinking, go-getter guy who had it all under control. Now, I felt like none of those things.
Straightening as I interlocked my hands behind my head, I continued to focus on my breathing. I needed to calm down before my team saw how much this was getting to me. Because whatever the fuck this was needed to stop. Like, right now.
Our first pre-season game was tomorrow and I couldn't afford to start the season looking like a fucking noob. Not when my whole team was trusting me to lead them to the Championships. Not when I was entering the NFL draft in a couple of months.
"Hey, man," Tate drawled as he jogged over, helmet tucked under his arm.
I let out a sigh and dropped my hands to my sides. Tatum, my closest friend and co-captain, stopped beside me. He placed one massive hand on my shoulder, a show of support that only increased my frustration.
I felt like I was letting him down.
"We all have off days, Beckett. Beating ourselves up about it will only make it worse," he said.
"It's been like this all fucking week, Tate. I can't afford to pull this shit tomorrow."
"You won't. You couldn't possibly play any worse than you did today." He grinned, slapping my shoulder.
I managed a dry laugh. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but don't jinx it. I might as well be playing peewee right now."
His eyes sobered and met mine. "Exactly. It's our first game, unimportant in the long run. Who the fuck cares?"
"Uh, I do? It's my first official match as the Knight's Captain. Sue me if I want to start off with a bang."
"I think you need to be doing a different kind of banging. When's the last time yo—"
"Beckett! What the fuck was that?" Joey Finnigan's voice boomed, cutting through the air as he and a small group of my teammates made their way over to us.
Tatum shot Joey a dark glare, his intense gaze matched by the sheer size of him.
Tatum fucking Mitchell was a terrifying man to lesser men, standing at 6′5 and built like a beast, he wasn't someone you squared up to. That face-bush he called a beard made him even more menacing, but when you got to know him, he was an awesome dude and an even better friend.
I quickly intervened, squeezing Tate's shoulder, grateful for his support but not wanting him to fight my battles for me. My teammates were already stressed about tomorrow's game, and my terrible performance wasn't helping matters. I needed to reassure them that everything would be fine, even if I didn't quite believe it myself.
I turned to face the group, straightening my shoulders and giving them a confident smile. "Hey, guys. I'm just having a shitty day. Happens to the best of us, am I right? But it'll wear off soon, I promise."
Joey, known for being a dickhead on his nice days and a son of a bitch on his worst, stepped forward, his face twisting with anger. "Oh, yeah? 'Cause this crap has been happening all week, and today takes the cake. You better let us know if you're gonna be a liability tomorrow, so we can figure out our backup plan," he snarled, stepping forward and shoving his face in mine in an attempt to intimidate me.
Or, he tried to. There was an entire head's difference between my cornerback and me, and he had to look up at me.
I narrowed my eyes at him, folding my arms and forcing him to take a step back. "I'm still the best damn quarterback in this whole fucking district, and I'm your Captain, Finnigan. Show me the respect I've earned."
He reluctantly took a step back, his glare darkening. "Talk is cheap. Let's see you prove it on the field."
I scoffed. "I can play just fine. Now stand down, Finnigan, and don't push me. Trust me when I say you don't want to fuck around and find out right now."
He hesitated, caution edging his gaze. Finally, he spat out a resentful, "Fine," before storming off towards the locker rooms, his anger trailing behind him like a dark cloud.
No one followed him. My gaze shifted back to my teammates, who'd been watching this whole show go down with rapt focus.
I faced them fully, making sure my voice carried across the field. "Listen up, everyone! I get it. You're all counting on me. But tomorrow and for the rest of this season, we'll come out stronger than ever, and we'll show everyone what we're made of. This year's team is gunning to be the best and break records. We'll win the championships or we'll die trying."
Some of the tension in my body eased as proud grins broke out on their faces. Everything I'd said had been true. We were currently the talk of the town in the football world with the strong team we had this year. A lot of eyes would be on us tomorrow and onwards.
And there was a slight possibility that I was gonna look like a fumbling idiot at tomorrow's game.
Turning as I swallowed the sudden nausea down, I led the way to the locker rooms, my teammates following suit. Tomorrow was a fresh start, an opportunity to prove ourselves. I'd find a way to get over whatever this was.
Tate fell into step beside me. "Shake this off and show 'em what you're made of." He lifted his hand and we bumped fists.
As I made my way off the field, Coach Morey shifted his attention away from his conversation with the assistant coach to me. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, emphasizing his no-nonsense demeanor.
Coach Clark Michael Morey had been a professional player two decades ago, and he still possessed the well-built physique that had defined his career — minus the little pouch and male-pattern baldness.
He was known for his tough-as-nails attitude, never one to shy away from pushing his players to their limits. And he was the toughest on me because he expected the most from me. Disappointing him was almost as bad as disappointing my dad.
"Beckett, meet me in my office after you're done washing up." He gave me a stern look before turning back to the other man.
Fuck.
°•°•°•°
The house was ugly as shit.
The two-story monstrosity could only be described as a faded mess of architectural confusion. With its worn exterior and a roof that screamed ′I'm trying, okay' in washed-out red, it was a sight that demanded attention for all the wrong reasons. How were people still allowed to live in this place? Man, student accommodation always made prison look like a luxury hotel.
