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camaraderie. There was always something separating me from my peers. I went to private school, but I wasn’t exactly what anyone would have pegged as the typical trust-fund kid. I played sports, but I wasn’t the typical jock. I didn’t live in the suburbs; my mom definitely didn’t own an SUV.
    Here, I’m just Erickson. Not Erickson, destined to build a legacy that revolves around my father. But Erickson, the new linebacker who’s giving his all to the team.
    At least, that’s how it goes down in my head. The truth is, as I approach the bar with its glowing neon, I’m afraid it won’t play out that way.
    It’s a humid, sticky night. The threat of rain lingers in the air, and when I pull open the door of the bar, I’m greeted by the blissful feeling of the AC running at full blast.
    I’m also greeted by the smell of beer and grease and that unidentifiable scent when a group of men—washed, thankfully—congregate in one place.
    It isn’t just men, though. There are a fair amount of women in the bar, and I realize this is probably normal. The guys probably bring dates here all the time.
    My heart sinks as I realize it’s going to look weird when I don’t have one. Maybe not today, but give it a year and everyone will notice.
    My heart sinks further when I think of Mills having one.
    It’s so stupid. Just because he doesn’t hate me doesn’t mean he likes me, and it definitely doesn’t mean he’s into me. But I’m into him, and I’m apparently into the self-flagellation of wondering what Mills’ girlfriend would look like.
    She’d probably be small and pretty. Someone he can protect. Someone who looks good standing beside him. Someone who fits into his arms perfectly.
    That someone definitely isn’t me.
    “Yo, Erickson!”
    Trent pulls me out of my thoughts, thank God. I screw a smile in place and make my way over to their table. Or tables, because they’ve pulled together three of them, and big football players are still spilling out of every side.
    I spot Mills almost immediately. He’s fiddling with his phone, a half-full glass of pale amber liquid in front of him. His features are relaxed, his muscles not filled with the tension I’ve seen in him before.
    And he doesn’t have a woman sitting beside him. It’s just Oakley on his right, and Anderson on his left.
    Relief floods me, and I feel even more ridiculous. That feelings only grows when Mills looks up, gives me a nod, and then goes back to what he was doing.
    Message received.
    There’s nowhere to sit, so I pull up a chair at one of the ends. I feel awkward, jutting out from the end of the table. The waitstaff have to make space for me. The other guys have to practically shout for me to hear them. All my enthusiasm for tonight is sapped in less than five minutes.
    “This is the guy I told you about, babe. Knocked my ass on the ground today,” Trent says, and I’m pulled out of my awkward little pity-party.
    “Oh, thank God,” she says with an impish grin. “I haven’t been able to deal with his shit for months. Thank you for taking him down a few pegs.”
    I can’t help but laugh, surprised by the comment. And by the fact that Trent is just grinning, his arm looped around her shoulders.
    “Any time.”
    “I’m Erica,” she says, offering her hand.
    “Mitch.” I give it a shake, and for once, I don’t have to feign politeness.
    “You don’t sound like a Florida native,” she says.
    “Connecticut. Just outside of Hartford.”
    “Ooh, fancy.”
    “What the hell are you doing down here? You could be at Notre Dame or some shit,” Trent says.
    Oh, it’s worse than that. I could be at Yale or some shit. According to my father, I should be.
    “Too much clam chowder,” I joke, patting my flat stomach.
    That gets a laugh. I feel a little more of my tension ease, and I relax in my chair a bit.
    “Don’t you boys know when to quit? Mike already blocked off a whole quarter of the bar for you,” a woman in a Top t-shirt