Kai stands in front of my foyer mirror, flexing his quarterback biceps and grinning from ear to ear. “Live a little.” “Can’t. You know that.” I rest my hands on my hips and glance at my bored reflection. Weston, one of our linebackers, is seated in my living room looking lost in thought. Or maybe he’s bored too. “Weston’s depressed. You’re no fun anymore.” Kai’s smile fades as he turns to me. “What the fuck am I supposed to do? You’re my bros. You’re my partners in crime.” “Yeah, well, not everyone can be Gainesville’s Golden Boy,” I say, moving to the other room. I plop down in an overstuffed armchair, and Weston doesn’t so much as look up. Kai Santana’s penchant for booze and women far exceed my own, but I’m the one who got stuck under the PR microscope. And trapped by the owner’s daughter. “Dude,” Kai says to Weston. “You need to man up. Move on.
