“Look, Dad, I’ve gotta bounce. I’m late for practice.”
“Don’t talk like that, Cooper. You sound like a punk.” Gone is the soothing timbre he uses with the public. There’s hard edge to his voice, a sure sign I’ve gotten under his skin. “And call your mother.”
The irony of his concern has me seeing red, but I grit my teeth and swallow my anger for her sake.
“Yes, sir.” I disconnect before he can reply and exhale, ignoring the way my hands shake as I drop to the bench in front of my locker. I’m late for practice, but I can’t take the field like this.
Not when I’m likely to drop every pass that comes my way.
I bring up my texts and scroll through the messages, deleting two random booty calls from Saturday night. Could be girls I’ve hooked up with before, but since my contacts were wiped, it’s hard to be sure. I spent most of yesterday hungover, so the only contacts I’ve reprogrammed are my parents and my roommates.
Just as well. No time for distractions.
My finger hovers over the third string of messages. I should delete them. I don’t have a clue who the girl on the other end is, but... shewasfunny.
I quickly reread our exchange, a slow smile spreading over my face. Probably a closet geek like me with all those Star Wars references.
One might’ve been a coincidence, but two?
Not likely.
She’d probably freak if she knew she’d been talking to one of the country’s top receivers.
Conceited much?
Whatever. A girl like that probably isn’t into jocks. Especially ones with Greek letters and a casual outlook on sex. Plus, there’s a real possibility she lives in Alaska. Or Montana. Or—
Focus, DeLaurentis.
Practice. Study hall. Call mom.
One day—one step—at a time. It’s the only way to win a national championship and secure a first-round selection in the NFL draft.
I can’t afford to settle for anything less.
7
QUINN
The instant class is dismissed,I’m on my feet, trudging out the door with thirty undergrads who look as excited about the homework assignment as I feel. If Professor Bates’ goal was to crush spirits and Friday vibes, the man succeeded. I knew Creative Nonfiction would require some personal essays, but asking us to write a piece that exposes vulnerability the first week of class?
Stone-cold.
Asking us to share the piece for critique?
Savage.
Seriously. Who does that?
Call-me-David—who thinks he’s too young and hip to go by Professor Bates—that’s who. The same man who forgot to update the class syllabus, which was clearly recycled from spring semester. Hell, if it weren’t for the outdated syllabus, I’d think he designed this assignment solely to torture me.
After all, my life is one big freaking vulnerability.
It’s not his fault the simple act of walking down the street is hazardous to your health.
“Is it me, or has David sharpened his teeth since last fall?”
I glance to the right and find Priya, my crit partner from Intro to Fiction, falling into step with me. “It’s definitely not you. Writing something personal this early in the semester is brutal enough without suffering through a peer critique.”
