2
MASON
We headed into the locker room together, neither one of us really saying anything. Ryder was acting weird and it had us both feeling a little off our game.
Obviously not out on the field, but it was the off-the-field activities that had been lacking of late. I felt like the only time the three musketeers really got together was for practice and games, and that had never been us. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the beginning of the end for our little trio. If ours was just a friendship you made in college and then slowly drifted away from.
I’d never thought that before. Pretty much since we decided we didn’t hate each other, the three of us had been like brothers. The thought that one of us was pulling away didn’t sit well with me, and I was pretty sure it didn’t sit well with Kingston either.
“Well, he’s definitely not freaking out about the big game,” Kingston said, stripping down and tossing his practice gear in the laundry hamper in the corner.
“No shit,” I said, my bear grumbling. “Coach has turned him into some kind of play-studying robot. Doubt he even remembers how to relax at this point.”
“Kind of our duty as his brothers to remind him, don’t you think?” Kingston asked.
I looked at him suspiciously, eyes narrowing as I pulled my clothes out of the locker. “Got something in mind?”
He shrugged innocently. “Maybe. Might be working on something. We’ll see if it happens.”
“And that’s all you’re going to tell me, isn’t it, asshole?”
He grinned.
I growled and slammed my locker shut. One of my best friends was acting like he was replaced with some kind of focused automaton and my other best friend was leaving me in the dark with his scheming. Some musketeers.
“Where are you going?” Kingston asked as I threw on my sweats and hefted my duffel over my shoulder. “Coach wanted us to hit the gym, remember?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But he didn’t say it had to be this gym.”
Kingston rolled his eyes. “We have a perfectly good gym on site where we’re not going to have our pictures taken or plastered on the internet, so why do you always insist on going to your gym downtown?”
I grinned, shrugged. “I can get a little run in beforehand, too. You know a little solace goes a long way in helping me focus. Plus, I like the view.”
To anyone else hearing that, it was entirely possible that they’d come to the wrong conclusion. Our gym in the stadium was buried underground, no windows, no natural light at all. And the gym I liked to go to downtown had great sweeping vistas of the whole city, perched high atop a skyscraper.
But those weren’t the views I was talking about and Kingston knew it.
He shook his head. “Have you ever actually had any luck picking someone up at the gym?”
I snorted. “Haven’t even tried. You don’t shit where you eat, bro. You think I want to ruin my favorite place in the city with some needy chick pestering me while I’m doing pull-ups about why I never called her the next morning. It’s just nice to see something around the gym other than sweaty ass dudes all the time.”
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. You’ve convinced me. You think there’s any chance Ryder has changed his mind?”
I gave him a look and he sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s just go.”
I didn’t know when it happened. When winning became so important to Ryder. I mean, winning had always been important to all of us. We were football players for Pete’s sake, but at some point, something shifted for Ryder and winning became the only important thing. It felt like there should be something we could do to help him, but I didn’t think there was anything to be done until after the Championship. Maybe our friend would miraculously return to us after that.
Or it would just fuel his need even more? When you’ve been obsessed with proving you’re the best, what happened when you finally did it? What was left to fight for? My bear paced, anxiety ridden for our friend.
At the gym, I made a beeline for the smoothie bar. I didn’t care a whole lot about smoothies, but I did like seeing who was the latest to come through the revolving door of cute smoothie girls behind the counter. There seemed to be a different one every time I came, and they all liked flirting. It might have been a hiring requirement for all I knew.
I found Kingston already setting up his barbell and I stood to the side with my protein-laden peanut butter-banana smoothie in hand.
“What the fuck is that?” he asked, looking up from the weights.
“The fuck does it look like? It’s a smoothie.”
He gave me another look. “I know what the fuck a smoothie is, dumbass—”
“You’re the one that asked.”
“—I’m wondering what the fuck you’re doing with three thousand calories in a cup when Coach said you’re getting soft.”
I flipped him the bird. “I bet I can still kick your ass six ways to Sunday at anything in this damn gym. I’ll show you who’s going soft.”
“Yeah? You finally learned to bench more than the naked bar?”
“Fuck you,” I grumbled, still sucking on the straw. “What’ve you got on there? Two-hundred? Pussy.”
“Just warming up,” he said back, neither one of us willing to give the other an inch.
“How about we see who’s really going soft? A little friendly competition?”
“Fine.”
It’s something we’d done time and time again since the beginning of college. When we’re stressed we just go extra hard in the gym. It gets out the nerves and makes us stronger. Two birds.
“Make it two-fifty. Ten reps each, we’ll up it twenty-five until someone calls Uncle.”
“Sure as hell isn’t going to be me,” he said, sliding a couple extra plates onto the bar, settling himself under it. I set my drink down to spot him.
“All right, let’s see what those spaghetti arms can do.”
He powered through the ten reps and grinned at me. “Spaghetti arms,” he grumbled shaking his head. “Come on, your turn, dickhead.”
