Free False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) by Alison Hendricks

big, bronze statue of a tiger, and we were subjected to photos, inquiries from student journalists, and questions from fans.
    Things didn’t really wind down until 9 PM, at which point we ended up heading to The Top for some celebratory burgers. Ben kept the place mostly exclusive, packed end to end with football players who were wild and rowdy. It was a massacre. We probably ran the place out of beef and chicken wings.
    Not to mention beer. Even though the freshmen didn’t partake, the guys drained enough pitchers to fill Holden Lake.
    By eleven, it seems like I’m one of the last guys here who isn’t fall-down drunk. Me, the young players, and Erickson.
    As the others start their too-loud debates and shows of strength and drunken agility, Erickson and I talk about Alabama’s offensive line. I tells him about my experience with them the past few years—how I messed up my shoulder trying to drive through their solid wall—and give him a few pointers.
    When Sommers falls out of his chair and almost onto Erickson’s lap, we decide to get a little distance from the group and take opposite sides at an air hockey table. A couple weeks ago, I would’ve expected any competition between Erickson and I to be the tooth-and-nail kind, with each of us clawing to get the upper hand.
    Instead, we just play a friendly game.
    It’s pretty nice, actually. We’re competing, sure. But I don’t feel that irrational surge of anger when he slips the puck past me. I don’t retaliate by slamming it into his boards.
    I can just play a regular game like a regular person; not like a person who’s got too much on the line.
    For one day, I forget about everything that’s waiting for me at home. I forget about the pressure of school and football and everything else. I just let myself enjoy hanging out with someone who seems like a pretty cool guy, even if he comes from a totally different world.
    And because the other guys are still carrying on and don’t seem to miss us at all, we decide to head into the adjoining billiards room and play a game there.
    It’s not… quiet, exactly, but the sound of drunken football players doesn’t bounce off the walls as much as it does in the main bar.
    “You wanna break?” he asks.
    I rack up the balls, since some jackass left them scattered all over the table. They clink together as I align them dead center on the far end of the table. Erickson hands me a pool cue, and I can see the end is already smeared in blue chalk.
    I set the cue ball, and shoot a breaking shot. Balls scatter, and one of the striped ones sinks in the right corner pocket, marking those as mine for the rest of the game.
    “You have any family in the stands today? I saw Trent bailed early to hang out with his folks.”
    I stiffen, but play it off as just sizing up my shot. The stick slides over the bridge I’ve made with my fingers, and I strike the ball. It bounces, shying away from the pocket.
    “Nah. They’ve got better things to do.”
    I wish I could say I can’t even imagine what it would be like to have them at my games, but I can. When my dad was alive, both of my parents came to my games. Every single one of them. With him gone, my mom doesn’t have enough free time for her own life, let alone mine.
    That’s what makes the present so shitty.
    Erickson grabs his own stick and fishes for a shot. Right now, it’s easy enough to poach without much effort. He sinks one of his solid colored balls into the side pocket, and lines up for another.
    “What about you?” I ask, more to make conversation than anything else.
    “They’ve got better things to do, too,” he says, and the smile he gives me is the fakest one I’ve ever seen from him.
    His dimples don’t even show.
    I guess family’s a sore subject for him, too. I’m a little surprised, to be honest. I figured a rich boy’s got to have people fawning all over him; people who could afford to fly down from Connecticut and probably rent out the one box in the