Follow the River

“Le

It’s the first day of practice, and it’s a scorcher here in Boulder for the first week of August. If I’m being honest, it’s always hot as fuck this time of year in Colorado, something I’m used to, being a native to the state. The temperature is reaching nearly one hundred degrees and the sun is blistering on my shoulders. Smoke still lingers in the air from the recent forest fires, but at least I can breathe outside without feeling like I’m drowning in ash like a few weeks ago.

Truth be told, that’s the only thing I don’t like about Colorado. The fires every summer. They paint our clear blue sky with smoke and debris, clouding the view of the mountains almost entirely. Sometimes for months, like this past summer.

Instead of spending my weekends out in Crested Butte mountain biking or rock climbing in Estes Park, I was forced to stay inside, keeping my lungs safe from the toxins in the air.

So, the fact that I’m outside playing football right now? God, I’m thrilled. I was begi

I snap out of my reverie once I reach Coach Scott. He’s a recently retired NFL ru

He also happens to be a man I know extremely well, almost like a second father, seeing as he has known me since I was in diapers.

“Hey Coach,” I say, pulling to a stop beside him. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of aviators, a ballcap on his head sporting the University’s logo. He looks every bit the intimidating man the world sees him as. Ruthless both on and off the field, never taking his eye off the ball.

Something he ingrained in not only his son, and my best friend, Taylor, from a young age, but myself as well.

Don’t lose focus and the world is yours for the taking.

“River,” Coach replies in a way of greeting. His eyes are still locked on the field where different players are practicing various drills.

“You have a new receiver.”

My brows shoot up. This is news to me.

We’ve been trying to recruit another high caliber wide receiver since my freshman year when Taylor decided to follow his gut and play baseball at University of Michigan instead of football here. He had options, since he’s talented as fuck in both, but he decided to step from under his father’s shadow and forge his own path playing the game that called to his heart more. And while I fucking miss playing with him, I respect the hell out him for doing it.

Still, a new wide receiver is fucking exciting. Andrew Benson has been one of my receivers for not only my time at CU, but also in high school. By now, we have pretty good on-field chemistry, especially since we’ve been great friends since childhood. But I can’t always count on Drew, that’s too predictable and unrealistic to rely on a single wide receiver all the time. I need someone else I can trust to go long and catch whatever I throw at them.

“Who is it?” I ask, my eyes searching the field for an unfamiliar form, number, anything. But the issue is we have plenty of new faces and practice uniforms on the field right now, since we lost quite a few players last year to either graduation or the NFL draft.

“Transfer from Clemson. Junior,” Coach finally tosses me a glance. “He tossed up some very impressive yards last season. Could be our ticket to a bowl game this year if the two of you mesh on the same level you and Drew do.”

I wrack my brain, trying to think of receivers from Clemson, but I come up blank. Keeping track of stats for other teams isn’t high on my list of priorities, but especially if it’s a team we never face during the season.

I roll my eyes at Coach before whipping my gaze over to where the wide receivers are ru

Instead of answering, Coach raises his megaphone to his lips. Covering my ears just in time, I hear a muffled “Grady, over here!” shouted to who I’m assuming is my new wide receiver.

Grady? Doesn’t ring any bells.

I watch as all the heads in the group snap up to look at us except the one player ru

Number eighty-three.

His head is down, dark hair wet with sweat as he keeps his attention on his feet. He’s laser focused, moving with a profound amount of agility back and forth through the ladder. The ease in which he maneuvers his frame screams athleticism, and my heart pounds in my chest as I continue watching him stay zoned into his task.

Immediately, my brain latches onto the fact that he has every component to make the kind of receiver I prefer to work with. Not only because he is clearly built for this sport and is dedicated to honing his abilities. There’s also the fact that he will put his training as a higher priority than listening to the order to come over here while he was in the midst of a drill.

I even catch Drew nodding his approval at Grady disobeying Coach to finish out his drill.

This defiance for the sake of growth, it’s something only Drew and his twin brother, Elliott and I know will gain the highest respect from Coach. It’s a secret we keep from the rest of the team, hoping they learn it for themselves and earn that level of reverence from an NFL great like Graham Scott.

But this little trick is something we only learned by being raised with Coach Scott in our lives. If Taylor wasn’t part of our friend group or our team back at Summit Academy, I don’t think we would have been smart enough to figure it out.

But Grady somehow managed to do just that on his first damn day.

My eyes stay trained on number eighty-three as he works through the rest of the drill, not stopping until he hits his mark and the offensive coach stops the time on his watch. The second he steps out of the ladder, his eyes snap up to look in our direction.

I’m unable to tell the color of his irises from here, but what I do know is whatever they are, they carry a lot of heat with them. I can feel them burning into me from fifty yards away as he bends to grab his helmet from the ground, only growing in intensity as he jogs closer to us.

Crossing my arms to watch him approach, I take in his tall, lean form. He might only be about an inch taller than my six-two, but his presence is loud, large, and dominating in itself, even at a distance. He’s not built like a brick shithouse seeing as he is made to run, but the skin of his arms and legs that are visible under his practice uniform are well defined and toned. Veins pop in his forearm from his grip on his helmet, bulging out from beneath his skin like a roadmap. At least, that’s true on the skin that isn’t completely covered in ink. Which is only the lower part of his left bicep.