Originally Chapter 7 (after the first college party)

Lincoln

“There you go! There you go! There you go!” Coach Harris yells, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the football slides into my fingers. “That’s what I want to see. Beautiful. Beautiful!” When he gets really excited and amped up, he repeats himself.

Pax has both arms raised, celebrating as well. Me, I’m not as impressed. I should have turned faster, this catch was ninety percent luck, and I’d prefer my margin of skill be higher.

“Paulson, you’re up. Let’s see you go far, baby.” Coach Harris claps his hands, his jaw vigorously working the wad of gum he always has between his molars as I jog back toward the others, tossing the ball I’d caught to one of the runners—a graduate assistant, who is essentially Harris’s bitch. I turn to watch Derek, taking deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth in order to level my breathing for my next sprint down the field.

“Paulson! Paulson!” Harris shouts. He’s a screamer. It doesn’t always mean he’s pissed, but with a quick glance, I know he’s upset because he’s stopped bouncing in place. “Cut means you shift your body and go a new direction. You don’t just turn your hips. Do you think the defense is going to let you twist out there like that? Show me you want this. Show me you want this.”

I swallow my grin. Everything about him failing makes me feel better about my last catch. What can I say? I’m a dick.

“Hey. You ready?” Paxton smacks the locker room bench with his fist, distracting me from my trance. I went from a lightning-quick shower to see Benny, our trainer, who put me into an ice bath and then rubbed my shoulder and calf. I don’t need either to be done, but he and Coach Harris insist. It’s purely for routine and superstition. They’ve begun to believe if I don’t, I’ll be injured again.

“What?” I ask, pulling my earbuds free and focusing on Pax.

“Get ready, asshole. My mom made your favorite, that shit with all the vegetables.”

That’s right. Dinner.

Dinner with the Lawson family.

I don’t agree to go to dinner at my own family’s house, but I do with Pax on occasion because his father is the dean, and his mom makes a pasta primavera with chicken and wine sauce and homemade bread that makes me wish I’d never get full.

“Yeah. Sorry. Just…”

Pax shakes his head. “Daydreaming about the cheer squad again?”

I crack a smile to cover my lie. “You know me too well.”

He throws my sweatshirt in my face. “Get dressed.”

I quickly pull on my jeans and a clean tee that smells more like perfume and less like laundry detergent. “Shit,” I mutter, digging through my duffel to see if I have any other shirts. I don’t. My bag is religiously cleaned out, so things don’t stink, but I still have to double-check and confirm the fact. To cover the scent, I pull on the black hoodie Pax had tossed at me. I push my feet into my sneakers and shove my practice gear into my locker and bag.

“You smell like a chick,” Pax says as we head out to the parking lot.

“You smell like my ass.”

He flips me off.

I make a lewd gesture with my tongue.

“I’m so hungry,” Pax says, starting his car. It’s a new sporty Honda Accord—a dependable yet flashy vehicle, much like Paxton. He flips on the seat warmers because the temperature dropped by thirty degrees today, making forty feel cold.

One of the best things about going to Paxton’s parents is because he’s the dean, he lives in close proximity to campus. The house we rent, campus, and the Lawsons house are set like a triangle, all less than fifteen minutes apart.

They began hosting dinners for the entire team the night before each home game. Often, they’re catered but sometimes, Paxton’s family cooks and makes enough to feed the small army we call a team.

The rest won’t be showing up for at least another hour. I should have told Pax I needed to go home first. I could have taken a power nap or done some of the goddamn homework that’s already coming out of my ears. The first month of football is tough because it’s still hot outside, and everyone is on summer vacation, making it a real struggle to wake up early and head to the gym or the field. But, once school begins, I start missing those weeks of practice when homework and lectures weren’t also bidding for my time and attention. This year is already off to a rough start, all of my professors are anxious to remind us we’re upperclassmen, and life is only going to get harder.

A fine mist clings to the windshield as he parks behind Rae’s small black Civic. The sight of it makes the blood thrum through my veins faster, more purposeful.

Since last Friday, my thoughts have been stuck in a loop—one that involves me tasting Rae’s neck and her sticking her hands down my pants. Of course, the last part didn’t happen, but that hasn’t stopped me from imagining it a thousand times. It’s Paxton’s fucking fault. If he hadn’t put a black mark on her and made a point of telling me to steer clear of her, I wouldn’t be thinking of her. This is one of those reverse psychology moments—wanting what I can’t have—the forbidden fruit. That’s why I didn’t dick around or give the excuse to do something before coming. I need to be around her so I can remind myself that I don’t have feelings for her. See her again, so I stop picturing full breasts and toned legs that my mind has engineered and perfected over the past ten days.

Paxton snaps a couple of times. It’s something our head coach, Harris, does constantly and has rubbed off on all of us players. “Where’s your head tonight?”

I shake my head to dispel thoughts of his sister. “Tired, man. I slept like shit last night. Arlo’s house guest was a screamer.”

“I keep telling you. Earbuds.”

“You’re like a grandpa, dude.”

Pax grins. “But, I sleep well.”

“A high-maintenance grandpa.”

Paxton opens the front door without knocking, calling out a greeting which is instantly reciprocated by his mom, Deborah, and quickly followed by his father, Cal—or Dr. Lawson. Mrs. Lawson is an attentive, kind woman. She often wears a pair of glasses that look too big for her face, which she calls vintage. Dr. Lawson is of average height and build. I’ve never seen him without a sweater vest on—even at our games or the few times I’ve been by during the summer. He’s more serious, less smiley than his wife. And when I’m here, he seems to keep his eyes on me like he doesn’t trust my intentions. Maybe it’s because he’s worried I’m checking out one of his daughters. Maybe he’s worried I’ll be a bad influence on his son. Who in the hell knows, but his wife seems to think I walk on water, so like many things in life—shit balances out.

