Unnecessary Roughness Read online

  Lucky for them--and for me--I loved it, and it definitely did the trick. I was always raring to go by the time I hit the field, practically bouncing in my damn seat when my mom drove me over from school. The chance to run, to play, to leave guys in the dust gave me everything I needed back then.

  Football was my first love, and I fucking fell hard.

  But it's funny how these things work out. You get used to it, and suddenly it's not enough anymore. You've still got those urges and all that energy to work off. It was a problem in high school. My grades started to slip, and I was getting into trouble on and off the field.

  Then I discovered just how high-energy great sex can be, and my world opened up a little more. I could play football and enjoy myself and know that even on the slow days, I'd still have a way to get that physical contact I crave.

  It's a balance that's served me really well in college. I've been able to buckle down in class because I've got a way to get it out of my system. I can hang out with Eli and the guys and not have to do anything crazy because I know if the night starts to drag, I can just find a hot piece of ass to follow me to the bathroom.

  Football will always be my first love though, and the first day of practice always has me buzzing.

  I sit in the locker room, pulling on my pads and that freshly-laundered Mavs uniform, black and red. One earbud in, I stretch and work out some of that pre-practice energy, greeting guys I didn't see much of over the off season. In the middle of it all, my phone beeps and I fetch it out of the locker, grinning as I see who the text is from.

  The guy from the gym already wants to get in this ass I all but promised him. I knew it was only a matter of time, but the fact that it's going to be tonight just makes this day even better. I've got everything I need, and when I step out onto ESC's shitty field I'm feeling fucking unstoppable.

  Even a solid hour of drills can’t bring me down. Yeah, it sucks, but some of the new guys are right out of high school. They need a chance to acclimate, so I'm not going to give anybody grief about spending a long time on the fundamentals.

  It doesn't take too long before we're separated into teams for scrimmage, the new guys slotted in on both offense and defense. A lot of times positions aren't set in Juco. Guys float around, handle different things until they get really good at one specific thing. I've always played wide receiver. I proved my worth in that position early on and I keep proving it every time we set foot on that field.

  I run most of my routes off muscle memory now. That and knowing the kind of looks my QB normally goes for. He does a lot better throwing outside passes, the ball lobbed high so no try-hard lineman can get his fingers on it. I've gotten used to how fast the ball is going and the kind of cradle I need to make with my hands to get a clean catch. Because of that, every time I run an outside route, I get the completion, dipping out of bounds before the cornerbacks can bring me down.

  We make it down the field a couple times before line changes put me and the QB on the sidelines. He's all smiles as he comes up to me, his mouth guard hanging down by his chin.

  "This is our year, man. I can feel it."

  Brody is a second year, like me. He only played in a few games last season, but he's got a strong arm. Lacking some confidence, though. He doesn't like to throw into a crowded midfield, but he'll get there.

  I clap a hand against his shoulder pads and say, "Keep getting the ball to me, and I'll put up the points."

  One of the D-line snorts from the bench, lifting his water bottle to squirt water into his short hair. It may be close to fall, but here in central Florida we're still living on the surface of the sun.

  "I'm gonna laugh so fucking hard when you get knocked on your ass, Vincent."

  A couple of the other guys laugh, and all I can do is grin. "Yeah? You gonna be the one to do it?"

  He looks up at me, and I know from his expression just how this is going to go. "I don't know, dude. You might like it too much. Probably pop a boner while I'm on top of you."

  I stopped trying to hide my sexuality in college, and most of the ESC guys have been cool about it. But every now and again there's some insecure jock who reminds me of how quickly things can go bad.

  It's hard not to think of high school whenever this happens, but I'm better equipped to handle it now. I know how to diffuse the situation without a whole lot of fuss, and I do that now.

  "Sorry, Hutch. You're not really my type."

  The other guys who were snickering at his comment are hooting now, even if it wasn't that sick of a burn. I still made Hutch look like an idiot and kept my position as the guy who lets everything slide off his back, so it's all good.