I settled down on the bench, got my grips on the bar, and lifted it, my muscles screaming already. For all my bravado, benching two-fifty wasn’t exactly something I did often. That was more of a defensive line workout. My position on the team needed me built for speed and agility. Though it didn’t hurt to be able to fend off beefy three-hundred-plus pound linebackers.
“Three hundred,” I groaned, slipping off of the bench.
“You sure you’re not already tuckered out?” Kingston teased.
“Add the fucking plates.”
My bear bristled at his insult, but didn’t feel the need to challenge him. I liked a good friendly competition with my bros, but my bear was fueled more by seclusion and long runs rather than confrontation. I guess that influenced why I liked my position on the team so much.
Kingston did the ten reps without much struggle and I wondered when the hell he’d gotten so strong. When we entered college we were always about the same, mostly because we did every workout together, but now that we needed such specialized routines as we looked toward getting drafted in the NFL, I guess maybe I had fallen behind a bit.
I made it through the ten reps, but only just barely and my chest was screaming with fire by the last one.
“Three-fifty,” I said, knowing there was no way in hell I’d be able to do it, but wanting to see if Kingston could. He didn’t even hesitate putting the plates on.
He got four reps before his arms started shaking and he tapped out.
“Beat four,” he said, hopping up, looking so fucking pleased with himself.
I took a deep breath and slid onto the bench, eyeing the plates on both sides of the bar, trying to size them up. This whole contest was stupid and I knew it. If one of us injured ourselves this close to the big game, we’d never hear the end of it. Not from Coach, not from the team, not even from fans and local journalists. An injury this close to the Championships could land you smack dab in the ‘tragic career ending’ list.
Still, I couldn’t show him that I was worried at all. I gripped the bar, twisted my hands around it, finding the right grip, and lifted it.
Holy fuck.
I brought it down slowly, my chest straining, my arms taking more of the work than they should in this position, and then I lifted it back up.
“One,” I grunted.
“No shame in tapping out,” Kingston teased. I glared at him, bringing the weight down and up again. My bear roared, but not at Kingston. He was roaring at me for being such a stubborn ass. A lot was on the line and this was a joke.
“Two.” My arms were trembling, my muscles pushed to their absolute limit.
“Three,” I groaned through clenched teeth.
Kingston wasn’t looking so smirky now. “Mase, seriously, no shame in…”
“Four,” I finally managed through sheer force of will, slamming the bar back into place.
“Fuck,” I groaned, catching my breath.
“You’re an idiot,” he said, shaking his head.
“An idiot that you didn’t beat,” I said, grinning.
He shook his head, but I wasn’t through yet. A tie was no winning.
“Think you can beat me in a mile?” I asked. He grinned. Kingston was built for running. Well, he was built for sprinting. Sustaining that kind of explosive speed for a mile was impossible and I thought I might have a chance on stamina. After all, I was the one running down the field every play just in case Ryder tossed me the ball. Kingston just had to hand around the line of scrimmage and only run if he got the ball. Big difference in training styles there.
“You’re on.”
The gym had an indoor track that was about a quarter of a mile, so we agreed to four laps.
The first two laps, he had me beat, no problem, but I could tell he was losing steam. He didn’t spend hours and hours training endurance like I did. And by the third lap, I was gaining on him. As we started the final lap, we were running side by side, both of us pushing harder than we would have if we weren’t racing.
I was pretty sure that was Coach’s whole plan when he told us both we needed to hit the gym. He knew that the two of us competing together would have us both going harder in the gym than either of us would ever do individually. Sneaky bastard.
We crossed the finish line and it was too close to know who did it first. We’d need some kind of Olympic review or something. We’d both gone hard as hell though and were doubled over, hands on knees, sucking in deep gulping breaths.
“That’s… two for two,” he said through gasping pants.
“There’s gotta be something I can kick your ass at,” I said, my breathing slowing enough for normal conversation. “Glove up?”
He shook his head. “I can’t, man.”
I frowned. I still hadn’t proved my superiority. We couldn’t stop now. “Since when don’t you want to hop in the ring?”
Kingston’s real love, the thing he’d probably have done if football hadn’t given him scholarships and the bright future he had, was boxing. I’d never been all that into it until I met him, and then I’d gotten really into it. But only as a workout. Kingston was into all of it. He liked watching matches, he liked being in matches, he liked betting on matches. For him to turn down a turn in the ring with me was definitely out of the ordinary.
“My sister’s coming home from college today,” he said. “Trying to be a good big brother and actually… you know, see her.”
“When are you going to introduce me to this sister of yours? All these years and I don’t think Ryder or I have ever even seen a picture of her.”
Kingston shot me a warning look. “There’s a reason for that. If either of you ever met her I’d have to fucking kill you.”
I laughed, but he didn’t so much as crack a smile. “Have fun, I guess,” I said as he headed to the showers. He waved over his head, walking away, leaving me feeling like I’d somehow lost the competition anyway.