The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football #1)(4)

“Don’t look so freaked out,” I drawl.

Hollis pops a second Ding Dong in his mouth. “We’ve seen your thinking. Your ideas can be a lot of work.”

“You’re still pissy about the pie-throwing contest at the Kappa house,” I say. “It raised a shit ton of money. Sorry you took a lot of cream in the face, Hollis.”

He groans. “I can’t even look at pie without flinching. You know I love sweets.”

“You volunteered,” Crew reminds him.

Hollis points at me. “He convinced me! He said there’d be hot girls in bikinis throwing pie. You forgot to mention there’d also be a line of Pikes and ATOs who’d want a piece of me. I had black eyes for a week.”

Crew smirks. “River could convince a nun to give up her panties.”

“Why would I when I have an entire frat to mess with,” I say on a laugh as I shift on my feet, adjusting my shoulders, fidgeting. “Anyway…today’s Monday, and even though our season is over, it’s a fresh start. There’s a new year coming, and I need something, not really a resolution, but…” I pause, mulling it over in my head. “I need to figure out my future. I’m at a crossroads.”

“Feeling the same,” Crew mutters.

“Dude,” comes from Hollis. “It’s too early to discuss heavy shit.”

We laugh.

Later, after telling them bye, I step off the porch and my fingers jiggle my keys, startling the hawk from his tree. He buzzes past me as he flies across the yard. Fly on, man. Find a hot bird babe and have some little bird babies.

Then I’m down a rabbit hole wondering if hawks mate for life.

I get in the truck and crank it.

I know what my monsters are.

I can’t wave a magic wand and cure Mom.

I can’t go back in time and fix a disastrous football season.

I can’t fix my learning issues.

But…

I can pass this class.

I can stop thinking about that girl in my class. She makes my skin tighten, the hair on my arms rise. Even my scalp does weird things when I see her.

I hate that feeling. It goes against everything I believe about brotherhood. It’s disloyal as shit, and I want to scrub it off my skin.

She doesn’t belong to me.

She loves him.

My friend. My frat brother.

My hands clench the steering wheel.

“You do not exist, Anastasia Bailey. You. Are. No. One. To. Me.”

Yeah.

Been saying that since the moment I saw her.

Fighting the pull of my thoughts, I stare down at the inked letters on both sets of fingers that spell THREE under the knuckles. It’s my jersey number and Dad’s. It represents the family triad: man, woman, child; it’s birth, love, and death.

I focus on three things I’m grateful for: despite my learning issues, my IQ is higher than the norm (shocker); I have the frat; and I have my team.

I don’t have her.

But it’s enough.

Right?





2





ANA! I got my email acceptance to Harvard! I’m going to the best law school in the country! I had to tell you first!!!!! is the text from Donovan as I trudge up the steps of the Wyler Humanities Building.

Happiness flares bright at my boyfriend’s news. I smile at his overuse of exclamations. He must be ecstatic. I come to an abrupt stop and let out a whoop as I punch a victorious fist at the sky. Good for him!

A tall, muscular guy in a purple shirt bumps into me and mutters something under his breath as his arm brushes against mine. Tingles dance down my spine. Without looking up, I murmur “Sorry” to his back as I let my backpack fall to the steps and type out a response.

I knew you had it from day one! I end it with several heart emojis. I’m about to send another text suggesting we meet up when one comes from him.

Have you gotten your email yet?

Elation for him takes a nosedive as unease curls around me, thick and heavy. My throat tightens as if needles are pricking it. We applied to Harvard Law on the same day, both of our laptops on our knees as we sat on his bed at the Kappa house and simultaneously pushed the button. He made a big production out of it, giving me a kiss for luck afterward. He even bought us matching crimson and black Harvard shirts he ordered online. That shirt now hangs in my closet, taunting me.

My LSAT score is in the top ten percent of the country, but I don’t have the volunteer activities, the self-made charity foundations, or the social clubs. Between my classes and waiting tables, I barely have time to date Donovan.

He’s been planning for Harvard since he enrolled at Braxton College. His freshman year he established a charity to donate tennis shoes to needy children in Honduras. Genius. He invested five grand into the website, rented a storage facility, hired a small crew to ship them out, all while raising money for sponsors. Shoes for Children has been going strong for three and a half years. There’s no telling how much of his own money he’s put into it. Because his family is wealthy, I remind myself. They’re Harvard alumni. That had to have helped his application.

Ana? You there?

A lump of cement swirls in my gut as I stare at his words.

My rejection email came five days ago. Not even waitlisted.

My official letter arrived the next day, like I needed physical confirmation of being a reject. A pit of emptiness pulls at me, and I shove it away before its tentacles can dig too deep.