I sniffed once and looked down at my hands. “I’mnotlike Jett Santo,” I agreed. “He hasn’t won the national championship.” I looked up and flashed my signature smile. “I came out of the pocket because you aren’tprotectingmy pocket, and Noah Matthews is a fucking machine who likes to break the bones of QBs and he doesn’t give a shit it’s offseason,orthe fact I’m his teammate.” I glanced over at my roommate, who was sitting on a bench with a towel over his shoulder. He didn’t look Hernandez’s way. “So do your fucking job, stop the defense, andgive me timeto throw the fucking ball.”
Hernandez shook his head and rolled his eyes slightly. “Shit, Dante, I was joking.”
“Is practice a joke to you?” I asked coolly. “Tighten the pocket protection tomorrow, or we’llallbe looking at your protection stats. Spring training is eight weeks away. We go in sharp, we come out sharper.”
I glanced around the locker room. More than one of my teammates was listening to me.
Their QB.
Their leader on the field.
“The media keep asking me if we can do a repeat.” I turned slowly to look at my teammates. “I sayfuck yeah we can!”
The locker room erupted into cheers and chaos, and I turned to my locker, ready for my shower. Job done. They needed to hear it. I needed them to hear me say it. Same thing, different reasons.
Coach Sutherland’s voice cut through the noise, barking at a freshman for too many penalties. I rolled my neck, slow and deliberate, and started peeling off my jersey. The fabric clung to my shoulders, sticking before it let go.
“Spence,” Coach Sutherland called out, “when you’re done with the shower, hit the sauna for fifteen.”
I turned just enough to meet his eyes, one eyebrow lifting. “I’m already sweating through winter practice, now you want me to cook?”
A few guys laughed. My tone was dry, but my posture stayed loose — the kind of easy stance that said I wasn’t challenging him... not exactly.
Bobby Ray Sutherland gave me the look — the one that said,I like you, son, but you’re getting benched if you keep it up.
I spread my hands in mock surrender, the ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth. “Fine. Fifteen it is.”
He turned and started ripping into Hartley, our defensive end.
“It’s like you want him to throw something at you,” Dustin said from the bench beside me, his voice calm enough to carry more weight than yelling ever could.
Dust was a real weapon on this offense. He had stats that made scouts sweat. So did I. We'd both go early — different rounds, maybe, but both early.
He was built for the spotlight — broad shoulders, light brown skin, lean muscle, dark hair cropped close at the sides, and a sharp beard framing a face that always looked camera-ready. Even post-practice, with his black workout shirt clinging to him and his forearms resting on his knees, he had thatthing. The kind of presence that made people stop talking when he looked at them.
Sharp-eyed and smooth-talking, he said a lot in press conferences without actually saying anything. The one guy in this room I'd told anything real to. Which wasn't the same as trust, but it was close.
“Sauna?” he asked, glancing sideways at me with that small, knowing smirk.
“Apparently.” I rolled my head on my shoulders. “Like fifteen minutes is going to be enough to ease my aches.”
“You staying for thirty?” he asked with a grin.
“You know it.” I let out a sigh as I sat down beside him.
I tipped my head back against the wall, letting it all soak in. The game was the only thing that made sense. Everything else was noise.
Once I got drafted, it would all be worth it — every five a.m. start, every ice bath, every bruised rib, and every trip to the physical therapist. Then I’d do the exact same thing every day of my pro career. Only difference? They’d finally be paying me to do it.
“Spence! I don’t see you heading to that sauna.”
“Good to see you’ve still got twenty-twenty vision, Coach.” I saw his glare as I stood. “I’m going to regret that in the morning. You know, that’s what Slater said to the girl in his bed last night.” The locker room filled with laughter and catcalls for my roommate.
Coach Sutherland’s glare landed on Dustin. “Slater, you sitting there looking pretty, or are you moving?”
“I’m moving, you grumpy old bastard,” Dustin muttered under his breath, then louder, “Yes, Coach!”
“You two are so slow, it’s like you want me to shower you!” He was already halfway to his office.
