“Didn’t your mama ever tell you to mind your own plate?” Parker asks, reaching over to swipe a fry off my tray. He shoots me a wicked grin and pops it in his mouth. “It’s just good manners.”
“Yeah, well, the next time I see your mom,” I say, moving my food out of his reach, “I’ll be sure to let her know your manners are shit.” I know how this goes. It starts with one fry. Then another. Next thing you know, he’ll be reaching for my burger—the one I shouldn’t be eating since I’m supposed to be on a strict diet—but what Coach doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Or me.
It’s Monday afternoon and we’re grabbing a late lunch before heading to the field. Although we beat Pittsburgh soundly on Saturday, bringing our record to 3-0, we’ve got our first conference game this weekend. We’re playing Iowa and it’s an away game, so we’re in for a grueling practice. Which is why I need fuel, and lots of it.
The kind only a greasy burger and fries from the caf can provide.
Is it healthy? No.
Am I eating it anyway? Hell, yes.
I’ll burn it off during practice and Coach’ll be none the wiser.
As if reading my thoughts, Reid says, “You better not be dragging ass on the field today. I’m not running extra laps because you’re in a food coma.”
I cock my head, letting the swagger rise to the surface. “Have I ever let you down?”
“No. No, you have not,” he returns, raising his fist.
I bump it and dig into my food. Reid and I have been playing together for four years and we have great chemistry. The prospect of going our separate ways at the end of the year—of potentially facing him from the opposite side of the field next fall—is one I haven’t allowed myself to contemplate.
Not when we’ve still got miles to go.
“Incoming,” Vaughn says in that cool, casual way of his, gaze fixed over my right shoulder.
Beside me, Reid pushes his tray away, a half-eaten chicken breast still on the plate.
Fuck that noise. Between practice, weight training, mandatory study halls, and games, downtime is a luxury during the season. This is my time, and no one is getting between me and my burger.
I take a giant bite just as a dude in a faded Waverly tee steps up to the table, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
“Hey.” Dude dips his chin in greeting and zeroes in on me immediately.
Figures.
I keep chewing, but give him a nod of acknowledgement because I’m not a total dick.
“I’m Matteo Ortiz,” he says, voice high and brimming with enthusiasm. The kid has zero chill. Probably a freshman. “I’m a writer for The Collegian. I sent you an email, but I guess you didn’t get it.”
He pauses to catch his breath, and I shoot him a look. Matteo Ortiz? He’s sent me at least a half-dozen emails. All of which have gone unopened and unanswered because I only talk to the press on game days.
It’s safer that way. Ensures the focus stays on the game.
“I’d like to set up an interview,” he continues, completely unfazed by my silence. “To do a human-interest piece. With your father’s re-election campaign ramping up, and the Wildcats poised to make a championship run, the people want your story.” Right. I’m sure he’s surveyedthe peoplepersonally. He grins and pushes a mop of dark hair out of his eyes, oblivious to the tension that’s settled over the table. “I’ve even narrowed it down to two headlines, but I can’t decide betweenGreat AspirationsandLike Father, Like Son: The DeLaurentis Legacy.”
No fucking way.
My body locks up tight, muscles going rigid, and the burger spoils in my mouth, the meat suddenly dry and gritty. I swallow it down—because I can’t exactly spit it out—and it lands in my gut like a stone.
Three weeks. Three weeks into the season and already my father’s influence is seeping in like poison, tainting everything it touches.
But I can’t say that. It doesn’t fit the DeLaurentis narrative.
Handle with care.
No shit. This isn’t my first run-in with the media.
