When I wasn’t throwing, I was running suicides until my lungs clawed for air. Every rep, every yard, every spiral burned off the anger.
Noah had asked earlier,So, what’s the play?The answer I’d given him didn’t sit right. Keeping quiet didn’tfeelright, but Ididn’t have an answer. All I had was this — training, routine, until exhaustion drowned out the noise in my head.
By the time I staggered off the field, my shirt clinging to me and my legs like lead, the campus was dead quiet. The Den loomed in the dark, rows of empty seats watching me like silent witnesses.
I pressed a hand to my shoulder. The ache wasn’t too bad, but still a sharp reminder that no amount of ice baths or PT was going to fix the bigger problem quickly.
But pain I could handle. Pain was simple. The pills had been a crutch. I knew that.
But everything else? Not so much.
That’s when I felt it — the prickle of being watched. I straightened, scanning the stands. At first, it looked empty, just shadows and concrete. Then I caught it: a silhouette leaning against the rail of the lower deck, the shadows almost swallowing him.
Coach Sutherland stepped forward slightly.
Even from here, I could make out the set of his shoulders, the way he folded his arms across his chest like a man taking notes without a pen.
“Read your injury report,” he said softly. “What the fuck are you doing throwing out here?”
“Shoulder felt stiff, wanted to loosen it up.”
He nodded, sucking his teeth. “Report says to use a heat pack.”
“Sorry, Coach.”
“Doug’s your PT,” Coach Sutherland said as he stood there, calm and cool. “The new girl hasn’t been here long enough to be the one who looks after the starting quarterback.”
I heard the warning, enough to tell me not to shoot my mouth off. I wiped my face with the hem of my shirt, forcing my breathing to even out, pretending like what he said made no difference.
“Hembry is being pursued by pro teams,” Coach Sutherland suddenly said, and I felt my body still. “He’s been interviewing,” he added. “Keep it to yourself, but I don’t expect him to be here much longer.” Coach Sutherland straightened.
Hembry was leaving? Right after warningmenot to rock the boat.
“That’s a great opportunity for him,” I said carefully, keeping my normal calm and cool exterior.
“Isn’t it?” Coach watched me, mockery in his gaze. “You can hand that pass over. I’ll keep that for you, for now.”
“Absolutely.” I walked forward with the pass held out.
“You’ve seen what you needed,” he added, and I almost stumbled. What was he saying? Or not saying? Suddenly, the ground under me felt less solid.
I handed over the pass, and he said nothing as I stepped back.
The silence between us stretched until my skin crawled. Finally, I slung my jacket over my shoulder and walked off the field as if I hadn’t just been subtly reminded that theonlyperson I needed to worry about was the one watching me from the shadows.
But the weight of his stare followed me all the way off the turf, heavier than any reps I’d thrown tonight.
On my way back to the dorm, I clocked Yates before I was close enough to be seen. He was talking to a girl.
I'd seen him twice now, hanging around the arts building at times that didn't match any class schedule I could find.
I'd looked. That was worth looking into — so I'd looked up the arts faculty office hours, cross-referenced them with the times I'd seen him near the shed, and concluded they didn't match. I wasn't sure when I'd started tracking a professor's movements, but I knew why.
He watched her.
Not the way I watched her, which was my problem and mine alone.
The way he watched her was something else. The kind of attention that had nothing to do with the work and everything to do with the person doing the work. He was doing it now — to a girl who looked like a freshman, who had no idea what kind of attention she was getting.
