I’d heard rumors before — tutors who ‘helped’ more than they should, classes mysteriously passed by guys who barely showed up, boosters who made things disappear. Wrighton wasn’t the only school with shadows. But sometimes shadows had teeth.
Whispers like that had a way of turning into headlines, and headlines had a way of ruining more than just one season. It jeopardized the teams, the athletic program, and the school itself. And that would really piss me off if anyone was stupid enough to fuck up all the hard work I put in to get here.
I rolled my shoulder again, more for something to do than because it helped. The ache was still there, a reminder that the game didn’t care how much you needed it — only how much you could give before it took more.
Coach called us back, and the redshirt’s gaze slid past me like I’d already been forgotten.
Me? The QB. Forgotten by a redshirt. Someone not even playing?
I don’t fucking think so.
On my way back, I stopped at the squat rack. The one the redshirt had been using. I picked up the weight he’d been using, then set it back.
“Hey, Coach?”
Coach turned to me. “You need something, Spence?”
My eyes fell on the redshirt. “What’s the weight supposed to be on rack four?”
Sutherland checked his paper while I watched the redshirt’s face flush.
I sniffed when Sutherland told me. “Might want to check that out,” I said to no one in particular. “Looks like it’s been loaded light.”
Coach Sutherland turned to the redshirt and the spotter, and I walked away.
I grabbed my water bottle, rolling my shoulder out of habit. The joint was fine — mostly — but there was a pull I still felt from last season. One wrong hit and it flared up like someone had struck a match under my skin.
Thinking of things getting under my skin, my mind slipped back to Savannah last night.
She had this annoying way of slipping in around the edges when I wasn’t looking.
The way she’d leaned back in her chair at the library, pen poised like a weapon. The way she’d bitten the inside of her cheek when I’d called her out. The fact that she didn’t flinch when I pushed, which pissed me off more than it should have. I wanted to find the thing that made her flinch. I’d find it. I wanted to break her façade.
Focus, Dante.In here, training and being on the field weren’t about her. This was about keeping my spot, keeping my numbers, keeping the dream alive.
I shoved the thoughts of blonde hair, stubborn blue eyes, and the plastic smile she flashed at me too often out of my head and headed back to training.
We filed back into the weight room for the next circuit, finished it, and finally, Coach blew the whistle for the day.
The locker room was already thick with steam by the time I hit the benches. Dustin was peeling off his shirt, and Noah was leaning against his locker like he had all the time in the world.
“What did Tyrell do to you?” Dust asked quietly.
“Who’s Tyrell?”
“The redshirt currently running suicides,” he told me dryly.
“Didn’t have a team player attitude.”
Dust smirked. “The guy’s not playing.”
“Not with that attitude, he isn’t.”
“You’re rolling that shoulder again,” Dust said, watching me pull my shirt over my head. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” I said, too quickly. I grabbed my towel, ready to head for the showers.
Noah snorted. “Yeah, that’s the answer every guy gives before they end up in a sling.”
