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

charity. Fuck if I’m going to take his hand-outs.
    “I wanna pay for my own drinks,” I say, getting my card back out and shoving it toward Ben.
    “I told you it’s taken care of, Dante. Don’t worry about it.”
    “Can’t you take it off his card and put it on mine?”
    “Not without having his card here,” he says, giving me a suspicious look. “Look, if this is some sort of macho bullshit, can I give you some advice: Just take the free drinks.”
    I don’t want his advice, or Erickson’s “free” drinks. In my experience, nothing’s ever free. Even if Erickson won’t ask me to repay him, this is always going to be there between us.
    “Just add the charge to my card, then.”
    “You want to pay for your drinks twice?”
    The other guys have started piling out, with the less inebriated helping the ones who overdid it. Most of them just live a few blocks over, and there’s a bus that runs after 11 or so to take students back to their dorms and apartments.
    Nobody will hear me argue this point, but that’s just fine. This isn’t for them. I’m not trying to prove I’m well enough off to handle my own shit.
    I’m doing this for me.
    “Yeah,” I say, offering my card again.
    Ben shrugs, but tallies up some charges and runs it just the same.
    As I head out and walk back to my neighborhood, I realize what it is about Erickson; why I can’t just treat him like everybody else.
    He and I are from two different worlds. Best to just accept that now. We can play on the same field. I can be nice to him and respect his ability. But we aren’t ever going to be equals; we aren’t ever going to be friends.

9
    Mitch
    T he next time we have a full scrimmage in practice, I do my best not to get in Mills’ way.
    I spent a few nights memorizing all the plays; drawing out the routes on my tablet and retracing them with my finger, keeping in mind where I’m supposed to be on each play, depending on my position.
    At first, it all works out great. I’m stopping ball carriers left and right. No sacks yet, but the line’s starting to adapt to me, and I’ve gotten a chance to play with some first-string guys from last year who are better at pushback.
    I see Mills on the other side of the field, and it seems like he’s having just as much success. My nerves are smoothed over, and for a couple hours, I’m just able to enjoy the game. Sure, practice is brutal. We’re doing two-a-days now with just a few hours between the first and last practice, and the Florida heat is a real problem. But having the chance to do something I love makes it worth it.
    By the time the second practice rolls around, though, Mills and I are put on the same side of the field. I can’t really read his expression when he gives me a slow nod of acknowledgment, but I smile at him just the same. I’m determined not to be a pain in his ass. I’d rather learn from him than have him hate me, and I don’t want to undo the strides we’ve been making so far.
    Anything to erase that awkward locker room incident.
    So when we’re put on the same play, both of us covering the same side, I don’t play as aggressively as I could. I see the hole, and I know the guy holding me doesn’t have a great grip. I could wrench myself away from him and get to the ball carrier; make sure he’s taken down behind the line of scrimmage.
    But I don’t. I figure someone else will plug up that hole, but it never happens. The RB barrels right through it and gains a down. Coach’s whistle calls the play dead.
    “What the fuck was that, Erickson? He barely had a hold on you.”
    “Won’t happen again, Coach,” I say around my mouthguard.
    But Coach Bradford isn’t the only one pissed. Somehow in trying not to get in Mills’ way, I’ve managed to end up on his radar all the same. He jogs up to me, and the sun glints off his polished helmet. I squint, trying to look him in the eyes, but it’s impossible to see what he’s thinking or feeling.
    “I know what