Losing Memphis: A NA Sports Romance (NE University Book 3) Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Hannah Gray

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  contents

  prologue

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  forty-one

  forty-two

  forty-three

  forty-four

  forty-five

  forty-six

  forty-seven

  forty-eight

  forty-nine

  fifty

  fifty-one

  fifty-two

  fifty-three

  fifty-four

  fifty-five

  fifty-six

  Other Books by Hannah Gray

  playlist

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  prologue

  The shitty thing about consequences? They don’t really care if you wish you could take back whatever the hell you did to put you in the horrible situation you ended up in. They don’t care if you regret it or if you didn’t know any better at the time. They certainly don’t take into account how fucked up your life will be once you make that life-changing mistake. They don’t even care if you beg and plead to take it back, to turn back time, to do anything and everything in your power to make things go back to the way they used to be.

  No, consequences give zero fucks about any of that.

  Wouldn’t life be so much easier if only we had a time machine to rewind a week, an hour, several minutes, or hell, even a few seconds. Then, we could change how we did something, how we treated someone, or maybe even take back the last words we spoke to the ones we loved most.

  Unfortunately for us, there is no magical machine to take us back to change something that has affected us in a negative way. There isn’t some secret word to change the past. Every single thing that we do—every word, every conversation, every action, every movement—has consequences of some sort.

  And sometimes, they really fucking suck.

  one

  Lane

  I poke my head into Coach’s office. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”

  Looking up from the papers on his desk, he signals me in. “Close the door behind you,” he mutters.

  Coach is a no-bullshit sort of guy. He also scares the ever-living shit out of me. He’s a big dude, and he has a temper. Take it from me. I’ve seen him mad, and it isn’t a pretty sight.

  Leaning back in his chair, he narrows his eyes directly at me.

  Fuck, he’s pissed.

  “I know you kids think I’m too damn old to pay attention to what in the hell you’re doing when you aren’t out on that field.”

  I shake my head. “No, sir, we don’t think that at all.”

  Coach is in his late fifties, and in my opinion, he’s the best coach in the United States. He’s one smart dude.

  Holding his hand up, he says, “Oh, cut the shit. I know because I don’t have one of those Insta whatever it is and I’m not on the Facebook, you boys think I don’t see things.”

  Him calling it “the Facebook” makes me chuckle—inside my own head, of course. If I laughed in Coach’s face, he’d probably lay me out. Besides, I’ve got too much respect for him.

  His face grows somber. Pushing the visor of his hat up and then back down over and over, he leans forward. “Son, you’ve got to quit partying if you’re going to be a part of this team.”

  Shame fills my body and settles in the pit of my stomach. “What do you mean, Coach?”

  “Look, there are a lot of people who want nothing more than to take this team down.” He drops his voice lower. “They watch, and they wait for one of you—any of you—to fuck up. And then they try to send the proof to the right people.”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve heard it. New England University has one of the best football programs in the country. Nobody likes a good team. They feel threatened.

  “I understand, Coach. I’ll get it together.”

  “I know you’re of age, Lane. Having a few drinks here and there isn’t the problem.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just need you to not get so smashed that you don’t know where you are or what your damn name is. That’s when the piranhas will be there, ready to document your demise.”

  I usually wear the mask of the guy who isn’t fazed. Someone who goes through life careless and carefree. All that couldn’t be further from the truth, and since Coach is good at reading just about anybody, he knows.

  “I know you’ve got demons son. Hell, we all do. But you’re this close.” He holds his fingers up in measurement. “This. Damn. Close. Don’t mess it up now. The NFL is yours to lose. Don’t let that happen.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say and stand up. “Is that all?”

  He watches me before nodding. “Get your ass out of here. Go get ready for practice. Be on the field in ten minutes.”

  I almost make it out the door when I stop, looking over my shoulder. “Coach?”

  “Yes, Rivers?”

  “I’m sorry I continue to let you down. I’m sorry you have to take time out of your days to have these talks with me.” Before he can answer, I walk out the doorway and toward my locker.

  Time to get ready for one bitch of a practice.

  two

  Memphis

  “Senior year, girlfraaannnd! Can you even believe it?” my best friend, Ava, basically yells. Pumping her tiny fist into the air in between bites of her huge-ass cheeseburger.

  I look around The Atlantic to see if anyone is staring at us. Ava has one of those voices that, let’s just say, carries. Even if we’re in a private booth, homegirl is loud. I’m used to it though. That’s just how Ava is.

