Five-Star Page 2

  Tank surveyed the mess. He knew he was on live TV, and he couldn’t imagine what the audience was seeing and thinking. Pissed off and frustrated, Tank looked at the hats in front of him. He thought of the places he’d been, the coaches he’d met, the programs that wanted him. He thought of Whitey, the man he’d wanted to be his coach, and Franco, the recruiter he’d liked the best. He thought of Tilly Lace. Then, he looked at his father one last time, draped in what would have been his future team’s colors.

  Filled with a calm but determined rage, he reached over and plucked the Bears hat off the table.

  He turned to the room, placed the hat on his head, and said, “I’m going to Kensington State. I’m going to be a Bear!”

  One

  Tank Howard, a third-year starter, entered the team locker room for the start of the football season. A sucker for tradition and Karma, Tank reached out for the Touch of the green Bear painted on the wall. In some mild hazing incident, he’d been tricked as a freshman. All the players were supposed to pat the Bear twice on their way into and out of the locker room, he’d been told. It wasn’t until the fifth or sixth game of that season when he’d noticed that he was the only one doing it. After the game, he’d walked up to Haze, one of the seniors, and asked about it.

  “Yeah, bro,” he’d said, a shit-eating grin on his face, “we were totally fucking with you. Got bets on how long it’d take your stupid ass to notice.”

  As if to accentuate his point, three of the guys standing around reached into their lockboxes, pulled out twenty-dollar bills, and handed them to Marsh, the center.

  Taken aback, Tank turned to Marsh and said, “You bet against me?”

  “Nah, I bet for you,” he said as he grabbed Tank’s shoulders. “Everyone else picked next season!”

  “Fucking jokesters,” Tank said to the locker room at large before turning to Marsh and saying, “What’s my cut of your take?” He appreciated a good practical joke.

  But it had become a part of his ritual, and because it was already the fifth game of the season, it was too late. He couldn’t stop it.

  Marsh watched him now and smiled, remembering the origin of the Touch. “You were a stupid fucking freshman,” he commented as he followed Tank into the locker room.

  With a smile, Tank reminded him, “You still owe me my cut.”

  “You haven’t collected yet,” he responded with a shrug. “I think my money’s safe.”

  Tank finished donning his practice gear—just shorts and a jersey for the first practice. Excited about the start of the season and the team his coaches had assembled, he was ready to go. “You know the good thing about this year, Marsh?” He looked over at his center. At Marsh’s nod, he continued, “We are in the conversation.” With a smile, he headed toward the door, wanting to catch up with Coach before practice started.

  As he made his way out of the locker room, Tank did a quick assessment of the last two years. Since joining the Bears, their rise had been meteoric—not his word, but it worked. They were undefeated in the regular season, losing only their bowl game last year, when Tank had been sidelined with a concussion. Two years ago, if you hadn’t lived in Georgia, you wouldn’t have even known Kensington State existed. Now, this year, during preseason, they were being talked about—and not just because of his signing day shocker, but because they were good. They were breaking barriers for non-BCS schools, and Tank could barely contain his excitement.

  Heisman talk abounded, too, but Tank didn’t get caught up in that. More than the coveted Heisman, Tank wanted the opportunity for his team to play for the national championship. While the practical side of him knew they wouldn’t get the chance, he was going to make sure that there was some debate. He wouldn’t call himself a crusader for Cinderella rights, but while he was doing what he knew how to do, he didn’t mind advocating at the same time. He’d leave it up to the reporters to tell the story. That was what they were there for anyway.

  His phone vibrated with a text message. Pulling it out, he smiled at the name on his screen.

  Lamarcus Steele.

  Check Instagram.

  Quickly following the instructions, Tank laughed at the picture of Lamarcus in the locker room at State, surrounded by most of the guys who should have been Tank’s recruiting class, all of them flipping off the camera.

  Tank responded.

  Didn’t your sports info peeps school you about doing stupid shit on the Internet?

  Lamarcus texted back.

  Yep.

  Tank laughed again.

  Fool. Whitey will be pissed when that ends up on the ticker.

  Only till we start whooping people’s asses. Then, he won’t care about nothing.

  Lol. True.

  Tank pocketed his phone but entered the football offices with the residual evidence of a smile occupying his face. After his monumental impulse decision on signing day two and a half years ago, Tank had figured he would be persona non grata by the carefully constructed all-time best recruiting class at State. He’d handed his phone to his mother and become the hardest-to-reach eighteen-year-old on the planet. In the forty-eight-hour phone ban, he’d received over one thousand text messages. Rather than go back and read them, he’d gone to the Sprint store and changed phones and numbers. Coming off of that self-imposed silence, Tank had reentered the world of Facebook and Twitter with the aplomb of someone who lived in his skin quite comfortably. No one would have ever guessed that Tank Howard had ever wanted anything other than to be a Kensington State Bear. It was this sense of innate confidence that made Tank so valuable.

  Tank entered Coach Mike Franco’s office, fired up.

