“He means there could be a game if he’d let himself have fun for once in his boring life.” Tyson cackles, garnering laughs from the rest of the lemmings.

“Tyson, give it a rest.”

“I can’t—it’s such a good idea.”

“What idea?” someone finally asks, and I sigh, unable to stop the momentum of Tyson’s foolish meddling.

“Enough!” I roar. “There’s no game! Me and the guys back home used to cruise the strip in town every weekend ’cause there wasn’t anything else to do, and I’ve been doin’ it here with Tyson because... You know I don’t party, and there ain’t anything else to do during the season. It makes me feel like I’m home.”

“Cruising the strip?” A rookie wrestler by the name of Griffin Torenson scratches behind his ear and looks up at me from the bench. “What strip? We have a strip?”

“You know—Jock Row or whatever y’all call it.” I pull a pair of gloves out of the pocket of my shorts and pull them on, one at a time, tightening them around the wrists. “It reminds me of home to drive it back and forth.”

When I say it out loud, it sounds dumb, and my face reddens, embarrassed.

“Awww, big guy has a boner for his hometown.”

Tyson slaps his hand on my shoulder as he passes by to hit the shower. “You homesick, Triple J?”

Holy shit, his tone is sincere. He’s not playing around.

I shrug his hand off. “No, I’m not homesick,” I scoff—even though I am, just a little. Who wouldn’t be? My Aunt Beth makes the best caramel apple pie, and the family on Mama’s side gets together every weekend for Sunday brunch and to watch football. I’m too fucking far away to ever visit, even a few times a semester.

So, fine. Okay. Maybe I do hanker for home more often than a twenty-one-year-old should—big fucking deal. But I can’t fly, and I can’t drive.

Far too expensive.

So I stay at school, even during holidays when everyone goes home.

Oh-fucking-well. You won’t find me crying about it.

“It’s not a crime to miss home,” Griffin muses, wiping his forehead with a white towel. “I miss my girlfriend.”

“Torenson, no one gives a shit about you missing your girlfriend,” a guy shouts from the machines in the middle of the weight room. “That’s what your right hand is for.”

“Definitely looks like his right arm is bigger than his left,” another guy jokes, squirting his water bottle in Torenson’s general direction but missing him by a mile.

“Gross, Rutherford—that has your backwash in it!” Griffin whines.

“At least it’s not sweat from my ball sac.” Rutherford laughs, grabbing a fresh towel from a nearby rack and running it over his forehead. “Enjoy a shot of moist spray from my hose.”

What a fuckin’ idiot.

“Asshole,” Griffin grumbles, using his towel to wipe down the few drops of water that did manage to hit his chest. “You’re disgusting, do you know that?”

Chuckling, I wander to the opposite side of the room to get some breathing room. These dudes are always up my butt and riding my ass. I’m almost never alone, which seems like it would be great—having people around, always keeping you company—but you know what? Occasionally I’d like privacy and some time to think without their obnoxious voices in my ear.

And I don’t know why Tyson is making fun of me for cruising up and down the road on the weekends since he fucking comes along all the damn time. Idiot. He loves nothing more than riding shotgun.

We have a routine, Tyson and I—he walks his ass to the football house (where I live) Friday nights after ten. We stop along the way and grab fast food, usually several hamburgers each plus fries, onion rings, shakes—whatever sounds good at the time—I take one cheat day a week and take full advantage.

Then, we head back toward campus, going south at the end of Jock Row and slowly creeping along the road where most of the action happens. People standing around on the corners, waiting to cross the busy streets. It’s almost always crowded, even during the week, usually with students walking to and from parties, downtown to the bars, or the nerdy kids heading to campus to study.

Music pumping through the speakers of my truck is a bit douchey, no doubt. I won’t deny we’re a bit douchey and cliché, but the weather is still freaking beautiful considering it’s fall, and unless it’s too cold, we keep the windows rolled down and the music turned up, which is the best way to fucking drive.

Slow, seeing who we can see, who can see us.

I’m not surprised Tyson wants to make a game of it; plenty of people get pissed off by my bright headlights, but what the hell am I supposed to do about it? I can’t help it if my damn truck is higher up off the ground than your stupid car. I can’t help it if the lights hit your rear-view mirror in just the perfect way. I can’t take my truck back and return it, and I’m sure as shit not going to sell it for something smaller.

Back home, teenagers cruised the strip; have been for decades since carhops and Friday night lights during football season were the only forms of entertainment in our small town, population three thousand eighty-five, give or take.

That’s how my mama met my daddy—though he ended up being a philandering piece of shit and the main reason I’m not in a relationship. If you can’t find one person to be loyal to, don’t date anyone.

I could get into more detail, but I won’t. All I’ll say is, I’ve watched my mama cry when my pops wouldn’t commit, and I swear I’ll never do that to a woman unless I can give her my whole heart.

For now, football has my body and soul, and I’m gonna keep it that way.

It’s the only way I’ll keep my scholarship, the only way I can keep playing, and the only way I can make it in the pros.

I love football. Live for it.

It’s the one and only thing that kept me going when things at home were shitty, the only time my Pops paid any attention to me, something I craved growing up. Just a bit of goddamn attention from my old man—attention I fought for. So much effort wasted on him because I didn’t know any better, despite having a passion for the game.

What an ignorant kid I was.

I should have been paying more attention to my mom and how miserable she was, but I was young—what the hell did I know about love and relationships and making someone happy?

Nothing.

I wasn’t a comedian, so my jokes didn’t cheer her up. I wasn’t sweet, or thoughtful, or studious; I knew nothing about females, and my mother never taught me. What my mother did was resent my father—then later, me, because she wanted attention from my dad and he never gave it to her.

He focused all his time on me when she wanted it—or at least some of it—on her.

I know less about women now, having steered clear of girls for the past couple of years. Shit, I haven’t even had sex yet.

Yes, I’ve been tempted—of course I have—but it’s too risky.

I’m not willing to get some rando accidentally knocked up for one night of one orgasm—too many jersey chasers hanging around. My teammates and I never know who the fuck is honest and sincere and who’s just at the house to add a notch to their athlete tally.