“Go ask her out. She’s creaming for you, Carillo. It’s the fucking accent. Chicks love that southern drawl shit. I’m so fucking pissed that I was born in Cali. I’d clean up if I said ‘y’all’ and ‘fixin’ every other word,” Jake complained.
“And the Italian thing. He speaks fucking Italian, fluently.” Ashton shook his head and gripped my arm. “Use your powers, Alabama. For the sake of jocks everywhere, use the fucking *-magnet powers you’ve been granted!” Ashton and Jake cracked up laughing, and Ashton dropped his hand.
Throwing my empty bottle to the ground, my stomach rolled at just the thought of speaking to the cheerleader. I didn’t even know her damn name. Finally, I shook my head. “Nah. I’m good,” I replied, trying to dodge the whole damn thing.
I turned to run back to centerfield, when Ashton and Jake moved to stand in my path, all laughter forgotten. Ashton was the Quarterback for the Washington Huskies, and Jake was the Running Back. They were both glaring at me. I said nothing because we exchanged this crap all the time. Like every day.
“Carillo, ask her out, man. She’s a sure thing. At some point you gotta talk to someone that isn’t wearing pads or shares your blood. Stacey said she likes you, really likes you. She asks about you all the time.” My face burned with embarrassment. I’d seen Stacey—Jake’s girlfriend—beside the redhead as she practiced her cheers on the side of the field, but I just wasn’t interested.
My eyes sought the turf, and we remained silent for what seemed like forever. A hand landed on my arm again—Jake. He sighed. “Fine, I’ll shut up. But have you at least given any thought to moving into the frat house? You know the guys all want you there. You should be living on campus, not with your brother.” Jake huffed, and added, “Granted, your brother’s fucking Austin Carillo, a Seahawk, and you live in a damn mansion, but you should be here with us. Parties and *. You’re missing out, Alabama.”
I smirked at Jake’s nickname for me. Another reason why I hardly ever talked; my strong Bama accent stuck out like a sore thumb against the predominantly west coast students. Jake was right, it got me attention, attention most guys would die for. But it was only torture for me.
Feeling unease in my stomach at the thought of moving into the frat house, I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m probably just gonna stay at my place. Y’all know I got the pool house now. I’m good on my own. Prefer my own space.”
After the silence that followed, I looked up to see Jake and Ashton staring at me in obvious disappointment. I met their stares, and with defeated shoulders, they wordlessly stepped aside. I picked up my feet and jogged back toward centerfield, trying hard to avoid a continuation of this conversation. Then Ashton shouted, “We just want you to get out more, Alabama! It’s not good being on your own all the time!”
Stopping dead, I looked back and assured him, “I’m good on my own. I ain’t into all the parties and stuff that you guys are. It just isn’t me. So leave me alone, yeah? I’m good as I am. I’m happy.”
Jake and Ashton turned away without saying anything else, and as they walked to grab their drink, I glanced over at the redhead and felt my face flame with embarrassment, as I caught her still staring at me. My hand tightened on my helmet strap, and I immediately dropped my gaze. Truth was, I didn’t even like her, not like that anyway. I didn’t even know her. I’d never given her a chance to speak to me. I’d run away every time.
She wasn’t the first to pay me attention; in fact, it happened all the time and I hated it. I wasn’t good with words. I wasn’t good with any of the dating crap. I played ball, I studied, and I kept to myself.
That was my life.
And I didn’t want it to change.
“Carillo. You got twenty more sprints, then you can hit the showers,” Coach shouted, as I took my place back on the field. Putting my head down, drawing myself down to focus, I got it done.
Twenty sprints later, I threw a wave to Jake and Ashton who were still hitting their sprints. I made my way inside. I always finished first. Football was my life. It was what I did best. It was the only constant I’d ever had; I could trust football, I could trust the routine.
It never let me down.
It never left.
My cleats tapped on the tile floor of the locker room as I toweled off sweat from my face. I hit the showers, and in less than five minutes under the boiling spray, with only a towel around my waist, I headed into the locker room. I entered the change area, just as a movement caught my eye, right in front of my station.
A girl. A petite, thin girl—scraggly long blond hair sticking out of a pulled up hood; dressed in dirty black jeans, chucks riddled with holes, and a scuffed black leather jacket.
I froze, startled by what the hell a girl was doing in here, in the football locker room. Then my eyes widened when I realized exactly what she was doing. Her left side was to me, her rail thin body showing me most of her back.