“Dustin, please, I need sugar.”
“You missed dinner,” he chastised as he played his game. “If you’d eaten dinner, you wouldn’t need chocolate.”
“You’re such an asshole,” I mumbled.
“Fourth drawer down, back left,” Noah said as he tackled Dustin’s player and forced a fumble. “Yes!”
“Hey, what — no!” Dustin yelled.
I pulled out the bag of chocolate candy, opened it, poured a handful, and chucked them in my mouth at once.
“Noah, you’re a true friend,” I said as I chewed, the chocolate melting on my tongue. “Dustin, you’re a dick.”
“Dante Spence, don’t you eat my snacks!” Dust bellowed, his focus torn between me and the game, as I headed to my room.
“’Night, man, I appreciate you!”
I closed the door, chuckling to myself, as I heard him tear into Noah, and Noah laughing, not giving a shit.
I took off my sneakers, dropped my bag, sat on my bed, and ate my roommate’s secret candy stash. I let out a sigh.
“What a weird fucking day,” I told the empty room.
My phone pinged, and I opened a message from my sister showing a video of Nicky running around in circles and my pops demanding to know how to turn him off.
I grinned.
One more year. That was the endgame.
My focus was football, andonlyfootball.
And maybe . . . Savannah Cole.
Chapter 28
Dante
The field lights blazed against the winter gray, the turf slick from last night’s rain. My breath clouded in the air as I jogged onto the practice field, helmet tucked under my arm.
Noise swelled around me — shouts, laughter, the thud of cleats against rubber. Normal.
I wanted normal.
“Spence, you gonna stand there looking moody, or you gonna throw the damn ball?” Dustin jogged past, shoulder-checking me with a grin.
I shoved him back lightly. “Careful, Slater. You’re nothing without me feeding you.”
Noah’s voice cut in from behind us, dry as ever. “You’re both nothing without the O-Line giving you the time to set it up.”
The three of us lined up, falling into a rhythm we’d built through too many practices to count. Snap, drop back, read. My shoulder tugged when I launched the first ball, but it spiraled clean, arcing straight into Dustin’s hands as he cut downfield.
“Still got it,” he called, jogging back, spinning the ball once before tossing it my way.
Noah smirked. “Lucky throw.”
“Keep talking, Matthews,” I shot back. “You’re just jealous the offense gets all the highlight reels.”
“Offense can’t score if I don’t kill their offense,” he said easily, helmet tilted back just enough for me to see the glint in his eyes.
