The Romantic Pact
Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC
Copyright 2020
Cover Design By: RBA Designs
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at meghan.quinn.author@gmail.com
All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
www.authormeghanquinn.com
Copyright © 2020 Meghan Quinn
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Contents
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
Epilogue
Excerpt - The Revenge Pact
Excerpt - The Relationship Pact
More Books by Meghan
Prologue
See those three boys over there?
Yeah, the kings of football?
The ones with their heads in their hands, nursing their second beers of the night and trying to figure out what the hell happened to their season?
They choked.
That’s right. These All-Americans became the biggest upset in college football and a complete embarrassment to their town.
Can it really be that bad?
Yes.
Former national champions, Braxton College was annihilated this year.
No, not just annihilated, but completely and utterly destroyed.
Three games.
That’s it.
They won three games all season.
Interceptions. Dropped balls. Missed blocks. Fumbles. You name it, they did it.
First, there’s Crew Smith, the protective one. Once an NFL hopeful, he now holds the record for the most interceptions thrown in a season by a quarterback.
Next, is Hollis Hudson, the mysterious tight end who keeps everything locked down. He couldn’t run a route this year to save his life.
And to round out the trifecta of crap, there’s River Tate, the popular frat boy. He’s supposed to be a superstar wide receiver but dropped more passes than he caught this season.
Guys wanted to be them.
Girls wanted their hearts.
But at this point, no one would want to touch them with a ten-foot pole.
The truth is, they’ve screwed up their NFL aspirations.
Maybe their entire lives.
There are three stories to be told . . .
This is Crew’s.
Chapter One
CREW
“God, look at you. You’re positively glowing,” Hutton, my best friend from high school, says when I open the door. He pulls me into a hug and then slides his hand down my back to my ass where he gives it a good squeeze. “Yes, my man. Squats have been good to you.”
“Could you not?” I say, pushing at his chest as he laughs and walks into my childhood home.
“Dude, why the mood? You always like it when I caress your ass. It’s been months since we’ve last seen each other. I half expected you to greet me bent over.”
I shut the door and walk toward the open-concept living room where the sliding glass doors are open to allow in the sound of the ocean lapping against the cliffs beneath the house. December in Long Beach, California, lends itself to nice weather.
“Did you not see how my season went? Or were you too distracted by all the wins you were racking up over at Brentwood?”
“Ooo, you’re salty,” Hutton says, taking a seat on the couch.
“And you’re in an annoyingly good mood. That girl finally giving you the time of day?”
“No need to discuss my love life when you’re clearly in a state of peril.” He turns toward me and props his chin up on his hand while batting his eyelashes. “I’m listening.”
“You think you’re helping, but in reality, you’re just pissing me off.”
Sighing, Hutton hops off the couch and makes his way to the kitchen, where I hear him dig around in the fridge. “You realize I have one day to hang out with you and that I have to report back to Brentwood after Christmas morning, right?” The fridge door shuts and then a cabinet door opens. “Can we not spend our precious moments together fighting?”
I rub my forehead and sink into the couch farther. “Sorry, man.”
Rounding the couch with a cookie tray, he sets it on the coffee table in front of me. Two sodas—one orange for him, one Sprite for me—a block of cheese, Wheat Thins, an apple, and, of course . . . Funyuns. A Smith/McMann household would not be complete without Funyuns.
Hutton reaches for the bag first and pops it open. “I accept your apology. Now, let’s immerse ourselves in the fake oniony flavor of these crunchy cornmeal delights.” He puts one in his mouth, crunches down, and moans. “Every time I see a bag of these in your house, it makes me want to make out with your mom.”
“What the fuck, man?”
He shrugs. “Facts.”
“They’re in the house all the time.”
“Then that should inform you about what’s going on in my head during every visit.” He pops another ring in his mouth and smiles.
“I hate you.”
“Hey, what did I say about fighting?” He points his finger at me.
Sighing, I pick up the Sprite and crack it open while Hutton starts to cut strips of cheese and an apple into thin slices. It’s weird, but whenever he’s at my house, he likes to have cheese with Wheat Thins and to top it off, a thin slice of apple. Knowing he was coming over, my mom made sure to have everything in stock. It’s a weird combination, but it works.
Popping my soda open, I take a quick sip and then lean against the cushion of the couch. “I’m sorry, man. It’s been a rough fucking year.”
