Spring Tide (Coastal University Book 1)
Spring Tide: Chapter 2

I’m unbelievably tired.

No, it’s more than that. I’m fucking exhausted. Strung out. Spread thin. Not sure how much longer I can withstand this torture.

Every morning, I wake up at 5:15 a.m. and head to the Intramural Training Building. There, I spend an hour in the weight room, followed by a grueling forty-five minutes of outdoor conditioning. Then I sit through a few boring lectures until it’s time for afternoon drills.

Once I’m finally finished, nearly twelve hours after my morning alarm, I drag myself down to the Boyer Inlet Pier. I was unfortunate enough to grow up just outside this tiny town with a population even smaller than my bank account.

Boyer is three square miles of beach and bullshit. Sand and scum. Ocean and pure lack of opportunity. The fishing pier is this town’s only redeeming quality, and it’s been my job to keep it running for the past four years.

It’s hard work, honest work, and it pays the goddamn bills, which is the only part I care about. That, and the fact that my boss, Pawel Nowak, has become like a second father to me.

“I need you to scrub the benches before you close up,” Pawel orders, slapping a wet rag onto my shoulder. “There’s gull shit everywhere.”

Oh, did I say second father? What I meant to say is—this crotchety old man is a huge pain in my ass.

“You got it, sir,” I mutter.

“I’m heading out in a minute,” he tells me after he’s rung up the last round of customers. “You stickin’ around for the kids’ bonfire?”

I slide a hand across my forehead, pushing back my sweat-damp hair. “You already know the answer to that.”

His brow furrows. “Thought that pretty little lifeguard might’ve convinced you otherwise.”

“Harper?” I suppress a scoff. “No, she’s . . . I’m not interested in any of that.”

“Any of what, son? Beautiful women?”

“No. I mean, that,” I clarify, gesturing toward the cramped beachfront. “The crowds of people I don’t care to know. It’s all fake. And God knows, I’m just too tired for it.”

Pawel sighs, slipping a faded Carhartt jacket over his frail shoulders. “It’s ’cause you work too damn hard.”

“I do what’s necessary.”

“That you do, son.” He claps a firm hand against my back. “Just don’t forget to live every once in a while, will ya?”

My lip twitches, a smile threatening to break free. “Sure thing, old man.”

By the time the last fishermen have cleared off the pier, the sky has shifted from nautical twilight to the deepest dusk. On the shoreline, flames from a distant bonfire illuminate the crowd of strangers.

All those unknown people out there, drinking and laughing and celebrating another summer’s end. Faces I’ve repeatedly seen but don’t bother to recognize. Names I’ve heard for years but don’t care to remember.

And then there’s Harper, bouncing and giggling under the dim coastal lights. She’s tripping over her own feet now, dangling onto the arm of a Surfbreak waitress. They may be all sorts of tipsy, but at least they’re fucking happy together. Joyful. Giddy. There’s a closeness there that’s easy to spot, even from my safe distance at the pierhead.

Although I’ve only just met Harper tonight, I’ve seen her around for the past three summers. It’s not like I’m oblivious. And Harper’s not exactly an inconspicuous girl. She’s all sorts of shiny, bright like the blazing sun, and sugary sweet.

Of course, she seemed to know me just as well. Hell, every student at Coastal U pretends to know me. Luca “Ötzi” Reynolds, MIKE linebacker, total loner, and cold as fucking ice. My teammates, and the rest of the student body, seem to enjoy inventing stories about me.

People tend to do that—fill in all the blanks the way they see fit. But I suppose I can’t complain. Otherwise, I might actually have to fill them in myself.

With one last lingering glance, I shut down Boyer Pier for the night. The heavy chains wrap around my fist as I drag them across the gate. The padlock clicks into place. Now, after five draining hours, it’s time for me to get the hell out of here.

By the time I make it back home, my left leg is shaking. A dull, seething ache radiates from the inner portion of my knee, settling in the form of a splitting headache.

I undoubtedly fucked up today.

