Love in Vein

  Love in Vein

  Britt Morrow

  Copyright © 2020 Brittany Morrow

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher.

  To all those for whom the darkness appeals.

  Follow @loveinveinnovel to see the scenes and songs that inspired the story.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Prologue

  Colt

  My palms are sweating in a way that I don’t think can be attributed to the heater that’s currently turned up full-blast in my Porsche. I immediately regretted not driving my pickup, but I was already halfway down my driveway, and I didn’t want to be late. My suit is probably too ostentatious, too; I should lose the blazer and tie before I enter the restaurant. Ostentatious. That’s a word that Levi would use. The kind of word I would have given him shit about using. He probably would’ve ignored me, though; he always was the bigger person.

  I can’t remember ever having been this nervous before. Not when I was going through the University of Tennessee scouting process. Not during the NFL recruitment camp. Not even afterward, when I finally got the well-endowed blonde that I’d been eyeing on the sidelines alone.

  I have my spiel down. I’m a coach for the University of Tennessee (that part is true). I’m here to offer Nash a football scholarship (also true) and discuss his athletic potential (this is where the truth starts to blur). Nash is talented, no doubt. He’s built for speed, and his grades are solid. He’s not a superstar, though. The cheerleaders won’t be throwing themselves at him. Probably for the best, considering all of the good it did me.

  It took some convincing to get the rest of the coaching staff on board with the decision. I think most of them assume that I’m giving the spot to Nash because I want to see it go to someone from my home county. I’ll let them believe that - it’s much more palatable than the truth. The kid has heart; you can see it despite the low quality of his highlight video. A half-decent player who will give you all he’s got is more valuable than a stellar one who occasionally throws in the towel. That was my pitch anyway. It rang hollow even to my own ears. I definitely fell into the second category. But I must be a better actor than I thought because it was enough to win Nash a spot.

  I don’t see his parents’ primer-spotted Chevy in the parking lot of the barbecue restaurant I'd selected for our meeting location. I'd agonized over that decision. I wanted to give him a good meal; it’s the least I can do. But I also wanted to meet somewhere he’d feel comfortable enough to sit and talk with me for a while. By the looks of things, he’s doing just fine: fed, clothed, no issues in school. I know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving, though.

  The waitress eyes me appreciatively when I walk in. I’m probably fifteen years her senior, but I only look ten. I can’t tell if it’s my body she’s impressed by or the suit. I haven’t been hitting the gym nearly as often lately as I used to. Turns out the Porsche makes up for the slight beer gut, though.

  She leads me to a table near the front of the restaurant.

  “Do you mind if I sit back there?” I gesture to a booth towards the back. The restaurant is nearly empty, but I would prefer more privacy.

  The waitress pivots towards the table I’d indicated. She leaves me with two menus and a lingering smile before she turns away.

  I’m not waiting for long before Nash strolls in. He breaks into an easy smile when he sees me. I’m his ticket to frat parties, college chicks, and maybe - if he’s really lucky - a career. I stand to shake his hand, clap him on the back.

  “How’s it going, bud?”

  “Great, Mr. Wright. I really appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today.”

  His politeness reassures me; if nothing else, he’s well-raised. His parents struck me as amiable and well-mannered in the brief time I’d spoken with them at one of Nash’s games. Parents are always on their best behavior when there’s a possibility that you’ll offer their child the opportunity of a lifetime, though.

  “I’m glad your coach was willing to let you miss practice tonight,” I begin. He’s eyeing me closely, and I can tell that he’s nervous even though he’s feigning casualness, so I cut to the chase. “I won’t keep you in suspense, I’m thrilled to offer you a football scholarship to the University of Tennessee.” It’s a canned line that I’ve used to recruit hundreds of other guys, but this is the first time that I truly am thrilled.

  “Are you serious? That’s incredible!” He grins even more widely than before.

  His enthusiasm makes him momentarily seem much younger than his seventeen years, and I’m struck by how much of his childhood I’ve missed. I pretend to be riveted by my menu in an effort to avoid his gaze. “Have you tried anything here before?” I venture.

  “Yeah, the brisket is delicious.”

  No sooner than I’ve put my menu back down, the waitress arrives to take our order. “What can I get for y’all?”

  “I’ll have the brisket with a side of Mac n’ Cheese, please,” Nash states.

  “I’ll have the same,” I order. I don’t love brisket, but I’m trying to foster a sense of kinship here.

  “Any drinks?” She asks, collecting our menus.

  ‘Two whiskeys. Neat,” I reply.

  I wink at Nash while she finishes writing down the order. She can’t possibly think that he’s of age, but she seems just as taken with him as she was with me. She leaves without asking for ID.