Growing serious, Hutton says, “I get that, man. You guys were really close.”
And that’s why he’s one of my best friends, along with Hollis and River. Because they know.
Yeah, the season sucked. It was embarrassing, actually, and hugely detrimental to my chances at a professional football career.
But that’s not what’s on my mind.
It’s my grandpa.
Or Pops, as we called him.
Bernie McMann, the patriarch of the family, the only guy I’ve ever known to swear by using presidents’ names, and my pal, my guy . . . passed away this summer.
And it was fucking devastating.
Crushing.
I couldn’t focus in the classroom. I have some of the worst grades I’ve ever received, and my footb
all season, well, by now you should know how that turned out.
He was sick, something my parents didn’t tell me, something Pops didn’t want me to know. Said he wanted me to treat him the same way I always have.
Unfortunately, I didn’t spend time with him this past summer. To be honest, I didn’t visit him the past three summers, and only saw him during the holidays. I decided to stay home and train instead.
Biggest fucking regret of my life.
“I should have visited him over the summer like I used to.”
“Dude, you didn’t know he was going to pass away.”
“Doesn’t matter, life is too short.” I twist the can of soda in my hand with regret. “I thought he’d be around forever.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Hutton makes a cheese, cracker, and apple combination for me and hands it over. I take it and shove it in my mouth. “Not to make you feel any worse than you do, but do you think your season went the way it did because you weren’t mentally there?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, so you’re aware?”
“Quite aware.” I dust my fingers off and take a swig of my Sprite. “My mental game was completely shot. I was physically there on the field, but mentally, I was with Pops.”
“Glad you’re starting to admit that,” says my dad, who walks into the living room wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. He takes the lumberjack look way too seriously. Doesn’t quite fit in with the vibe here in California, but he owns it.
“Mr. Smith, good to see you,” Hutton says, standing and giving my dad a solid handshake. Dad pulls him into a hug.
“When are you going to start calling me Porter?”
“Never,” Hutton says. “Pretty sure my parents would murder me.”
Dad chuckles. “I wouldn’t say a damn thing.”
“Yes, but it’s a slippery slope, and before you know it, we’d see each other in the grocery store and I would call you Porter in front of my mom, and you know the kind of wallop I’d get across the back of the head.”
“Ahh, Mrs. Marshall is one to fear,” my dad says with a wink. Just then my mom appears in the same doorway Dad came from. Her hair is ruffled and her lipstick is smeared across her face.
Jesus Christ.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Uh, Marley.” My dad touches the side of his mouth, and her eyes go wide.
“Excuse me for a second.”
I groan and say, “While I was in the house? Come on.”
Dad takes a seat in one of the blue chairs next to the couch and picks up a piece of cheese. “Your parents have healthy appetites for each other. Be grateful.”
“He’s right,” Hutton says, leaning over.
I push him away. “I’m wallowing, I would prefer not to know that my parents are horndogs in the next room while I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.”
Just then, Dad’s laptop, which is on an end table, starts ringing with a Skype call. He accepts and immediately I hear Uncle Paul’s voice.
“Where’s my snookum boy? I want to see how brawny he’s gotten.”
Dad turns the computer toward me, and I’m graced with the sight of Uncle Paul’s shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and massive bush of a beard that tickles the top of his nipples. Best friends since they were young, Dad and Uncle Paul have been in each other’s lives forever, which is hard to believe because Uncle Paul—Mom’s brother—is eccentric, to say the least. Married with five girls, he treats me as his very own boy.
Hand clasping his chest, he shakes his head and says, “God, you’re handsome. You take after me. See that bone structure, Porter? That’s McMann bone structure.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Dad says with a knowing smile. There’s no denying it. I’m a carbon copy of my father.
“Is that Paul?” Mom says, walking in, looking much more put together.
“It is. Just admiring my godson.”
Mom claps her hands and says, “Now that we’re all here, we can begin.”
“Begin what?” I ask, sitting up.
Dad sets the computer on a chair, as if Uncle Paul is actually occupying space in the room, and all eyes fall on me.
Mom takes a seat next to me on the couch, forcing me to scoot over to the middle, and in her motherly voice, she says, “Sweetie, we want to talk to you.”
I look around the room and note that Uncle Paul is already dabbing at his eyes with a tissue. “Uh, what the hell is going on? Is this some sort of intervention?”
“We don’t need to put a label on it,” Mom says. “But, yes. Yes, it is.”