  I'd like to say it never bugs me, but I'm stuck thinking about it for a long time after it's done. Probably way past the point that anybody else is thinking about it. That's the bad thing about being so high energy. Even when I’ve got outlets, I tend to obsess about things like this. Considering the shit that went down in high school, it's not going to be something I can just let go of any time soon. But thankfully, I'm not on the sidelines all that long. Just enough time for the second string guys to get in a couple drives, then I'm pulling my helmet on and jogging back onto the field to get rid of this confidence-killing feeling as fast as I can, because fuck this.

  Brody calls for an out route and I run up midfield, then cut a sharp angle and rush the sidelines, leaving my coverage in the dust. I'm wide open, and as that ball sails to me in a lofty spiral I can already feel that energy getting ready to explode in a bid for the end zone.

  The ball flies right into my hands, my arms bracing against the kinetic shock. I go to pull it close to my body, but something happens. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see a solid mass of black and red barreling toward me like an enraged bull. That cornerback I thought I'd dusted apparently put on a burst of speed, and I don't have a chance to evade him or even get out of bounds.

  Time slows down, but probably seconds after the pass is complete, this guy slams the ever-loving fuck out of me, his body colliding with mine. He doesn't try to strip the ball, but the force of the tackle pops it right out. I can see it flying away from me as I'm being brought to the turf, helpless to do anything about it.

  My shoulders hit the ground first, cushioning the blow. I tuck my head so my helmet doesn't strike against the hard dirt, but that does nothing to stop the wind from being knocked out of me.

  The second I can breathe again, I just... laugh.I fucking laugh like a crazy man. My body shakes with it, I'm fighting for breath, and there are tears in my eyes.

  By this point the cornerback's on his feet, looking at me like I'm insane.

  "You okay?" he asks.

  There's something familiar in his voice, but I'm still laughing too much to process it. Fuck, that was a rush. That physical, visceral contact is one of the things my fucked up brain lives for, and it's been a long time since I’ve been put in my place by a show of raw power.

  "Yeah, dude," I manage, my sides hurting from how much I've been laughing. "Hell of a hit."

  I'm an arrogant son of a bitch, but I give people praise when it's due, and this guy has earned it. I look up at him, taking the hand he's extended to help me to my feet. His grip is strong, and he pulls me up like I weigh nothing at all. My knees go a little weak. As the resident jock-whisperer, I spend a lot of time getting plowed by over-eager guys looking for a willing hole to fuck. Most of them just barely satisfy that ache, and so few of them are guys I'm actually into.

  But this guy? I'd gladly let him fuck me anytime, anywhere, as hard as he wants.

  "Thanks," he says, a shy little grin quirking behind his face mask. It only makes me want him more.

  But there's something in his hunter green eyes that feels way too familiar. Flashes of memory tear through me in an instant, until my brain seizes on the one that actually matters: That smug as fuck, stupidly pretty face that taunted me from the local papers and the nightly news. The face that stared down at me more than any other cornerback during my
high school career.

  Owen Fucking Collins.

  The second I recognize him, things change. Adrenaline surges through me, amping up a cocktail of rage and fear and humiliation. Collins must be able to sense the moment realization hits me, because his whole body tenses and he takes a step back.

  I'm not about to let him just walk off this field, though. Not after what he did to me.

  "You seriously fucking transferred over here? What's the matter, Collins? Couldn't get off on just ruining me in high school anymore, so you decided to fuck up my life in college, too?"

  I'm so mad I'm practically shaking. The rational part of me knows this is way too much, but the lizard brain is in full on fight or flight mode right now.

  "It's not like that," he starts.

  "Yeah? What's it like then? You just couldn't stay away?"

  My instincts apparently choose to fight, because I advance on him, getting right up in his face. Collins bristles, anger burning in his dark green eyes.