  Nash grins cheekily back at me, and for a second, he reminds me entirely too much of my father. The shaggy dark hair is nearly identical. Then again, Charlie was raven-haired too. I realize that I’ve been staring at him for too long and clear my throat awkwardly.

  “I’d be happy to answer any questions you have about the University of Tennessee or our football program.”

  He surprises me by foregoing the usual questions about the practice schedule and player selection in favor of ones about the history of the University and the challenges of balancing football and academics. Levi would have asked questions like that.

  It’s been months since I’ve thought about Charlie. And even longer since I’ve thought about Levi. I try to avoid thinking about them altogether, but it’s impossible when everything in this place is so reminiscent of them both. Not the restaurant - neither of them had probably ever set foot in a place with cloth napkins. The surrounding area is rife with memories, though: the field d
own the street with dilapidated goal posts and craggy grass where Levi and I pushed each other around as kids, the thick brush beyond the field where I would play hide and seek with Charlie.

  I’m grateful for the interruption of the waitress coming to clear our plates. “Anything else that I can get for y’all? The peach cobbler is to die for,” she drawls.

  “I should probably get back home, I have some homework to finish up,” Nash replies apologetically.

  “I’ll just bring y’all the bill then.”

  He really is a good kid, concerned about his homework even after the scholarship offer. And he doesn’t even check out the waitress’s ass as she sashays away. Levi wouldn’t have either; he never had eyes for anyone other than Charlie.

  “Do you need a ride home?”

  He hesitates. I can tell that he doesn’t want to ask for more than I’ve already given him. “I can call my Mom for a ride.”

  “Let me give you a lift, “ I insist. “It’ll give us a chance to chat some more.”

  “Thank you.” He smiles. It’s a genuine one that reaches his eyes. I hope he does it often.

  The waitress brings us the bill, and we both reach for it. I beat him to it. My reflexes are pretty good; I was a professional football player after all. “It’s on the University.”

  Paying the bill is a move I never would have even considered at his age. My sole preoccupation was taking as much as I could get. Turns out most of it wasn’t free, though; I’m finally paying for the sins of my youth. And here I thought karma was a type of yoga.

  When we walk out into the parking lot, Nash’s eyes are trained on the Porsche. I can tell he’s impressed. I haven’t yet me a recruit who wasn’t. Unlike most though, he doesn’t comment on my “sick ride.” He’s a lot more poised than the others.

  “Have you thought at all about what you want to study?” I ask as we get in.

  It’s another canned line that I always use on the recruits just to make conversation. I don’t care about what they want to study any more than they do. The only things most of them will be studying for the next four years are sorority girls and NFL coaches. This time though, I do care.

  “I’m thinking about taking math, maybe, or computer science. I want to do some more research on the programs before making a decision.”

  I wonder if an aptitude for math, or intelligence in general, is genetic. I also wonder whether this is something I should have learned in high school biology or something. The only learnings that have stuck with me are football drills and a flawless keg stand technique.

  I’m thankful that Nash is busy giving me the directions to his house and doesn’t seem to notice my momentary silence. Or the panic I’m suddenly experiencing as he directs me to turn onto a road that I haven’t been down for years. Seventeen years, eight months, and two days to be exact. I’ve always been shit at math. Everyone in my family was. But I have no trouble calculating exactly how long it’s been since I was last here, at the turn-off leading to my childhood home - if you can call it that. That date is seared in my memory along with a couple of other equally harrowing ones. I have a feeling that I will be adding today’s date to the list: the day I might actually achieve atonement.

  Chapter 1

  Levi

  “You ready for tonight, hon?” She briefly raises her eyes from her work to meet mine in the mirror.

  I fiddle with the bottom button on my flannel. Tonight’s game will set the tone for the remainder of the football season. It’ll be a banger. The Murfreesboro team that we’re up against has better technique, but we’re mean.

  “Yeah, I’ve been reviewing their game tape, and the defense has some weaknesses,” I respond more confidently than I’m actually feeling.

  She nods and snaps her gum. “Shouldn’t have any problems then. Colt’s gonna plow right through them.”

  I try not to show my irritation. All anyone wants to talk about lately is Colt. Rumour has it that the college scouts have been sniffing around about him. There might even be one at the game tonight.

  “What do you think?” Amber asks, setting down her scissors and brushing some of the fallen hair from my shoulders.

  “It’s great,” I reply, giving the haircut only a cursory glance before standing. I should be using my spare period to prepare for tonight’s game, not getting my hair cut. It was getting long enough to be distracting under my helmet, though.

  I walk over to the register, fishing my wallet out of my back pocket.

  “Put that away, you know it’s on the house,” Amber chastises gently.

  I protest - weakly. We both know that my wallet is practically empty.