  This man waiting for him was the reason that the Kensington State hat had even been on the signing day buffet. Franco had recruited him hard for Coach Whitey, making him the cornerstone of the class early on. It was a smart move that Tank had just recently begun to realize had been calculated long before anyone else in college football had caught on to his importance. Franco had continued to recruit like that, which was why they had been able to dominate their conference and were poised to be a national contender. Tank’s respect for his coach had only grown over the last few years. And from his vast social network, he knew that continuing to respect your coach wasn’t always a guarantee.

  After grabbing on to the shoulder of Cy Greenburg while reaching out for his hand, Tank took the only remaining seat directly in front of Coach. “Cy, how’s it going?”

  Cy, like everyone else who worked closely with Tank, smiled fondly back, his genuine pleasure at seeing Tank evident on his face.

  “How are you, Tank? Ready to go?” Cy asked even though he knew the answer.

  “Always ready, sir.”

  That was the thing about Tank. His mother hadn’t raised no fool, as she liked to point out whenever they talked. Respect was paramount for everyone Tank came into contact with.

  Clapping his hands together twice as he took his seat, Tank looked expectantly up at Franco. “What’s up, Coach? Have to be on the field in fifteen.”

  Franco chuckled as he leaned back in his seat. “Yeah, I’m pretty aware of when we need to be on the field.”

  At Tank’s big smile, Franco laughed again.

  Theirs was an easy relationship. Fate had tied them together when Tank was only fifteen. Tank had known then that he wanted to play for Whitey and Franco. Then, a month before his dream could materialize, Franco had gotten the call to become the head coach at Kensington. Tank had known there had never been any intention for Franco to bring Tank with him. Why would the number one prospect in the country, a true five-star talent, with scholarship offers from everywhere, want to go to a school that could never be in the running for a national title? And Franco would never have even suggested it. In fact, he’d specifically continued to recruit Tank for Whitey, even after Franco had left. Little had either of them known how it would all turn out. Tank had liked Franco when he recruited him. Now, he respected Franco—not only as his coach, but also as a
man.

  Tank looked at his coach, curious about this conversation. They talked often but not normally with Cy lurking, so whatever they would be discussing didn’t seem to be Xs and Os.

  “This will be quick.”

  “Whatcha got, Coach?”

  “It’s about tonight.”

  Of all the things they could be discussing, Coach was concerned about what was going to happen off the field. It was a bit charming. Tank could make this really easy for his coach, but he was in one of those practical joking moods.

  “What about tonight?” Tank asked, a look of feigned innocence on his face.

  “Don’t give me that shit, Tank. I was a part of the team that started the tradition. Don’t act like you don’t know that I know.”

  Tank couldn’t help it. He laughed and made it just a little bit harder on Franco. “Tradition?”

  “The bar. Tonight. The first night of preseason. The breaking in of the freshmen.” He stopped there.

  Cy picked up the mantle. “We’re in the spotlight now. Our team can’t all go out and party on the first night of preseason without drawing some attention. I know this is a time-honored tradition, but you all need to be careful.”

  Tank wanted to make them both suffer some more, but his desire to be on the field was greater.

  “Don’t worry, Coach. We’ll take it easy.” He looked over at Cy. “We won’t tweet, Facebook, or post anything on Instagram. We do this every year, and we’ve never gotten out of hand.”

  Right up until that moment, Tank hadn’t even considered their preseason bash. Coach and Cy were right. It was just something they did every year, no exceptions. But, now, they could be big time, and they needed to take it easy. He appreciated the reminder.

  Tank stood up and backed out of the room. “I got you, Coach.”

  Two

  Amber rolled over, found the clock with her bleary gaze, and bolted out of bed. Almost late for her second shift at the bar, she hopped into the shower, threw on her sorry excuse for a uniform, and pulled her hair into a haphazard ponytail.

  Because of the hours her dad worked, they hadn’t seen each other before she left for work last night. Hoping that his workaholic ways would save her again, she strolled out of her room and made a beeline for the kitchen. She didn’t have time to eat, but she could at least grab a snack on her way out. It was unfortunate that her dad was waiting for her.

  She saw him glance at her outfit and watched him literally bite his tongue. Things with them had been rough since she moved back in, and he tried to pick his battles, which she definitely appreciated.

  “Hey, Pops!” she enthused, attempting to disarm him. Making a show of glancing at her watch, she looked up at him again. “Not working late tonight?”

  “I wanted to try and catch you before your shift,” he said warily, as if that small showing of parental concern might be taken the wrong way.

  “Well, you did, but I’m running late.” Moving toward the pantry, Amber exaggerated her need to rush by, slipping past him. “Something up?” she said with as little interest as possible while she loudly scoured the shelves, shuffling boxes of all the things she didn’t want, huffing as she came up empty. “Want to leave me some money tomorrow, so I can buy some real food?” Catching the brattiness of her tone, she winced, glad her father couldn’t see her.

  “Sure. I’m sorry. I’m not used to buying for anyone but me.”

  The sincerity of his statement washed over her as she continued to hide in the pantry. Feeling petty and bitchy, she hung her head, giving herself a quick shake. Conceding that this was difficult for both of them, she made a quick promise to try to stop being such a brat. Her being here right now was not her father’s fault. Gathering up her courage, she barreled out of the pantry and planted her ass on the counter, ready to give her father the five remaining minutes she had.

