Miss smarty pants with her glasses and six pens has no clue how much pressure I’m under. To have my future based on how fast I can run to catch an oblong leather missile.
One mistake and I could be the O’Ryan that doesn’t make it to the league. I wake up every day wondering when football will disappear like the other good things in my life.
Henry, one of my teammate’s calls out, “O’Ryan. We’re going out. But not before you change your threads.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
His head jerks back. “What’s up? Never seen you so down.”
“My tutor quit. I hate quitters.”
“Didn’t you quit hockey to come here and play football?” Henry asks knowing full well the answer.
After I change into jeans and a black performance t-shirt, we park and cross the street toward Longhorn Tap. Henry says, “This is what you need. Women and whiskey.”
I shove his shoulder, “Shut up.”
He smiles from ear to ear and pushes the door open. Cool air hits us but then beer, sweat and cheap cologne take over. Bass vibrates through the floorboards. It’s packed, but what did I expect following last weekend’s playoff win? Students and fans are still celebrating.
A few teammates already snagged a high-top table near the bar and wave us over, shouting, “Clutch. Clutch. Clutch.”
I admit it turns my frown into a smile. It feels good to be appreciated. A hand claps my shoulder. Our safety shoves a drink in my hand. Music blares. Bodies move and soon I start feeling like myself again. I’m not letting tutor girl ruin my day. I’ve worked hard all week and deserve a little time to relax.
Henry spots my smile, leans in and says, “Rule one tonight. No talking about science and physiology.”
“I hate that class.”
“You hate the girl in the class. Either that or you’re obsessed with her.”
“Definitely not obsessed. She barely registers on my radar.” So, let’s go with hate. The word rolls around on my tongue.
Luckily I’m saved as someone drags us to the dance floor. In an instant, a group of girls joins our circle. That part hasn’t changed since high school—football equals attention.
It’s easy. Laugh. Dance. Be the guy they want me to be.
But tonight, my brain keeps replaying the moment in the library when I called Annika cold.
Cold.
It sits wrong in my chest. Maybe I should call and apologize or at least send her a text to apologize. That was out of line.
A girl grabs my hand and spins under my arm. Henry is already dancing with someone else, grinning like an idiot. He’s hooking up tonight.
Music pounds through the room. I switch partners several times, letting the noise drown out the memories of today.
Then I twirl the girl in the short shorts and the bikini top, and look toward the bar. My brain short circuits. No, it can’t be. I blink. And blink again.
The woman at the bar can’t be the same person who just destroyed me in the library a few hours ago.
But it is.
Annika.
No glasses.
Hair down. Dark waves tumbling over her shoulders. Black leather jacket over a fitted top. She looks different and I find myself wondering if she has a twin sister. She looks like someone who walked out of a biker bar, not a study hall.
She’s mixing a drink, focused as always, unaware of the chaos on the dance floor. Unaware of me.