As we approached the front porch, I took note of how the wood sagged. It looked like it would splinter to pieces, bearing the weight of our footsteps with an audible groan. I carefully stepped over a suspiciously creaky board, hoping it wouldn't give way beneath my feet. I was a pretty heavy guy and getting all of those splinters out would be a bitch.
Matthew knocked on the front door, and it immediately opened to reveal a pack of five girls, headed by a tall wide-mouthed redhead. Their eyes darted from guy to guy, but when they landed on me, their jaws practically hit the floor.
I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at their shocked expressions. Being the campus hotshot had its perks, I'll admit, but it also meant dealing with the same old reactions every time I walked into a room.
Amongst them was a tall, hot brunette who looked at me like I was a piece of meat and she was starving. She was definitely the prettiest of the group, but I wasn't too sure if I liked the predatory look on her face. I was usually the one doing the hunting. Besides her stood a small, mousey blonde who stared at us with a wide-eyed expression, like she thought we'd lunge forward and devour her.
I was starting to regret my decision to tag along to this movie night thing. When Matthew brought it up after practice, I only said yes because Tate encouraged it. I'd seen this as a last-ditch effort to pull myself out of whatever the fuck this thing was — because maybe getting laid would pull me out of my own head. At the very least, I'd just watch a good movie, and relax. But all I felt when I looked at the group of girls in front of me was... nothing.
The redhead, taking the lead, greeted us with a mix of nervous energy and false bravado. She quickly leaned forward to kiss Matthew, giving him a sweet smile.
I tucked my hands into my pockets, content to wait this out. Usually, I'd immediately flirt with them or something, but like I said earlier — I was off my game.
"Sorry. Come in, come in," the redhead said, waving us in. "One of our roommates, Tanya, couldn't be here tonight. Our other roommate... well, this isn't really her thing. So it'll just be us tonight. But don't worry, we have snacks and pizza coming."
The girls all stepped back to allow us entry, bumping and stumbling into each other as their eyes stayed glued to us — mainly me. Especially the hot brunette and her small blonde friend. At least the other two, minus Matthew's girl, shifted their focus to the other guys.
Shrugging off their awe, I followed the redhead and her gang inside the house. The interior matched the batshit craziness of the exterior, with a clash of colors and mismatched furniture that somehow worked. It had its own weird charm, like the thrift stores my grandmother liked to explore.
They led us into the living room, which had two oversized couches that appeared to have seen better days. They tried to hide that by covering it in a whole bunch of blankets and pillows. I glanced over at the coffee table and my stomach grumbled in approval. Was it a bad idea to eat shit the day before a game? Yeah. But did I care in my current mood? Fuck no.
For the first time that day, I had hope that this might just turn out to be somewhat of a good time.
Just as I was about to grab a handful of snacks, the hot brunette in skin-tight jeans decided to latch onto my arm. Talk about staking your claim. It looked like she'd won the lucky draw of who got me for the night. I raised an eyebrow at her boldness, easing away from her because I didn't appreciate the possessive death grip.
As the evening passed by, we settled onto one of the mismatched couches, the brunette still clinging to my arm like a lifeline. Trying to make some kind of an effort, I put my arm around her slender shoulders, but she was so thin that her bones poked into my arm. I shifted to get more comfortable and she took that as an invitation to snuggle closer, laying a hand on my knee under the blanket.
I briefly thought about dipping, but I'd already committed. So I did my best to get settled in and concentrate on the movie.
°•°•°•°
The movie was bor-ing.
And whatever-her-name-was had accidentally brushed her hand against my dick no less than three times, but I just couldn't bring myself to care or return her interest.
I blew out a frustrated breath. I didn't know how much longer I could sit here. I definitely knew this wasn't going to help get me out of my funk. It might even make it worse.
"Hey," I said, keeping my voice low, "Got anything to drink around here?"
She pulled her eyes off of the screen to look at me, "Like beer? Or... vodka? We might have some wine. I can check if you want?"
Jesus. Did this woman think I was a raging alcoholic?
"Uh... no. Just water. Thanks."
"We have some bottles in the fridge. Do you want me to get you one?" She pulled the blankets off our legs, preparing to stand up.
I grabbed her wrist to stop her. "No worries, I'll get it. Just point me in the right direction."
She looked reluctant, like she was scared that I was gonna make a run for it. She'd never let me go if she actually knew what was going through my head. Nodding, she rambled off some directions to her kitchen.
I got up from my seat, doing my best to navigate through the maze of my teammates' long legs. Matthew shot me a curious look from where he was cozying up with the pretty redhead. His raised eyebrow asked the question, "Dude, where the hell are you going?" I shot him a tense smile, hoping he'd catch my drift that everything was good.
I accidentally kicked the ankle of the small blonde and she squeaked. Like a mouse.
"My bad," I whispered before carrying on. Her eyes followed me the whole time, peeking over the edge of her blanket.
Stepping out of the living room felt like breaking free from prison. I took a beat, inhaling deeply now that I was out of that constricting situation. Following the brunette's vague directions, I navigated my way into her kitchen.
The kitchen was surprisingly spacious and looked a helluva lot better than the rest of the house. Some cabinets were old and worn, their paint faded and corners chipped to reveal years of use. There was also this mix of old-school and modern appliances scattered around, but the place was clean and tidy, which was a major plus.
I stepped further into the room, my eyes scanning for the fridge, but landing on something much better.