First down, p.1
First Down, page 1
Dedication
For Anna, whose support made this book possible.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extended Epilogue Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
By Grace Reilly
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
While I have tried to stay truthful to the realities of college football and college sports in general throughout this book when possible, there will be inaccuracies within, both intentional and unintentional.
Please visit my website for full content warnings, as some heavy topics are discussed in this book.
Chapter 1
James
I’ve just arrived on campus when my phone starts ringing.
My asshole little brothers made their ringtones match, so whenever either one of them calls, vintage Britney Spears blares out of the speaker. I’ve got nothing against Britney, obviously, the woman’s a goddess, but nothing about “Baby One More Time” screams number one nationally ranked college quarterback.
Of course, those fuckers know I don’t know how to change it back to something normal. I may be twenty-one and grew up on my phone like everyone else, but technology has never been my strong suit. And I’d rather strangle myself with my jock strap than ask either of them to help me with it.
And fine, maybe I like it. Just a little. I get out of the car and hum along as I pick up the phone, grateful no one is around. It wouldn’t do for McKee University’s new QB to make a first impression as a 2000s pop lover. I have a reputation from Louisiana State University to uphold.
Cooper’s voice fills my ear, rough and impatient like always, as I walk toward the administrative building. “You here yet?”
“Not near the house. I need to talk to the dean first, remember?”
He makes an agonized noise that sounds akin to a dying animal. “Dude. We’ve been waiting forever. If you don’t hurry up, I’m taking the owner’s suite.”
“What if I want the owner’s suite?” I hear my other little brother, Sebastian, say in the background.
“That should be for the guy who fucks the most, Sebby,” Coop says. “And you never bring chicks home and James is sworn off the V until he’s in the league, so that leaves me.”
“Age trumps fuckboy status,” I inform him.
“You’re barely older.”
“Irish twins,” I say with a grin, even though Cooper can’t see me. We’re technically not, since we have about two years between us, but our last name’s Callahan and we’re super close, so it’s a joke that’s always stuck around. (Although never in front of our mother, who can make balls shrivel up with a single look.) “Right, baby bro?”
I pull open the door, flashing the receptionist a smile. On the line, Coop and Seb continue to argue. I have it on good authority that my smile makes panties melt away, and this time is no exception. I see the moment the girl—a student worker—flicks her gaze down from my face to my groin.
“Hey, I gotta go. See you soon.” I hang up before Cooper has a chance to try and keep the conversation going. Despite his bluster, I know he won’t pull a move like that without talking to me first. And maybe I will let him have it—he’s right about the fact I’m not letting girls into my life right now. Not if I want to win the national championship and get drafted to the NFL in the first round.
“Hey,” the girl says. “Can I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Dean Lionetti.”
She leans over the appointment book in a way that very obviously lets me see the swell of her tits. She does have a fantastic pair of them. Maybe in another universe, I’d ask her out for a drink. Hook up with her. It’s been ages since I’ve seen a pair of tits, much less got to play with them. But that would be the definition of distraction, especially if she turned out to be all drama.
No distractions. I didn’t come to McKee for any reason except getting my football life back on track . . . and fine, yes, to get my degree. Which is why I’m in the Dean of Student Affairs’s office instead of on my new field, scoping out the territory.
“Name?” she asks.
“James Callahan.”
Her eyes widen in recognition. Maybe she’s an NFL fan and thinks of my father first. Or maybe she read something about me transferring schools. Either way, she looks about ready to climb me like a tree.
“Um, you can go on in. She knows you’re coming.”
“Thanks.” I’m proud that I manage to resist winking at her. If I do that, she’ll just find me on campus somehow and insist we’re soulmates.
I stride down the hallway and into Dean Lionetti’s office, taking stock of the surroundings as I do. I can’t help it; I notice everything. I’m used to taking in the other team’s defensive line, looking for subtle shifts in their play calling, figuring out where they’re going to try and crush our rush or passing game.
Dean Lionetti has a sweet setup. Fancy dark wood desk with a glass case of awards behind it. Books all along one wall, plus two velvet-covered chairs in front of the longer part of the desk’s L-shape. Behind the desk sits Dean Lionetti. Her gray hair must be natural; it falls at her chin-line in a severe bob. Her eyes are slate gray too, and her ’80s-style power suit? You guessed it, gray. She stands when she sees me, holding out her hand for a shake.
“Mr. Callahan.”