“Did Pax ruin the surprise?” Mrs. Lawson hugs me tightly, securely—like a mother hugs one of her children. “I’m making your favorite. How have you been?”

I grin. “He might have let it slip, but it didn’t ruin the surprise. And, I’ve been well, thank you. How have you been? Is the school year treating you well?”

She smiles.

Manners.

Women fawn over manners, regardless of their age.

“I’m already missing summer,” she says with a sigh.

Margaret, Pax’s older sister, walks in, her hand buried deep in a bag of chips. “What’s up?” I imagine if she didn’t have all the piercings and tattoos, she and Rae might look more alike.

“Where’s your car?” Pax asks.

Margaret rolls her blue eyes. Her hair is a light shade of brown with thick stripes of purple. She and Rae have the same short and straight nose, and when they both smile, there’s something else that sparks resemblance. Their high cheekbones or maybe the fact they both raise their chins higher when they laugh because it’s definitely not their lips. Margaret has her dad’s lips. They’re thin and naturally curve into a frown. Last Friday, I got a close-up of Rae’s lips and realized how round and full her lips are, enunciated by how often she rubs them together.

“Impounded.” She chomps on a chip.

Dr. Lawson clears his throat, a look of disapproval passes over his features, showing another sign of the side of him that he seems to disguise so easily.

“Again?” Pax asks. “Party or protest?”

“They want to tear down the old library off Knott Street.”

“What old library?”

“It’s a bookstore,” Mrs. Lawson says.

Dr. Lawson rolls his eyes and then his neck. “You protested for a building you don’t even know what is?”

“We used to go there all the time!” Margaret extends a hand toward Pax and her mom as though looking for validation.

Mrs. Lawson nods. “We did. You guys were kids, though. I don’t think we’ve been since Rae was in middle school.”

Margaret nods triumphantly.

Dr. Lawson blinks slowly, looking exhausted. “You’re lucky Rae answered when you called. I’d have left you there for the weekend and let you consider what battles you want to choose.”

Margaret narrows her eyes—it’s another familiar look she shares with her little sister. “You wouldn’t have.”

“I would’ve,” Dr. Lawson insists.

Margaret swings her attention to her mom, her eyes wide with accusation. “Mom, tell him that if we only pick certain battles, we’re giving up our right to freedom.”

“Oh God,” Pax groans. “You know I love you, sis, but not tonight. The team is coming, and we’re celebrating football tonight.”

“Tell Dad he’s wrong, and my lips will be sealed. I won’t even roll my eyes when your coach starts snapping or asks to say a prayer like God is going to grant you guys a win. And I won’t talk about how sexist college sports are and how athletes bring in so much money and can’t even accept shoes, but coaches can make millions, and—”

“Dad, you’re wrong. Maggie’s right.” Pax declares, interrupting her rant. “I agree with her on protesting for the library.”

I chuckle, surprised he didn’t agree on the spot.

“Book store,” Mrs. Lawson corrects him.

“Yup. Exactly.” Paxton nods dismissively.

Dr. Lawson shakes his head, but he smirks. It makes him appear friendly for a moment before he stops and snatches the bag of chips from Margaret. “You folded so easily.”

“Like a lawn chair,” Pax admits. “Where’s Rae?”

“Homework,” Maggie says. “She just kicked me out, insisting she needs to focus.” She tilts her wrist, glancing at the large watch that sits atop it. “She has fifteen minutes left. Then I told her she’s cut off and has to act like a normal eighteen-year-old.”

“You guys need to ease up on the expectations this year and all the goal setting.” Pax looks at both of his parents.

“That’s what I said,” Maggie says. “She should have moved into the dorms for at least freshman year. It would have forced her out of her comfort zone.” Maggie steals the bag of chips back.

“You guys know your sister. She doesn’t need goals or expectations set for her. She sets them herself.” Mrs. Lawson shrugs. “She has lofty ambitions. Besides, she’s never been a free spirit; you took all those genes.” She wraps an arm around Maggie’s shoulders.

Maggie is looking at Dr. Lawson, though. “We say you guys, but we really mean Dad.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having goals and high expectations. If more students spent their nights studying, I’d have far less work to do about things that have nothing to do with education.”

“Maybe I can get her to come visit me in Prague for Christmas?” Maggie wads up the empty bag of chips. “Take her to concerts, let her sleep until two, eat pasta for breakfast.”

“Take me to Prague with you,” Pax says.

“The invitation is always open to you. You just have to make time in your busy football and social life for it.” She nods in my direction. “You can even bring your boyfriend.”

“Prague?” I ask.

She nods. “I’m going to live there for a couple of months before heading to Nepal.”

Dr. Lawson shifts, raising his chin as he swallows.

“I heard that’s where you got assigned. How do you feel about it?”

She shrugs. “I’m excited. I’ll be teaching kids English, and then after that, we’ll see where life takes me.” She glances at her watch again. “Until then, I have two weeks left to teach Rae to stop taking life so seriously, and then she’s your responsibility.” I know she’s looking at Pax, but her eyes graze me, and a weight settles on my shoulders and somewhere deep in my gut that distracts me from being hungry.