  "Nice to see you're still so fucking full of yourself," he says.

  "What the fuck did you say?"

  This asshole's got some nerve. He ruined me, not the other way around. Now he wants to stand here and act like I'm being a drama queen and blowing shit out of proportion? Fuck that. And fuck him.

  That rage only Collins can seem to incite pumps through me, and the energy builds up so much that I have no choice but to release it like a battering ram. Right into Collins.

  I shove him hard, putting all the force of my body behind it. Collins staggers back, that fire in his eyes burning out of control. It's enough to get my blood pumping, and I brace myself for the retaliation I know is coming.

  Collins rams into me like a fucking truck. He yanks on my pads so hard they start to pull away from my body, dragging me with them. Then he uses the force of his barrel chest to slam me to the ground.

  I spring to my feet before he can pin me there like some goddamn UFC heavyweight. Dude’s got some serious rage in him, and he’s not even the one who deserves to be upset.

  “Come on, Collins. You want a piece?” I snarl. “Take a swing, I fucking dare you.”

  His eyes blaze like a fucking thunderstorm is brewing in him, and I can almost see the crackle of energy he’s just desperate to unleash. But like a charging dog pulled short by the tug of a tight leash, he never gets the chance. The guys are pulling us away from each other, Eli and Brody on me, Davidson and Camillo on him. Whistles are blowing, coaches and coordinators are hustling over, and the whole time I’m just lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, feeling more alive than I have in years.

  4

  Owen

  Three years.

  It's been over three years since I last saw Nate and somehow that rivalry is still burning as strong as it was every time I checked the Ocala Star Banner and found his face plastered all over the sports page.

  It takes me back to the days when I used to channel all of my teenage frustrations into bringing his arrogant ass to the ground every Friday we played each other. Back to him telling me with that smug look on his face that the only reason I'd ever get into a D1 school was because of my dad. Back to doing everything in my power to hide how jealous I was of his talent, and the sick satisfaction I got out of knowing he was now stuck in the same boat as me.

  I was seventeen when all that shit went down, and I don't need to ever let myself feel that way again. I came into this whole situation wanting to make amends, thinking I could get him alone after practice and just talk it out so Coach didn’t have to make a big deal out of it.

  Apparently I should have let him handle it, because as my new teammates separate us, I know it’s only going to be the first of many scuffles we get into. I’m pretty sure we’ll be at each other's throats again before the scrimmage is over.

  "Yo, you got some brass balls on you, my man," one of the defensive linemen says, slapping my pads. "Never seen anybody take on Vincent like that."

  "We've got a history," I grind out, not bothering to hide it. It's not like the story isn't easy to find if someone's looking up both our names. The night we finally threw down, it made the front page.

  I get into position, but I don't see his number twenty-three jersey anywhere on the other side of the line. A quick glance shows me he's on the sidelines, his position replaced by another walk-on. And that distance instantly calms the rage that was still simmering in me like a pot left on the back burner. I blow out a breath, take stock of my surroundings, and get my head squarely in the game, able to completely block out the fact that I know Nate's watching me.

  My dad might think this place is a shithole, but it's on me to prove to my teammates that a D2 redshirt is worth a space; that I'm more than just the son of a Heisman-winning tight end.

  Even when Nate shuffles back into the mix, I do my best to ignore him. He keeps tossing me glances before the snap, like he's trying to goad me into flinching offsides, or worse. It's the same bullshit games we played when we were in high school, and I don't have the patience for it anymore.

  I also don't have the patience for his showboating.

  When the QB called an audible and Nate darted behind the line, I knew they were gunning for a deep pass. I purposefully lagged behind him, pacing myself because Nate likes to put on an extra burst of speed once he gets his hands on the ball. I saw the shadow of the ball as it sailed overhead and knew it was out of my reach, so I just sped up to be sure I could get to Nate.