“Hey,” I say, then wince internally. Not that I seek this out, but usually people—women especially—are a bit warmer to me when they meet me. My mom calls it the Callahan charm, and it’s foolproof . . . except for now. Dean Lionetti is looking at me like she can’t believe I’m standing in her office. She must have some sort of immunity to all things dimples, because her gaze only sharpens as I take a seat.
“Thank you for coming in on short notice to talk,” she says. “I have some updates about your classes this semester.”
“Are there any problems?”
I only have a couple of major requirements left to fulfill in my senior year. My major is mathematics, so most of the classes I take deal in numbers alone, but I have space for an elective or two. This semester I signed up for marine biology, which is apparently easy and involves no essays, thank fuck. According to Seb, the professor is ancient and spends most of class showing National Geographic documentaries.
Dean Lionetti raises a gray eyebrow. “There is an issue with your writing class.”
Fuck. I have a lot of regrets about last year and letting myself fall off the wagon with schoolwork is a major one. I’m terrible at writing, but it’s still pathetic that I failed a writing class as a junior that I was supposed to take and pass freshman year anyway.
“I thought everything transferred.”
“Primarily, yes. But when we reviewed your records more closely, it revealed that you failed the required writing course the first time around. Perhaps at your old university they made concessions for athletes”—she says athletes like we’re all a fungal disease—“but here, we hold everyone to the same academic standards. The professor was kind enough to open a spot in his class, which you will retake this semester since it’s only offered in the fall.”
I feel that marine bio class slipping away by the second. Dean Lionetti’s tone makes it clear she thinks I’m dumber than a sack of rocks. She probably feels the same about all athletes. Which is total bullshit. What happened last fall was the anomaly; I’ve worked hard for my degree. As Dad constantly reminds us, our athletic careers will only last so long. Even if I have a successful NFL career—which I fully intend—most of my life will take place after I retire.
“I see,” I bite out.
“I’ve updated your schedule accordingly—the class will take your elective spot. If you have any questions, please take it up with my office or the registrar.”
She stands. She’s dismissing me without a discussion.
I swallow down my embarrassment, although my ears feel hot.
Welcome to McKee University.
I take a deep breath and remind myself why I’m here. Degree, then the NFL.
I just have to find a way to get through this class first.
* * *
When I arrive at the house, Seb is sitting cross-legged on the floor, untangling a ball of wires. I give him a wave as I set my keys down on the foyer table, then look around the den. Aside from Seb and his mess, there’s not much going on yet, just an L-shaped leather couch, a coffee table, and a TV mounted on the wall. When we decided to rent this place for the year, seeing as all three of us would be at the same university, the listing said it wasn’t furnished. I have a sneaking suspicion about who made this happen.
“Sandra sent it all,” Seb says, gesturing around the room with the ball of wires. “The delivery guys set it up like this, but we could move it if we need to.”
Mom works scary-fast. I’m sure that the moment she heard her boys, the two she carried and the one she adopted, were sharing a house together, she went to Pottery Barn. Lucky for us she has nice taste.
There’s a crash overhead, and we both glance up with a wince.
“He’s doing some redecorating,” Seb says. “How was the meeting?”
I wander into the kitchen. I doubt the fridge is stocked yet, but a guy can hope there’s at least beer. I don’t drink much during the season, but technically we still have a couple days before everything gets in full swing. Lo and behold, there’s a six-pack sitting on one of the shelves next to a container of pineapple and a carton of eggs, and for some reason, a little jar of horseradish.
Seb appears in the doorway as I bring the heel of my hand down on the bottle cap to loosen it. It comes off with a pop. I take a long pull, and I must look as pissed as I feel, because Seb’s brow knits together.
“What happened?”
“The dean decided to fuck me, that’s what happened. She’s making me retake that writing class.”
“That sounds dumb.”
“It is dumb,” I grumble. “But they looked at my transcripts and saw I failed it at LSU. Back when . . .”
“Yeah,” Seb says. “I know.”
A twang of hurt runs through me. Last year was a disaster for many reasons, but I miss Sara anyway. I take another sip of my beer, looking around the room. There’s a big dining room table, which reminds me of our home in Port Washington, and the kitchen isn’t half bad. Plenty of space to cook some meals like the athletic trainers suggest. There’s a door to the backyard, which has a firepit and a couple of Adirondack chairs set up around it. And once Seb has the den set up, we should be able to play some sweet games.
“This is nice,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “So, what did you say?”
“I mean, I couldn’t argue it. I did fail the class.”
“But it’s your senior year. You came here to play football.”
“And graduate.”
Seb sighs. “Yeah. There’s that.”