It was a careless, arrogant move tossing those crates around, mostly because my knee injury is only getting worse. During our first preseason game, Jaquan Thomas tackled the shit out of me, popping my knee inward with the force of two hundred and sixty-five pounds. Over the past week and a half, I’ve been icing and bandaging and resting as much as physically possible.

But I have to keep faking happy at practice. If Coach finds out I’m injured, let alone with a possible MCL tear, I could be benched for nearly half the season.

As I hobble up the front steps to my house, a fuzzy ball of energy bounds into me, licking and nipping at my ankles. It always boosts my mood when I see my sister’s golden retriever, Bentley. His eager greeting nearly knocks me off my feet, but I manage to brace myself against the doorway.

“Hey, buddy,” I coo, carefully bending down to pat his head.

My sister’s panicked voice calls out from the other room, “Luc, that you?”

“Yes, Tay,” I shout back. “Of course, it’s me.”

My older sister and I have lived together for two terms now. Taylor’s a graduate student here at Coastal and happens to be three years my senior. Thankfully, with the help of her favorite professor, she’s conned us into this low-budget housing arrangement.

During my first two years of undergrad, I made the careless mistake of living with my fellow teammates. There were nearly twenty of us sharing a house near Greek row, and as one might expect, the whole thing quickly devolved into a shitshow.

I couldn’t fucking handle it, from the wild parties to the fake friendships to the forced proximity. Not to mention all those random expenses that kept cropping up. Luckily, before I completely lost it, Taylor swooped in and saved my sorry ass.

“Luca!” Taylor shouts again. “Come in here, please.”

I ruffle the fur under Bentley’s neck, holding back a weary sigh. Taylor’s a fantastic sister—a great friend and an even better confidante—but she’s also way too fucking protective of me. I know what she’s about to ask, and I definitely don’t have the answer she’s looking for.

Regardless, I square my shoulders, rubbing against the inside of my knee with a tight wince. With only a slightly guilty conscience, I plaster on a blank expression and wander into our living room.

“How’s it going, Tay?” I ask, tight-lipped and sure-footed.

She peers over at me, her gaze carefully sliding from my forehead down to the soles of my work boots. “Did you make that doctor’s appointment?”

“Not quite,” I grit out. “Everything’s fine, Taylor. The knee’s feeling pretty solid.”

A heavy puff of air escapes her lips. “That seems like a lie.”

“It’s not, and you have enough to worry about already,” I murmur. “So stop fussing over me.”

“Fine. If your coach says that you’re good to go, then I guess I have to trust that.” She tips her head forward, gathering her loose curls into a tight bun. “Could you let Bentley out one more time before bed?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, hon.” She pats her thigh, ushering the dog to her side. With a soft smile, she coos her goodbyes in his ear, gently petting him before heading to another graveyard shift.

Outside of her graduate courses, Taylor bartends at a nightclub in the city. She’s a true Reynolds, through and through. What can I say? The two of us were born into a hardworking family. With six siblings total and two blue-collar parents, it’s simply in our bones.

As soon as I hear the heavy slam of the front door, a deep breath escapes my lungs. I nearly collapse onto the couch, but one last thread of restraint stops me in my tracks. I need to ice this shit, pronto.

After retrieving a gel pack from our freezer, I carefully hobble back into the living room. With shaking hands, I shimmy out of my jeans until I’m limping along in my boxers. Then I brace myself into a sitting position, hoist my leg onto a pillow, and cautiously unwrap the ACE bandages holding me together.

Oh, fuck.

My left knee is purple, swollen, and stiff as hell. This shit looks bad, but maybe I overworked myself today. Maybe, if I can manage to take it easy for the next week, then everything will be just fine.

Yeah, I can take care of this shit on my own. And nothing, not even a busted knee, can keep me from playing the field. I don’t have that luxury anymore, not as a senior. I need to keep this momentum going if I want a fair chance at the draft.

This is my last collegiate football season—my last shot at proving my worth—and I’m not gonna give it all up over a little bruising.

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