  “You can repay me by playing your ass off tonight,” she winks.

  I give her a grateful smile before turning away, embarrassed. I should be used to handouts by now, but it never gets any less shameful. I’m lucky the handouts are so plentiful, though. If I wasn’t the high school quarterback in a town with nothing going for it other than a decent football team, it would probably be a struggle just to get fed. There’s always food at the booster functions though, and free post-game dinners offered by the diner owner, Pete. I can scrape by. I have to. God knows Brandi won’t have anything other than Mountain Dew in the fridge, maybe some Spam on a good day.

  Amber was best friends with Brandi in high school, at least until Brandi had me. Amber used to come by the house occasionally when I was a kid, armed with grocery bags full of Chef Boyardee and Little Debbie oatmeal creme pies. That all stopped after I got a shard from a Jack Daniels bottle embedded in my foot at some point in elementary school. Amber accused Brandi of neglect, and Brandi responded by throwing an ashtray at her head. Brandi has terrible aim, but Amber doesn’t come by the house anymore. She still goes out of her way to be kind to me whenever we run into each other around town, though.

  I climb into my old Ford pickup, thankful when it starts on the first try. The truck is by far my most prized possession. Amber gave it to me in exchange for a summer of mowing her lawn and pulling the weeds from her flowerbeds. I would have done the yard work solely in exchange for the six-pack of cheap beer she would always share with me after my bi-weekly visits, so the pickup was a huge bonus.

  The drive back to school is short enough that I regret not running it. I should be doing everything in my power to prepare for tonight. If a scout does show up, this could be my shot at a future. Even if they’re mostly here to watch Colt, that doesn’t mean I can’t steal some attention.

  I can begrudgingly admit that Colt has the raw talent, not to mention the size, to succeed in college football. He’s a remarkably consistent player. Mostly because he consistently demonstrates a desire to hurt someone. His technique lacks any refinement, though. And it will take nothing short of a miracle for him to pass all of his classes.

  I have decent grades. Good enough to get into most colleges, and not just the community ones. But not a stellar enough transcript to qualify for an academic scholarship. I’ve never studied abroad in France or fed orphan children in Uganda. Hell, I’ve only ever been outside of the county for football games.

  I deserve this more than Colt does. I’ve spent countless hours in the cinderblock bunker that houses the football change rooms and coaches’ offices, reviewing game tape and binders full of plays. I’ve skipped almost every post-game kegger in favor of a good night’s rest and an early morning gym session. I’ve channeled nearly all of my energy towards positioning myself for college football recruitment and the substantial scholarship money that comes with it. Meanwhile, Colt drank and fucked his way through high school and is only interested in college because it presents even better partying opportunities.

  Speak of the devil. Colt and his usual cronies are gathered around his tailgate dipping and shooting the shit when I pull into the high school parking lot.

  “‘Sup, Levi? Wanna join us, or do you have more important things to do?” Colt calls over.

  He’s goading me. He knows that I’m going to decline h
is offer in favor of actually doing something productive with my time. “I have class,” I throw over my shoulder.

  I don’t add that that’s where he should be too if he doesn’t want to end up with a menial job and a trailer full of dirty kids. I don’t need the confrontation today. Surprisingly, he doesn’t yell anything mocking after me. He must be equally on edge about tonight.

  My final period physics class passes slowly. I’m uncharacteristically distracted, struggling to understand equations that usually come quickly to me. I’ve always liked physics; concepts like velocity and momentum can be applied to football. It helps that Ms. Walker usually flirts with me. She’s not much older than I am; most of the teachers around here aren’t. The teachers with experience move on to bigger cities with better resources and more promising students. Ms. Walker is smarter than most; she probably could have ended up somewhere better. She’s one of the ones eager to “make a difference,” though.

  She hovers over my shoulder, verifying my latest equation. She’s too mousy to be my type, but I’m appreciative of the extra attention. She once told me that I could be an engineer if I wanted to. I do - engineers make good money and benefits.

  She nods her approval of my worksheet. “Good work, Levi. You can head out, I know you have a big game tonight,” she offers.

  “Thanks, Ms. Walker. Will you be attending tonight?”

  It’s a rhetorical question; everyone in town will be there. The diner, both dive bars, even the Piggly Wiggly grocery store closes during games.

  She blushes slightly before responding, “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  I gather my things quickly and head back to my truck to drop off my backpack. Colt hasn’t moved from his previous position, but the crowd around him has grown. He has a Bud Light in one hand and Crystal’s ass in the other. I can’t help but feel a twinge of resentment. Not because Crystal’s my ex and there are lingering feelings. There were never any feelings aside from teenage libido, but I don’t like having anything in common with Colt.