My Friend Shamed Me, He’s a Draft Pick

The crunch of dry autumn leaves beneath my boots sounded louder than I remembered. The crisp October air filled my lungs, carrying the familiar, nostalgic scents of stale beer, cheap perfume, and roasted peanuts drifting over from the nearby football stadium. It had been exactly one year since I had last walked up the sprawling, column-lined pathway of the Delta Zeta sorority house. A year since my life had turned upside down, inside out, and blossomed into something entirely beautiful and unexpected. I paused at the bottom of the grand brick staircase, gazing up at the brightly lit windows. Neon strobes flashed from the living room, pulsing to the heavy bass of a trending hip-hop track. It felt like another lifetime ago when I actually lived in that house, stressing over midterms, organizing charity galas, and planning weekend tailgates. Now, I was a twenty-one-year-old mother, a wife, and a woman returning to campus simply to finish my degree. My hand instinctively brushed against my flat stomach, a ghost of the baby bump that had been there just three months prior. Our little boy, Leo, was currently at home, swaddled in a ridiculously soft blanket and fast asleep under the fiercely protective watch of my husband, Nash. Nash. Just the thought of him made a warm, fluttery feeling rise in my chest. He was the university's undisputed golden boy, the star quarterback who had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth right before the championship game last season. The media had run wild with frantic speculation. A career-ending knee injury? A massive scandal? A mental breakdown under the pressure? The truth was far simpler, yet infinitely more scandalous to the sports-obsessed world: he had found out I was pregnant with a high-risk complication, and he had looked his head coach dead in the eye and said, "Football can wait. My family can't." He had spent the last year secretly married to me, holding my hair back during morning sickness, rubbing my swollen feet, and quietly maintaining his elite physical condition in private, highly secure training facilities. The world thought Nash was broken, a tragic cautionary tale of wasted potential. Only I knew that the reigning king of college football was stronger, faster, and more lethal on the field than ever, poised to shock the world at the upcoming NFL Draft. But tonight wasn't about the NFL, draft stock, or football politics. Tonight was about reclaiming a small piece of my independence. I wanted to catch up with my friends, and more importantly, I wanted to secure a low-stress logistics position with the athletic department. It was a simple plan: get a job with the team so I could legitimately bring Leo to watch Nash's practices without raising suspicion before his official comeback announcement. And mostly, I wanted to see Lyra. Lyra had been my roommate and supposedly my closest confidante. We had shared clothes, secrets, and late-night pizza runs. When I quietly took my leave of absence, she was the one I kept in touch with the most, though her replies had grown sparse, brief, and vaguely dismissive over the months. I assumed it was just the busy life of a senior sports management major. I was eager to surprise her, having only texted her a vague message that I might drop by the welcome-back mixer. I climbed the steps, adjusting the strap of my understated but obscenely expensive leather handbag—a custom piece Nash had imported from Italy as a "push present" because he claimed the diaper bag wasn't chic enough for my return to society. The front door of the sorority house was slightly ajar, propped open by a decorative pumpkin to let the cool air in. The hallway was relatively empty, the main party localized in the sunken living room to the left. As I stepped into the foyer, intending to take off my coat, a voice cut through the momentary lull between songs. It was sharp, theatrical, and unmistakably Lyra’s. "Oh, please. Don't even pretend to be jealous of Sutton," Lyra’s voice projected over the ambient chatter. She was holding court, and from the sounds of the giggling, she had a captive audience. I froze, my hand hovering over the coat rack. I stepped closer to the archway, hiding in the shadows of the hall, peering in through the c***k in the double doors. Lyra was perched on the arm of a leather sofa, holding a red Solo cup like a scepter. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, and she wore a smug, pitying expression that made my stomach drop. "I mean, sure, she managed to trap Nash," Lyra continued, rolling her eyes dramatically. "But look at what he is now. He’s completely washed up. I heard his knee is basically held together by duct tape and hope. He hasn't played a single down in a year." A younger sophomore, one of our newer sorority sisters, gasped softly. "But he was so amazing! Didn't they say he was going to be a first-round draft pick? The generational talent?" "Key word: was," Lyra sneered, taking a delicate sip of her drink. "In the sports world, a year off is a absolute death sentence. Especially for a quarterback who relies on mobility. My boyfriend, Chase—you know, the starting backup who's actually going to get scouted this year—said the coaches don't even talk about Nash anymore. It's like he never existed. He's a ghost." My nails dug into the soft leather of my purse. Chase? Chase was a third-string benchwarmer who couldn't throw a spiral if his life depended on it. He was only on the active roster because his father was a major alumni booster. The idea of Chase pitying Nash was so absurd it was almost comical. "That's so sad," another girl murmured. "What about Sutton? I heard she actually went through with having the baby." "She did," Lyra sighed, though her tone lacked any real sympathy. Instead, it dripped with toxic condescension. "Honestly, it’s a tragedy. She threw away her youth to play house with a broken, has-been athlete. Now she's stuck with a screaming kid and a husband who has zero career prospects. I mean, how are they even surviving? Probably scraping by on whatever leftover scholarship stipend the school took pity on him to keep." The initial sting of betrayal that had sparked in my chest suddenly flared into a roaring inferno. This was the girl who had cried on my shoulder when she failed her sophomore finals? The girl who claimed we were sisters for life? She was standing there, using my supposed misfortune as social currency to elevate her own pathetic status. "Actually," Lyra leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice just enough to force everyone to lean in with her, "she texted me this morning. She's begging around for a job. She wants to work for the football team's logistics crew. You know, folding towels, handing out water bottles. The absolute grunt work." "No way," someone scoffed in disbelief. "Sutton used to be the president of the events committee. Now she's going to be a glorified water boy?" "When you have a hungry mouth to feed and a crippled husband sulking on the couch, you can't exactly be picky," Lyra said with a fake, tragic pout. "As a future sports agent, I actually feel obligated to help her out. Chase said he might be able to put in a good word with the equipment manager. Get her a gig washing the practice jerseys in the basement. It's the least I can do for an old friend." A chorus of sycophantic giggles rippled through the group. They were laughing. They were actually laughing at the fictional, pathetic life they had constructed for me. The shock had fully evaporated, replaced by an icy, crystal-clear calm. The sheer audacity of her lies was breathtaking. I looked down at my left hand, where my diamond wedding band rested. The massive, flawless center stone caught the dim hall light, practically blinding me with its brilliance. I thought of Nash, currently sitting in our sprawling multi-million dollar penthouse overlooking the city skyline, probably reviewing complex NFL offensive playbooks while rocking our son to sleep in a custom-built nursery. Washed up? Broke? Begging for scraps? I let out a soft, dark chuckle. The sound was barely audible over the heavy bass that suddenly kicked back in from the speakers, but it vibrated through my own chest. I smoothed the lapels of my tailored cashmere blazer, tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and let a perfectly serene, razor-sharp smile stretch across my lips. If Lyra wanted to play the generous, successful savior to her poor, destitute friend, who was I to deny her an audience? I stepped out of the shadows, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and casually pushed the heavy double doors of the living room wide open.