As I glanced around the space, none of the few people seated at the wood-grained tables struck me as a football player. A tall, rangy guy in a corner booth caught my eye and nodded toward the open seat across from him.
What the hell?I thought. Might as well make a friend—or at least not look like a complete newbie by eating my dinner alone.
“You joining the team?” he asked as I slid into the booth.
“Hope so. You?” I took a pull from my ice water.
“Scholarship. But I’m redshirting this year. My friends say I’m a cocky bastard.” He grinned. “But even I’m not stupid enough to try to compete head-on with Wyatt Baxter.”
My brow went up. Clearly, this guy knew a lot more about the team than I did. Seemed like a good opportunity to do some scouting I hadn’t been able to do solely by watching film.
Extending my hand across the table, I said, “Danny Chambers.”
“Grant Stratton.” We shook. “Nice to meet you.”
“Tell me about Baxter.” I bit into the succulent burger and tried not to groan. It had been more than a minute since I last ate.
“He’ll probably go in the third round in the draft to some team whose defense sucks next season.” He forked in mashed potatoes drowning in gravy. “Best damn middle linebacker at this level. Probably could have played D-I.”
“He a senior?”
Grant stared at me for a second as if I’d grown an extra head.
“I honorably discharged from the military a couple of weeks ago, so I’m not quite up to speed with the individuals on the team yet.”
With a nod, he gave me a pass. “Nah, he’s a junior. You’re walking on, huh?”
Shoving in a mouthful of fries, I nodded.
“What position?”
I chased that mouthful with a long draw on my water, swallowed, and said, “Receiver.”
As he eyed my shoulders and chest, his brows pulled together. “You sure? You look like you could play tight end.” He cleared his throat. “Which I wouldn’t recommend pushing for if you’re walking on.”
“Why’s that?” I swirled several fries through the lake of ketchup on my plate and popped them into my mouth.
“Because Callahan O’Reilly is likely to go second round in next year’s draft. The man is a beast. Best blocker and best hands on the team.”
I grinned. “Sounds like you’re kind of a fan.”
Color rode high on Grant’s cheeks, and he ducked his head. “Grew up down the street from the stadium. I’ve been going to Wildcats games since before I could walk.”
“Good on you to earn a scholarship to play for them.” I reached a fist across the table, which he bumped, my move relaxing him.
I had this kid by four years, but as far as the team went, we were both freshmen and new. We’d probably be playing together throughout our college careers, so it seemed a good move to be buddies rather than to emphasize the differences in our age and experience. Besides, he had all the deets on the team—details I could use.
“Baxter and O’Reilly redshirted their freshman year, and it’s worked out pretty good for them, so I thought I’d follow their example.” He shoved more food into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “I can’t wait to get out there and start learning from them.”
“Out of curiosity, what were your high-school stats?”
His cheeks fired up again, and he mumbled into his plate, “Defensive Player of the Year.”
“For your high school?”
“For the state.”
I sat back against the cushion of the booth and let a long whistle go. “Damn, Grant. That’s rock star shit. And you don’t think you can compete against the big dogs?”
