Page 12 of First Down Promise

“Now who’s being a prick?” Pete bristles. “Fuck, we shouldn’t be this wrecked this early in the season.”

“We haven’t even had our first home game yet.”

Pete sighs. “I know.”

While Pete continues driving, I pull out my phone and open a social media app. A post from the Stallions’ squad page is at the top of my feed from a recent practice, and I swipe through the carousel of photos until I land on one of Abby and another squad member. They’re smiling at each other like they’ve known each other their whole lives, but I can’t peel my eyes from the way Abby’s honey curls float around her shoulders mid-air. I snap myself out of it and swipe to the next picture, but my thumb hovers over the screen, twitching to go back to the one of Abby.

Pete clears his throat. “Think Dane actually has food or…?” I hit the power button on the side of my phone, set it in my lap, and press the back of my head into the headrest.

“He said he was picking something up,” I answer.

“I hope it’s nothing light. Dane counts his macros like he has nothing better to do.”

“Does he?”

“If he’s not counting his macros, he’s checking the stocks,” Pete says. He glances at me and smirks, and while I never could see the resemblance between him and his sister, that smirk is all too similar to hers in the photo.

“Fair,” I mumble and clear my throat. “So, what’s Abby doing tonight?”

“I don’t know. Something, I’m sure,” he answers as he pulls onto Dane’s long driveway through the open gates. I clench my jaw. When will Pete pull his head out of his ass? I look through the windshield and notice Coop’s truck parked next to Dane’s SUV. I breathe out, brushing off the urge to flick Pete between the eyes.

“Coop beat us here.”

“Another one who needs a hobby,” Pete snarks.

“What’s your deal, man? You love the guys?” I ask.

Pete puts the car in park and cuts the engine. “Nothing really. Just hurting from practice. How many more seasons do I really have in me? It feels weird bitching about this when you have three more under your belt than I do.”

“I hurt too. Always. I guess you’re still numbing yourself out to it,” I reply, and he nods.

“After this season, I’ll be soaking in Epsom salts if you need me. We better make it to the Championship,” Pete curses under his breath and opens his car door.

I follow him up to Dane’s front door. His house is all glass with floor-to-ceiling windows and a black exterior, tucked away forty-five minutes from Nashville. I can’t think of a more fitting place for him—dark and secluded. Pete rings the doorbell, but Dane answers the door not even a beat later.

“You’re late,” Dane teases, and Pete brushes past him.

“Pete had to do his ten-step hair routine,” I joke to Dane, who chuckles.

Coop is sitting at the marble kitchen island where the fixings for burritos and tacos are scattered across it. He has a bowl of tortilla chips and guacamole in front of him, and at the rate he’s going, I doubt he’ll share.

“I don’t want to hear shit. Guac is made of veggies,” Coop rasps to Pete.

“Didn’t say anything,” Pete says.

“Anyone want a drink?” Dane asks.

“We need to keep it clean for the first home game,” Pete answers for everyone. This clean living version of Pete always wears off fast. “What inspired you to have company?”

Dane grins widely and leads us through the open floor plan to what would normally be a family room. Coop brings a small paper plate with chips and dip, and I give him a look.

“Really?”

“I gotta stay big,” Coop answers.

I’m an inch taller than Coop, but he easily has fifty pounds on me. But stat-wise? Dane has the rest of us beat in height and weight, though Coop looks heavier. Dane is pretty proud of his muscle mass ratio, and I grin like an idiot to myself when I remember Pete comparing his to Dane’s. The best way to describe Pete’s reaction? A dog with its tail between its legs.

“You double-dipping?” I ask.