  And I'll give him credit: he pulled off some crazy feat of athleticism to give me the slip. Caught the ball right by the sidelines, pivoted on one foot, leapt over my intended tackle, and strode with his gazelle legs all the way to the end zone.

  Now he's giving a little show that would get him penalized in an actual game, high-stepping on the painted grass, looking back at me with this shit-eating grin on his face as I get to my feet.

  If we didn't have a history, I'd probably just roll my eyes and get on with my life. But it's like he's purposefully rubbing it in my face.

  Look at you, you worthless piece of shit. Who do you think you're fooling? You don't belong here. Let the real ball players do their jobs.

  It lights a fire in me, and that chip on my shoulder takes on a whole new weight as I purposely look for ways to tweak him. I save my try-harding for when I know we're going to be in the same play and wait for the perfect moment to read his route, cutting him short on it and snapping up the ball before it can reach his waiting hands.

  But I don't have Nate's speed. It takes me a second to get my bearings and find a hole in the scattered offense that's just realizing there was a turnover. Just enough time for Nate to catch up and collide with me, his hands clutching my pads, using momentum to his advantage and pulling me down.

  The tackle on its own wouldn't have bothered me so much. It was a clean grab and a good play to stop me from running a pick six back to the end zone.

  But this is Nate Vincent. He can't just make a good play, especially when it comes to me. The second I try to get up, he shoves me back to the ground hard, his palm pressed to my chest. Next thing I know, his ass is sitting on top of me, the full weight of him pinning me to the ground.

  "Get the fuck off me," I growl, shoving at him.

  Nate doesn't budge. "What's the matter, Collins? Don't like it when somebody does it to you?"

  "I didn't hold you to the ground like a--"

  His eyes blaze. "Like a what, Collins? Like a fag?"

  The force of what he says hits me as hard as the word itself. Guys talk stupid homophobic shit in locker rooms all day, but we both know this is more than that.

  Because I was the first person to find out Nate Vincent likes guys. And I'm the reason the rest of his team found out about it not long after.

  "--Like an asshole," I finish, glaring up at him.

  The way he's looking at me, like he's got me all figured out as some bigoted piece of shit who took pleasure in outing him, makes my stomach turn. But instead of trying to
explain myself, I just do everything in my power to get out from under him, using his face mask as leverage to yank him to the side.

  That pisses him off even more. He grabs for me as I'm trying to get up off the ground, and before I know it we're caught up in another schoolyard fight, helmets getting pulled off, pads all fucked up, fists flying. My hits connect, but I barely even notice.

  Our teammates try to yank us apart, but it's the stern bark of the coach that makes me stop.

  "Get your asses off this field!"

  I read that Coach Ladner was a hard man, and I just brushed it off. Considering all the coaches trying to live up to Steve Spurrier's legacy as a hardass at every other Florida college, I didn't think it was possible to be intimidated by the Mavericks' coach. But the look he gives us could freeze hell itself, and I scramble to my feet, not even worrying about Nate anymore.

  Jesus. My first day of practice and I'm already acting like some stupid kid again. I'll be lucky if I ever see anything but the bench here, too.

  And then I'll have to explain to my dad that it's not some "unfair bias" on the part of the coaches or staff. I'll have to tell him his son is just a fuck up who can't keep his head on straight.

  "Andrews, Burkhart, fill in for these idiots," Coach says, nodding sharply to the other guys. "You two," his attention swings back to us, "park your asses right over there and wait for me. You so much as look at each other the wrong way, I'll make sure neither of you start this year."

  I finally venture a glance at Nate and see the blood's drained out of his face, leaving him deathly pale. Maybe he's been getting as caught up in the moment as me. Maybe we can finally put this thing behind us. Maybe--

  "Swear to God, Collins, if you fuck this up for me again--"

  Seriously?

  "You're the one who attacked me just now. Jesus, Vincent. Are you really so self-centered you think I just came here to fuck with you?"