  Luckily, I see no one paying attention to us in the pub we like to come to often. We love this place. The food is great, and while we are both wallflowers, here, we can watch the drama unfold right in front of our eyes. Not to mention, Ava likes to ogle the football players who are here often. Athletes aren’t really my type, but even I like to look sometimes. But really, who doesn’t?


  I nod. “Yep, I can’t believe this is our last year at NEU,” I reply honestly.

  Time here at New England University has passed in the blink of an eye it seems.

  “I can’t believe after living at home for your entire life, you are finally moving out. And not with just anybody, but also the coolest person on campus.” She winks.

  “I know. Good thing I already know how to do laundry. I don’t think you would have been much help with that,” I joke.

  She’s not much for housework. She isn’t a slob. But she certainly isn’t like me, who wants to have everything neat and organized at all times.

  “Oh hush. Up until this year, your mom was probably still doing your laundry,” she says, pointing a French fry at me before muttering, “Lucky bitch.”

  She’s always teasing me about living with my mom so long. But I know it’s because she envies the relationship my mother and I have. She’s been on her own for much longer than her time at college. She doesn’t speak of her childhood much, but she’s said enough for me to know that her dad was never in the picture and her mother liked drugs too much to parent her. Even though I lost my father at a young age, I was very lucky to have the childhood that I did. My mother is amazing.

  I lived at home with her for the first three years of college. Opting to travel the short twenty-minute commute daily to NEU instead of living in a dorm. My mom needed me. Since my dad died, it has just been the two of us. I felt too guilty, leaving her alone. This year though? I decided to be a little selfish and spread my wings and try it on my own. Well, with Ava.

  Ava and I found the cutest little apartment only five minutes off-campus. We moved in a week ago. I still feel bad for leaving my mom even though she promised over and over that it was all right and that she was going to be fine. Still, she’s done so much for me, and I can’t help but feel a sense of guilt. The joys of being an overthinker.

  “Would you just look at that? I mean, dayum.” Ava whistles under her breath while fanning herself with her napkin.

  I follow her line of vision. My eyes find a group of big, meaty, muscular—some tattooed, some not—football players filing in one after another. Their huge bodies fill the doorframe as they walk through. Every eye in the restaurant gawks at them. They are used to it though. As annoying as it is, they are basically royalty around campus.

  I gulp down my soda. Happy that, as always, we chose our small, hidden booth in the corner. It isn’t like I’d be noticed anyway though. But Ava most likely would, and I don’t want to deal with all that.

  I shrug. “Eh, whatever. I’ll admit, they are nice to look at. But that’s as far as it goes.” I point my finger to my head. “Their brains are the size of rat turds.”

  I do like to look at the football players from afar. But that’s it. Number one, most of them are womanizers, and number two, they are just a bunch of jerks. That isn’t attractive to me. Not in the least. They know how to play football and pick up floozies. That’s where their knowledge ends.

  Shoving fry after fry in her mouth, unfazed, she watches them without blinking, clearly unaffected by what I said. She slowly shakes her head, hypnotized by these buffoons. “I’d let one take me home and ravish me … just for one night. Any day of the week.”

  I roll my eyes. “Ew, don’t be gross.”

  “Hey … I’m a strong, independent woman. But one night with one of them?” She jerks her thumb toward the football players, who have all found a seat at the bar. “Yeah, I don’t care if I look pathetic. Men that size, who look like that … they know exactly what they are doing in the bedroom.” She basically pants, much like the golden retriever I had when I was a kid. Only she’s a damn human being. “Can you imagine having their hands all over your body? My good gawd, girl …”

  “Yeah … I’d bet they’re also knowledgeable of the signs of an STD. Since, ya know, they have all probably had their fair share of them,” I reply dryly, pondering if she needs me to dump some ice water over her head to bring her back to reality.

  I’m a little nervous she’s going to dry-hump the table while watching them. She talks as if they are way out of her league. I wish she knew she was so much better than that.

  She sighs a long, very dramatic sigh.

  Ava is studying theater, and it certainly shows. One day, she’ll be winning an Oscar—I have no doubt about it.

  “A Z-Pak to have his hands all over me for the night?” She puts her hand on her chin, continuing to watch them. “Yeah, I think it might be worth it,” she says, her eyes basically turning to those of a cartoon character.

  I throw a French fry and hit her right on the boob, and thankfully, it snaps her out of her meathead trance.

  “Yeah, you are right. That was pathetic,” she says, finally pulling her eyes from the meat factory.

  “Gee, you don’t say,” I deadpan.

  She shrugs. “I haven’t been with anyone since David.” She blushes. “And, well … that sucked.”

  I laugh. She isn’t kidding.

