False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) by Alison Hendricks Read Free Book Online Page A

when I was watching him. He was up at the bar, and while I couldn’t see what he was doing, he was the only person up here who would’ve done something like that.
    “Your anonymous benefactor happen to be about my size with blond hair?”
    “Don’t remember,” Ben says, in a way that immediately tells me he does.
    It has to be Erickson. Not only did he not accept my offer to buy his drink, but he paid for me, too. My lips press into a thin line. I don’t want to jump to the worst conclusion possible. Maybe he just… thought he was being nice. Maybe he’s hoping he can buy my friendship with a few rounds of beer.
    I guess there are worse ways to go about it.
    Sommers comes up, his arm draping around my shoulders. His too-loud voice rings through my ears. “Mills! I love this guy. Don’t you love this guy?”
    He smells like he took a bath in beer, or like he’s at least wearing it as a cologne.
    “You’re not my type, Sommers.”
    He makes a sound of dissent through his teeth. “Hey, I don’t remember how much I drank,” he tells Ben, his words slurring. “You got a… thing. The thing that says how much I drank?”
    I can’t help but snort, even while my mind is trying to wrestle with the implication of Erickson obviously paying off my tab.
    “Your tab’s already covered. Everybody’s tab is covered, so put your cards away and get out of my bar,” Ben says, a bit louder so the other guys can hear.
    Some of them immediately celebrate. There are a few confused murmurings. Sommers just shrugs and misses his wallet with his card a few times before finally managing it. But I’m left standing up at the bar, trying to figure out how the fuck Erickson paid for everyone.
    And why.
    Maybe Ben’s just fucking with me. Maybe everyone’s shit was on the house tonight. But in the four years I’ve been coming here, I’ve only seen him do that once, and it was after we won the bowl game in Tampa. It was also capped, so we couldn’t go crazy with the pitchers.
    It had to be Erickson. It’s not like one of the other Eastshore students would’ve done it, or one of the few random people who stopped in tonight. Erickson was up at the bar, and I watched him lean over it like he was signing for something.
    That had to be several hundred dollars’ worth of beer. How the fuck did he afford that?
    “Dude, his family’s loaded,” I hear Sommers say.
    “I thought he was on scholarship?”
    “Nope, pays tuition himself.”
    I turn back to the group, folding my arms over my chest. “Who?”
    I already know the answer even before Sommers speaks up.
    “Erickson, man. Look him up if you don’t believe me.”
    I frown, grabbing my phone out of my pocket. One quick Google search reveals… not a whole lot, at first. There are a couple of articles about our summer practices, and Erickson is mentioned in those. Scrolling down, I get a social media profile and a few links that don’t look like they have anything to do with him.
    Erica peers over my shoulder. “Look for Gregory Erickson. That’s his dad.”
    Sure enough, that brings up a ton of results, including images of a stone-faced man who looks a lot like the Erickson I know.
    I check out some of the articles. He’s listed as one of the wealthiest CEOs in New England. Apparently he owns five different companies, and has investments worth millions of dollars.
    Millions.
    What. The. Fuck.
    “Told you,” Sommers said proudly. “Beer’s probably like a drop in the fucking bucket.”
    I feel a little sick. I should be happy, like everybody else. At the very least, I should just shrug and accept it. So what if some rich kid wants to pay off my tab?
    But to me, it’s something else. Not just a harmless gesture. Not even a ploy for friends.
    There’s a reason I don’t tell people my situation. They see me and figure the cards must be stacked against me already. I can already see the pity and the scorn now, and I don’t want it. I don’t want some rich kid’s