Page 7 of Rise Above

me at my hockey bag. “He misses you.”

Jefferson was Zeke’s kid brother. He was attending

the University of Chicago on a baseball scholarship. He was extremely talented but incredibly loud. There was no doubt in my mind that the kid would get drafted next year. The dude practically had a cannon for an arm and fielded better than any other short stop in college baseball. It didn’t matter what team he landed on; I would root for him. Zeke and Jefferson were my brothers even though we didn’t share blood. They had seen me at my lowest and highest points, even times my biological brothers hadn’t seen. These were guys I trusted with my life.

“Yeah.” I nodded my head, quickly unlacing my

skates. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Jefferson and Davis got roped into a soccer game.” I froze. “Can the kid even play soccer?” Jefferson was extremely athletic, but soccer was totally different than baseball. Never once had I even seen Jefferson get on a field. He was really only at home on a baseball pitch. The kid was talented, but soccer? The very idea was laughable. Frankly, the thought of watching Zeke’s little brother play a pick-up game eased all my previous irritation.

Zeke shrugged. “Hell if I know, man. Somehow, he

managed to convince some of the PhD and Master level students to play, which is how Davis got roped in. I guess there’s some sort of bet going on. Does it really matter?”

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We walked out of the Chaos Coliseum together,

Zeke chattering away at my side. That was Zeke to a T: a chatterbox. He was one of the only goalies I knew who also managed to be a pest. Somehow, he could so easily get under an opponent’s skin. Zeke was loud, bold, and obnoxious. On the other hand, I was taciturn, intimidating, and surly. We were often referred to as the Labrador and the feral cat. I was half convinced if Zeke hadn’t body checked me in middle school hockey, I would still be completely friendless. It wasn’t like I was rude; I liked my teammates well enough. I just didn’t like to talk. Besides, if it wasn’t sports related, what was the point in talking anyway?

Zeke carefully pulled his SUV into a parking space,

looking around for his little brother. The soccer field was covered in mud, clearly impacted from last night’s rain. My brows raised. Were they still going to play in the mud? My idea of graduate students were all prisses who stayed inside— nerds to be blunt. I barely made it through my own degree, only completing it for my dad’s sake. Shaking my head, I slammed the door closed and followed my orange-haired friend to his brother.

Jefferson smiled at Zeke. If I didn’t know better, I

would have thought the two were twins. They both had bright, orange hair like Rupert Grint or Ed Sheeran. Freckles smothered their faces, making them appear slightly tan. The only difference between the two was their height, bulk, and eyes. Zeke was stockier, more muscular, and had hazel eyes. Jefferson was tall, slim, and had weirdly piercing green eyes. I’m sure he made men and women swoon with those damn eyes.

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Once the Carter boys separated, I felt myself being

embraced by Jefferson. A little grin crept onto my face as I patted his back; Jefferson was like my little brother too. Him and Zeke were two people I’d go to the end of the earth for, though neither one of them would ever hear me say it aloud. They would never let me live it down. I was the tough guy in our little group, and I preferred it that way.

“You really going to watch our silly scrimmage?”

Jeff asked me, walking me over to the metal bench Zeke was already at. “I mean, you guys are pro athletes for Christ’s sake.”

“Any excuse to watch you slip on some mud and

lose,” I said with a smirk on my face. “Go warm up, kid.”

He nodded and raced to join his friends. Zeke and I

may have been professional athletes, but we weren’t as easily recognized as someone like Tom Brady or Lebron James. It was something I was thankful for because I strongly valued my privacy.

Sitting next to my friend, I looked at the other

players. Jefferson’s team seemed to be composed of other Division One athletes; some I even recognized from the football and baseball teams. The other team looked small in comparison, filled with people far too focused on their degrees. They also probably didn’t seem as competitive as Jefferson and his team.

My eyes landed on one grad student in particular.

Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into a braid that went down her back. She wore a long-sleeved black shirt like the rest of her team and red shorts. The blonde was tiny but clearly muscular. I could see her calf muscles from the bench. She wore a cautious smile on her face, like 24