I glance over at Hutton, who has a cheese and cracker heading toward to his mouth. He pauses and says, “It’s an intervention, dude, and I’m living for it.”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but here I am, a blubbering mess,” Uncle Paul says. “I love you, Crew. You’re my boy.” He holds his fist out and honestly . . . how do I even react?
“We’re worried about you, Crew,” Dad says. “You haven’t been the same since Pops passed. You have all the reason to mourn, but we’re not sure if that’s what you’re doing.”
“Didn’t know there was a proper way to mourn,” I say, folding my arms over my chest.
“There isn’t.” Mom places her hand on my leg. “Everyone mourns in their own way, but we, as the people who care most about you, need to make sure that you’re doing it in a constructive way.”
“Your mom is right, dude,” Hutton says. “You’re letting yourself slip into a dark place and, frankly, it’s scaring the shit out of me.”
“Is this about my season? Because trust me, I don’t need you three harping on me about it. I know I was a shitshow out there and that my chances of actually making it professionally are slim to none now. I don’t need the reminder.”
“We don’t care about football right now,” Dad says. “We’re worried about you.”
In a soft voice, Mom says, “We’re worried you haven’t found closure yet with Pops.”
“Have you?” I ask, a little surprised. “He was your dad, Mom. But, then again, you guys knew he was sick, so you had time to prepare. I didn’t.”
“He didn’t want you to know,” Mom says gently.
“And why the fuck not?” I shout. “If I knew he was sick, I would have spent this past summer with him. I would have soaked up every last moment, but he took that from me. You took that from me.”
Mom’s eyes well up and I can feel the tension start to build as everyone goes silent. Minus Hutton, they all knew. And not one of them said a damn thing to me.
Finally, Dad says, “He left you something.”
“Porter”—Mom shakes her head—“not the time.”
“What did he leave me?” I ask.
As if I’m not in the room, Dad says to Mom, “There’s too much anger here, Marley. The only way he will understand is if we tell him.”
“Tell me what?”
“I think you should tell him,” Uncle Paul says.
“I don’t think he can handle it,” Mom counters.
“Handle what?” I ask, growing even more agitated.
Everyone pauses.
The room goes silent.
Mom and Dad stare at each other.
Uncle Paul clutches his hands at his chest.
The crunch of a cracker breaks the silence followed by a mumbled “sorry” from Hutton.
“Someone better tell me what the hell is going on.”
“You’re going to Germany,” Hutton says.
Everyone flashes their eyes in his direction. Dad says his name sternly under his breath, and my best friend cowers with a shrug.
“Sorry, but someone had to say something. I have one day with my best friend.” Hutton taps his wrist. “We have to move this along; we have mindless video games to play.”
Blinking, I turn back to my parents and ask, “I’m going to Germany? The country?”
Sighing, Mom glances at Dad and
then back to me. “Pops left special instructions for your dad and me to send you on a trip he went on many years ago. Before Paul and I were born. It’s a trip we’ve all been on and a trip Pops now wants you to go on. This is your final break before everything turns into extreme chaos—that’s if you decide to go to the combine and try to make it professionally. Either way, the trip is booked.”
“Wait.” I sit taller. “You’re going to just . . . send me off to Germany?”
“Yeah. Cool, right, bro?” Hutton says, hitting my shoulder. “Man, what I wouldn’t give to go to Germany during Christmas.”
Ignoring him, I ask, “Are you going with me?”
Mom and Dad shake their heads. “No, but you won’t be alone. You, uh, will meet up with your travel companion when you get there.”
“Travel companion?” I ask, my brows shooting up. “Who is it?”
“We’re not at liberty to say,” Dad says.
As I try to comprehend everything, I scoot to the edge of the couch, knees pressed to the coffee table.
“Hey, what’s happening? I can’t see Crew,” Uncle Paul protests.
I ignore him too. “Let me get this straight. Before Pops passed away, he put together a trip to Germany for me and had you two book it, and I’ll be joined by some mystery person on this trip?”
“Bingo bango,” Hutton says, patting me on the back. “Not all brawn, this one. He’s got the brains too.”
“Why did you invite him?” I ask my parents.
“Trying to figure that out right now,” Dad says, rubbing his hand across his forehead.
“Comedic relief?” Hutton asks with a smart-ass smile.
“Hey, I thought that’s what I’m here for?” Uncle Paul says.