My parents are amazingly supportive of my football ambitions, in part because Dad played. He knows the grind better than anyone. It was his dream at first, that one of his boys would follow in his footsteps, but it became mine too long ago. Without a shot at playing in the league, my life would feel incomplete. End of story. But we’ve been taught that education is important too, so as much as I’m focused on football, I know I need to get my degree. As talented as Cooper is at hockey, Dad didn’t even let him enter the NHL draft because he was afraid that he’d leave college for the league and never graduate. Following Seb’s dad’s wishes, he entered the MLB draft after high school, but in the end, he committed to playing at McKee and re-entering the draft when he’s eligible after junior year. “You can’t ask your new coach to intervene? He practically stole you from LSU, he wants you here.”
“And be the entitled athlete the dean thinks I am?”
Seb shrugs, running his fingers through the mop of blond hair on his head. “Maybe you won’t fail this time. Maybe it’ll be easier. Or you’ll just know more since you’ve been taking college classes for a while now.” He grimaces as we hear another crash from upstairs. “And there’s always Cooper.”
“The last time I asked him for help with school, I almost stabbed him. He’s impossible.”
“With a pen.”
“I stand by my actions. It was an attempted stabbing and I’m not sorry.”
Seb sighs. “Well, maybe someone else can tutor you. You can’t fail this.”
“No.” I finish the beer in a few gulps and set it in the sink. The panicky feeling I’ve been fighting since the dean’s is threatening to make a reappearance. I’m not good at writing. Never have been. Throwing a wrench this big into the year that’s supposed to catapult me into a starting quarterback position is almost as bad as an injury. But an injury I could play through. Grit it out through the season. This? This is out of my depth.
Coop saunters into the kitchen, sweaty and wiping his face with his T-shirt. “Finally got the desk put together. Only took four fucking hours.”
“Aw, look at you,” Seb says sweetly. “Waylaid by a crappy desk.”
He flips Seb the bird without wasting a beat. “So, I have a proposition.”
He stops as he takes in our expressions. Whatever he’s thinking, it probably involves a party, and I don’t know if I have the energy for that right now.
Instead of launching into his speech, his eyes narrow. “Okay, who are we fighting?”
Chapter 2
Bex
One of the benefits of being a senior in college is first dibs on the dorms, which is how Laura and I got this awesome two-bedroom suite. Kitchenette, living area, private bathroom, bedrooms that aren’t closets . . . it’s almost enough to make a girl forget that when this year is over, she’ll be back to living over the family diner and spending her days wading through small business hell.
It’s me. I’m the girl.
But currently I’m on the couch, arm dangling almost to the floor, sandals precariously close to falling off. My shift at the Purple Kettle, the on-campus coffee shop, ended a little while ago, and after being on my feet for the stampede of students back for the semester and ready to arm themselves with lattes and cold brew, I’m beat. I’d prefer to be in bed, but Laura insisted on a fashion show. Apparently, the lighting is better in the living room.
“Oh, and I got this cute mini dress,” she calls from her bedroom. “I was thinking about it for tonight.”
“What’s tonight?” I say. I already sort of know the answer, because it has to be a party, but the question is where. A frat? Sorority? Frat-slash-sorority? An off-campus house that’s full of frat bros anyway?
“A party!” Laura crows as she comes out of her room. She’s in high heels that show off her tanned legs to perfection, and her little black dress clings to her curves like tape. For some reason, she has on devil ears and is carrying a little pitchfork. “And before you say you’re not coming, you’re coming.”
Sometimes I think about the fact we’re best friends and . . . it doesn’t stun me, exactly, but it does leave me wondering. Laura is smart as hell, don’t get me wrong, but college has been a series of social functions for her, and as for me, when I’m not working on school or at the Purple Kettle, I’m at Abby’s Place, putting out fires and generally trying to contain the chaos. Laura’s father is a fancy lawyer, and her mom is an equally fancy doctor, and she spent half the summer in Italy and the other half in St. Barts. I spent it nursing a broken heart, arguing with suppliers, and slinging hash browns for locals.
I love her, but our lives are totally different. She’s been at McKee since freshman year, and this is only my second since I transferred in as a junior. Two years at McKee instead of the local community college is the absolute maximum amount of time I can be away from the business, sort of, and the money is the amount of loans, while still astronomical, that I feel comfortable taking out. Maybe one day I’ll do something with this business degree and the portfolio of photography that quietly keeps growing, but for now, the plan is the same as ever. Home. Diner. Take over the business so my mother can quit pretending she’s well enough to do it herself.
She hasn’t been anywhere near that since the moment Dad walked out of our lives.