  David was her boyfriend for a few months back during sophomore year. He was sort of an odd duck, to put it nicely. For the most part, sex was a no-go due to the fact that he apparently got too nervous to get the job done and would end up with, as Ava put it, “overcooked spaghetti.” Poor guy. That must suck. Talk about humiliating. I’m not sure why Ava dated him. I guess because he was nice to her and he actually was good-looking. But holy balls, he was awkward as hell.

  Before I can answer, she winks. “It could always be worse. I could have, like … you know, never gotten any sex … ever …” Her eyes glimmer with amusement.

  She thinks she’s funny. News flash: she’s not. All right, she’s sort of funny. But not when it comes to joking about my lack of getting some.

  I groan inwardly. “Why do you care so much if I am not getting any? Does it actually affect you?”

  This is a conversation we have at least weekly. Why Ava puts so much thought into my sex life—or I should say, lack of one—is beyond me.

  “Well, no … I guess not.” She pauses to think for a moment, and then her voice gets loud again. “But I am still making it my mission this year to help you lose your V-card.”

  Once again, I thank the good Lord for this corner booth. Especially for times when my best friend wants to announce to the campus hot spot that I, Memphis Montgomery, am still carrying my V-card. I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But, yeah, I don’t really want everyone to know that fun fact about myself. In a sea full of college kids, it makes me look like a freak.

  It was never my intention to be a virgin at my age. Really, it wasn’t. It just sort of … happened, I guess. In high school, I was an extreme introvert. I think some of it was me just trying to be a good daughter for my mom. After losing my dad to cancer when I was little, I didn’t want to put her through any more unnecessary hurt. She’d been through enough, and I just wanted to make life as easy as I could. I never went to parties or snuck out. I don’t drink, and I haven’t had sex.

  Though, if I’m being completely honest, it is my senior year at NEU, and I do find myself wanting to experience things I never have. It’s my time to be a little selfish and, dare I say, reckless. Like all the other girls my age. Within reason, of course. I’m not saying I want to do some coke or sleep with the campus. But I’d like to be a little … risky.

  After paying our tab, we make our way to the exit. I avoid any and all eye contact with the football players, who are propped up at the bar. Lucky for me, there are a handful of floozies in low-cut shirts and shorts with their literal ass cheeks hanging out.

  The AC in here must be quite drafty on them.

  They are wearing so much lip gloss that it looks like they were punched in the mouth.

  Now, that is something I’d pay to see happen, I think to myself with a chuckle. I’m acutely aware that isn’t nice of me to think thoughts like that.

  I just hate to see women discount themselves to being someone’s random hook-up at t
he bar. I want to stop and yell at them, Know your worth! Make that asshole work for it!

  But they’d likely just roll their eyes at me. So, I keep walking.

  Once we’re in my car, Ava wastes no time in diving back into her football-player obsession. “Mems …”

  She decided on that obnoxious nickname for me ten minutes after we met. I didn’t argue or fight it. And I actually don’t hate it, mostly because she gave it to me.

  “Did you even see Trent Kade? Or Mason King? And, girrrrl, don’t even get me started on Lane Rivers. My God, that boy is a taaaall glass of water. Sex on a stick. Yummy.”

  “He’s also one of the biggest sluts on campus,” I answer while turning out of The Atlantic.

  “Yeah, well … I can’t blame those girls. He just looks like a walking sex machine. The things I’d like to do to him.” I think she might actually have drool coming out of her mouth. She turns toward me. “I would totally let him pound me into—”

  Holding my hand up, I growl, “Don’t care! No need to finish your sentence.” That is not a visual I want to have in my brain.

  I play it cool. But let’s be real—they are all hot. Like … really freaking hot. And I have to agree with her about Lane being a tall glass of water. His light-brown hair, sharp jawline, and scruff lining his chin paint an even clearer picture of the bad boy he is. And his swagger? He owns every single inch of himself as he walks. It makes me roll my eyes while clenching my legs together, all at the same time.

  But I hate womanizers, and that’s exactly what he and all the other football players are. And I’ve always said women who allow their bodies to be used as one of their one-night stands are weak. But the older I get, the more I realize, maybe I’m the weak one for being so scared to try new things. I’m not saying I envy the jersey chasers, but what the hell am I even hanging on to my virginity for? Do I get a medal or something, the longer I wait? Not that I know of. So, why haven’t I taken that plunge?

  I think it all boils down to one thing—there has never been an opportunity to give it to someone appealing. But I’m beginning to realize that maybe the ones I claim are least appealing … are the ones I secretly want to lose myself in.