Here I was — sweat-soaked, aching — and wondering if I should keep my head down or keep digging.
“Spence!” Coach Sutherland screamed across the practice field. “Why in thefuckare you standing there, staring at nothing?”
Fuck my life. “Was waiting for direction,” I yelled back, seeing Coach Hembry’s head snap up with a narrowed glare. “Think I need more ice on my shoulder.”
“Or another beating for your big mouth,” someone muttered as they passed me.
I spun to face them. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”
“Keep it zipped,golden boy,” they taunted as they headed to the locker room.
Golden boy.
I'd heard it a thousand times. From reporters. From fans. From coaches who thought it was a compliment. I'd let it slide off every time, the same way I let everything slide off — smooth, automatic, practiced.
This time it didn't slide.
I caught him before he made it two steps.
My fist connected with his jaw before either of us had registered I'd moved. The crack was loud enough that the nearest guys went still. He staggered and then fell in a heap.
I stood over him, breathing evenly, and waited to see if he had anything else to say.
I stamped down my wave of anger, turning away, and my gaze clashed with Dust’s. He raised an eyebrow, and I gave a resigned nod. I’d tell him after practice, I’d tell them both. This was bigger than me. And I needed them to know it.
“Spence, what is happening?” Coach Sutherland bellowed across the field.
“Absolutely nothing you need to concern yourself with, Coach.”
I waited for the follow-up, but it didn’t come.
By the time Coach blew the final whistle, my shoulder burned, and my patience was gone.
In the locker room, the usual trash talk died fast when I walked in. Helmets hit metal benches, cleats scuffed the floor, but conversation stayed clipped, cautious.
I went for my shower and then a quick PT session for my shoulder; my friends were both dressed and waiting for me. I slammed my locker shut and grabbed my bag. “Let’s go.”
They just followed because they knew I was going to tell themwhy. Why I’d lost my cool. Why Noah had almost lost his spot not only on the team, but at Wrighton University.
The dorm was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the thud of our bags hitting the floor. Noah went straight for thekitchen, pulling out three waters without asking. Dustin waited until he’d handed them around, then dropped into the chair opposite me at the table, arms folded.
“Alright,” Dust said, calm but cutting. “Talk.”
Noah lowered himself into the seat beside me, cracking the cap off his bottle. “If this is about the fight, I don’t need the why. They mouthed off, you swung, I swung. Done.” He took a long drink. “I’d do it again.”
That was more than I'd expected from someone I'd known half a semester. He’d backed me without knowing the full story — and he deserved better than half-truths.
I braced my forearms on the table, staring at the condensation ring forming under my bottle. “Last week, in the weight room... I overheard something.”
Dustin’s eyebrows rose. “Overheard what?”
“A redshirt junior was talking to his spotter, one of the guys from Saturday, I think,” I said to Noah, who grunted. “Think you took him on.”
“Stick to the details,” Dustin snapped, fed up with waiting.
“Alright, calm down. Jesus, impatient much?” I saw his look and carried on. “They were talking about... payouts.” I paused, the word tasting dirty. “And keeping it quiet.”
Noah stilled mid-drink, eyes narrowing. Dustin leaned forward, voice low. “Payouts? Like boosts under the table?”