  “I know. But I can do the shopping.” Lifting her shoulders in a snarky shrug, she grinned at him and said, “I know what I like.”

  When she was playful like that, she was hard to resist, and he returned her smile, forgiving her for her attitude, she thought.

  “How was rehab today? You don’t seem too stiff.”

  Remembering her promise to herself not even thirty seconds ago, she tried not to sigh in exasperation as she answered him, “Pretty good. I like the physical therapist they set me up with. Thanks for that, by the way.” At his nod of acknowledgment, she continued, “I don’t think I’m going to lose any ground by transferring to this center.”

  “Good. That’s really good.” He looked like he was about to reach out to her, but then he thought better of it and ran his hand through his hair before grabbing the back of his neck. She knew then that he wasn’t as relaxed as he seemed. “So, bartending last night was okay?”

  They’d fought this battle before she moved back home, and she knew that she’d won. Her arguments were better than his. But because of the major skirmish, she wouldn’t ever give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was right. It was taxing on her leg to stand for that long, and at least on the first night, on her brain. She hadn’t had to make conversation with strangers in a while, and she was as exhausted mentally as she was physically. But he’d never get to hear that.

  “It was good. Fun. Nice to be back.”

  “Good. That’s good.” He moved away from her then and leaned back against the opposite counter. “Things are going to be pretty busy for me from here on out. I kind of hoped you weren’t working tonight.”

  “Dad, you don’t have to explain about your schedule. I know what it’s like. I know how much you work.”

  “I know, but you just got back, and you’re just getting settled. I feel like I need to be available at least.”

  She pushed off the counter and stood in front of him. Shrugging, she said, “I know where to find you if I need you.”

  Even when she was standing on her tiptoes, he had to lean down so that she could plant a kiss on his cheek.

  “I’ll see you when I see you,” she said.

  He grabbed her arm before she could get too far away. “You know what tonight is. Be careful, okay?”

  “Always,” she responded.

  But neither of them could look the other in the eyes because, if she were always careful, they wouldn’t be standing together, having this conversation.

  The Bear’s Den had been around for longer than Amber had. On the eve of the dawning of the sports bar genre, they had closed for a month, during which they had completely gutted and renovated the place. When they’d reopened, it was amid a blaze of televisions, pool tables, dartboards, and Bear paraphernalia. Like most of the places in town, the Bears reigned supreme. Everything was green and silver, and while they’d serve you if you weren’t in fact a Bears fan, they tended not to like you as much.

  Amber had grown up in the Bear’s Den on Bear’s fare, dressed in Bears’ colors. Her best friend, Keira’s, parents had owned and operated the place since it opened its doors forever ago. In this bar, Keira’s sister, Kaycee, had shown her how to use a tampon. She’d left for her sophomore sock hop and junior/senior prom from the restaurant. Her prom pictures boasted the green and silver in the background. The first drink she’d pilfered was from the bar back by the pool tables. And this was where she’d brought her college acceptance letter and opened it up among Keira’s family. Naturally, when she’d been a little broken, she’d come here to heal. It was why she’d won that battle. As hard as it might have been for her father, this had been her home when he was gone.

  “Just because you’re family doesn’t mean you can be late,” Mark bellowed.

  Amber stuffed her things under the bar, thinking she’d flown in under the radar. Glancing at her watch, she was quick to point out, “It’s eight fifty-five. My shift doesn’t start until nine.” She sashayed over to Mark. “I’m not late yet.”

  He merely smirked at her as he moved out from behind the bar.

  Keira laughed. “You know she thinks she ca
n get away with anything. You were too easy on her, growing up. I told you that you should have spread the torturing around.”

  Amber gave Keira a mock-angry look. “Help a sister out, will ya?”

  “I thought that maybe your dad had put his foot down and wouldn’t let you work tonight,” she quipped.

  Amber knew she was fishing. “He issued a warning, but that was it. No dramatics.”

  “Good. I was worried when I didn’t hear from you all day.”

  “Sorry, sister,” Amber said, genuinely meaning it. “I was beat from last night. Then, I had rehab. And then I crashed and woke up about forty-five minutes ago.”

  “I’m just glad you’re good.” Keira reached out and squeezed Amber’s hand. Nodding slightly, she asked, “You wearing your hair like that?”

  Reaching up, Amber remembered that it was still in a ponytail. Suddenly, it clicked, and she remembered her father reaching out to her before quickly withdrawing. She hadn’t even thought about the fact that her hair was up, and he was probably seeing the angry red scar for the first time. “Uh, definitely not.”

  Sliding under the door of the bar, she turned back to Keira before she ran to the back. “Anything else need to be prepped while I’m in the back?”

  “We’ll need another bar kit. Lemons and limes, for sure.”

  “Okay, I’ll grab them.” She turned to run to the back but stopped to look at her friend. “Is it as bad as you thought?”

  She could tell Keira didn’t want to answer her question by her slight hesitation. Keira wasn’t one to consider her words. She looked away from Amber’s eyes and let herself look down at the right side of her mouth, chin, and neck.