Chapter 1
Dante
Two weeks after winning the national championship, my shoulder still hurt like a bitch.
The February air carried a damp chill that settled into your bones, but practice still left sweat running down the back of my neck. My breath puffed white in the cool air as I hooked my helmet under one arm. The turf still slick from last night’s rain smelled faintly of rubber and wet grass.
Practice was supposed to be lighter now — but the coaches were still screaming as we ran two-minute drills — and my muscles were burning.
The way it was supposed to be.
The stadium sat quiet above the field, empty seats waiting. Next season they'd be full again. I'd make sure of it.
We’d lifted the trophy under lights a thousand miles from here, and confetti had stuck to the sweat on my face, but even then, I was ready for the next season.
My shoulder wasn’t. My shoulder was ready for summer vacation, and a bucket of cold beer.
We’d brought it home.National champions. Instead of celebrating, I was focused on bringing my A-game. A lot of guys peaked in junior year. I wasn't going to be one of them.
I wanted the repeat.
I would be remembered.
I would be the number one Draft pick.
I wasn’t there yet. The advisory board feedback had come in January. The projection for the Draft was good. But not top-five good.
I’d wait.
Coaches clapped me on the shoulder as I headed toward the locker room, congratulating me on a good practice. Like me, they were ready to move on from the win and focus on spring training. Freshmen trailed behind, still a little in awe, like walking next to the quarterback might rub off some of his ‘magic.’
I gave them the easy grin. A nod here, a ‘good work today’ there — smooth, automatic.
Golden boy.
Face of the program.
Knows how to play the game, on and off the field.
The locker room buzzed — the slap of palms, the scrape of cleats on tile, offseason banter bouncing off the walls. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and turf.
I moved through it at my own pace, occasionally sharing a quick hand slap or a short laugh, allowing the energy to pass without letting it sweep me up. The celebration after winning was overwhelming — parades, interviews, endless photo sessions — all eager to get a piece of us while we were still riding high.
But then reality slowly sank in. Classes, winter conditioning, media days that now felt repetitive — every mic pushed in my face asking the same question: “Can you do a repeat?”
What I wanted to say wastake a breath and relax. Had I said that?
No, because that would be media suicide.
I gave them exactly what they wanted — a grin for the cameras, a shrug that said anything’s possible. “If we play well, why not?” Non-committal enough to be safe, confident enough to make headlines.
I was their star, but I also had a reputation for being cool. Unflappable under pressure.Measured.
“Hey, Spence.”
I turned to Hernandez, one of the offensive linemen. “Yeah?”
“You came out of the pocket too many times today. You’re not a runner like Santo.”
