Anyways, I'd had to go crawling to just about every UT Professor I'd ever had and get them to vouch for my personal problems so I could get an extension on all my mid-terms while I shuffled Pop to and from therapy. That was no picnic. Fortunately, our school was sports-crazed enough that the whole Biology Department was willing to go to bat for a quarterback. Lucky break.

But the sessions were slow-going. Pop, styling himself as a man of the cloth, wasn't exactly sweet on the idea of psychotherapy. But when I'd finally found him, that fateful morning after—curled up in a miserable ball, clutching a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red that'd been some congregant's wedding present—he had expressed nothing but remorse for the way he'd treated Anya. I still get a cold feeling in my gut, any time I remember walking into the living room and seeing him look so small. “I want to change, son,” he'd actually told me, through a desperate mask of boozy drool and tears. That was the worst I'd ever seen him.

Third straw on the camel's back was then, of course, the fact that I had a new lady friend. Specifically, a lady friend who I couldn't go blabbing about to friends or meeting in public, for the following (very good) reasons: 1) Coach was in the mood to roll heads if he found out anyone was spending what he deemed to be “excessive time” with a member of the opposite sex. (“You can fall in love when football season ends, boys,” he liked to say. “For these last few weeks, consider your nuts in a vice.”) 2) The lady friend's mother and my father were still technically married, and dealing with a shit-ton of personal problems. Didn't seem like a good idea to add “By the way, I'm dating my sister!” to the long list of topics Pop and I had yet to explore in therapy.

As a result of all this BS, Doll and I had elected to kick it on the DL. This actually had its perks. Being with Ashleigh was nothing at all like being with Zora. The former never flinched away from my touch. She was proud of her body, and would walk around naked in my room like it was no big thing. And best of all—she actually seemed interested when I would go on at length about whatever geeky science thing was jazzing me that week from Earth Science class (the only one I dug), or the latest mini-gossip on the team. I was fascinated just to hear her talk about her classes. I truly believed, for the first time, that despite the age difference my girl was way smarter than me.

The first day we got together, Ash and I didn't get out of bed. We'd fuck, then fall asleep, then fuck, then order takeout, then watch some dumb movie on my laptop. Denny had texted me at 6:05 to ask why I was late to practice, and Doll had laughed at me from bed as I'd hastened to get dressed, hopping foot to foot. I'd waited to shower until I got home, so she could come in with me. I'd taken her from behind as our bodies were lathered with soap, one hand in the thatch of her dark wet hair, the other stroking the supple flesh of her pussy. My roommates definitely weren't pleased with the state of affairs (or the screaming) but then, what did they know about being smitten?

“Hey, Landon!” shouted a familiar voice. I snapped out of my reverie to see Denny, waving at me from the sidelines. The team was taking their time to disband after practice—fellas were congregating by the cooler while others made breaks for the locker room—but my old friend and confidant had elected to go off by himself. He toed the twenty yard line like a guy debating whether or not to ask some girl to prom. I was so surprised by his powerless stance that I forgot for a second that he'd swooped in and stolen my ex-girlfriend (before she'd technically been an ex-).

Curious, I moseyed over. Denny seemed relieved when I arrived at his side. Palms up, to indicate I meant him no trouble. His typically snarky expression seemed drained of joy today, and he didn't look like he'd been sleeping well. Come to think of it, during last night's game with Arkansas he'd made something like three errors. Neither of us were exactly lavishing in the team's good graces at the moment.

“Hey, man,” he repeated, shuffling in his cleats. I just crossed my arms. Let the sonofabitch work for it. Around us, most of the team dwindled back towards the locker rooms. On the opposite end of the field, the coaches bent their heads low in a dire-looking conference.

“I'm sorry,” my old pal blurted out finally, his whole pasty face flushing red. “About Zora, and everything. I feel like a shit. I've liked her for years, and I didn't think—I was just...” I raised my eyebrows, to gesture him forward—but that seemed to be about all the apology my bro could muster.

“I honestly didn't mean to hurt you, man. Never.” His tone had shifted. He sounded more plaintive, more sincere, than I'd ever known this fucking jokester to be. In a breath of clarity, I saw a vision of Doll in my mind's eye. Right about now, she'd be shuffling to her Intro to Classics class, probably in a hurry, probably straining to handle an armload of books. She'd be wearing those cute-ass little booty shorts, and she'd be asking her professor direct questions, brow all furrowed in that maddening way I'd come to recognize. It was like a fog was lifting. I snapped back to the field, to Denny, whining out his wimp's apology—and I decided it didn't matter. What did I care who Zora wanted to shack up with? I knew her, I knew Denny—they were total losers, but I wanted them to be happy. And nothing was going to rain on my fucking parade.

“Dude, we're tight,” I said slowly, cracking a grin. Denny's whole face collapsed with relief. We went in for a bro hug, and it felt good, I must admit. In a weird way, I'd missed this fucking idiot.

“You're aces, man. And hey—don't listen to what all these shit-stains say. We're gonna wipe the floor with the Aggies, and the Colorado coach is going to tap you, and everything's gonna be wavy-gravy. You'll see.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said brightly. I mean, I knew how slim the odds were that I'd make first pick of my favorite team as a freshman in the NFL. And more and more, I didn't care. I could get to Colorado without football. I could do tons of things without football, and live a perfectly dandy life.

“Though I will say, your head does seem to be screwed on not-quite-tight, my brother.” Denny took his big arm and linked it around my neck in a half-nelson. “Come on! Tell your bro! What poon has got you trippin’ like this? Is this fucking Shakespeare-level love, or what?”

“Hey, man, I don't need to tell you what a man will put up with for a good time.” No sooner had I said this then I felt a wave of shame. Something had changed, somehow—talking about Ashleigh the way I used to talk about all the football groupie girls felt distinctly wrong. Denny, however, seemed pleased with the opportunity to conspire.

“Oh, do I. Zora's got these tight little...” I shot him a steel-melting look of caution, and Denny pulled his arm back. “But, err, right. You know all about that.”

We began to walk back towards the locker room in a tentative silence—a new color for our friendship, but a hopeful one. I decided we could continue if Denny could pass a confidence test; we always used to tell each other shit. I stopped in my tracks, scoured the field for coaches, and turned to face him.

“Okay, man. There is a girl. And—don't laugh, but it's Ashleigh. Err—Ashleigh Bennett.” Denny reached back to scratch his neck, not looking at me. We hovered under the hot noon sun for what felt like a minute, just being weird.

“My...well, you know. There's actually been a lot of weird shit going down with her—our—parents, and they're going to be spending some time apart. And Ash and I have this really weird connection, and I know it seems fast, but it's actually not...” I was totally babbling now, but something about Denny's flinty stance was making me crave his approval.