Fuck, that was cold. My throat worked, I nodded, as I scrambled for an answer. “Cool, I look forward to it.”
She left without looking back, the door clicking shut behind her. I sat there, still tasting her on my lips, still feeling her under my touch, but hearing the echo of her silence louder than anything she’d said.
I had the intense feeling that I’d just been played.
* * *
By the time morning workouts rolled around, I’d convinced myself I could shove last night into a locked box and bury it deep.
Run harder. Lift heavier. Study film until the plays bled into each other. But her face kept sliding between everything — the plays, the film, the throws. She'd been in my bed twelve hours ago, and I could still feel it.
The guys joked around me, coaches barked orders, and I hit every drill like my scholarship depended on it. Maybe it did. But under it all was the gnawing truth.
I’d let her in. Let her slide beneath my skin and stay there. I'd told myself this wouldn't happen. I'd had reasons — good ones. And I'd walked straight past all of them the second she'd looked at me like that.
I’d lost control.
And I couldn’t afford to lose it again.
By the time we shifted into red-zone drills, my focus was shot to hell. The ball snapped, I dropped back, and read the play late — too late. Noah came barreling through, and I barely got the throw off before he swallowed me whole.
“Jesus, Spence.” Hembry’s whistle cut the air. “Quicker in the pocket or you’ll be watching from the sideline.”
I pushed up off the turf, jaw tight, shoulder aching like hell. “Yes, Coach.”
Noah offered me a hand. His brows pinched, like he could read everything I was trying to hide. “What’s in your head, man? ’Cause it sure as shit ain’t football.”
“Nothing.” I brushed him off, but the look he gave me said he didn’t buy it for a second.
Next snap, same story — Dustin broke free down the sideline, wide open, and I underthrew him by five yards. His head whipped around, frustration written all over his face.
“C’mon, Dante, that’s a gift!”
I wanted to rip my helmet off and throw it. Instead, I swallowed the fury and went back to huddle. My guys were restless, unsettled, waiting for me to get it together.
I was the starting quarterback. I didn’t get the luxury of distractions.
But right now, Savannah Cole was in every breath, every thought, every god damn mistake.
By the time practice wrapped, I was a storm in cleats. Helmet off, sweat dripping, I stalked into the locker room and dropped onto the bench, still sweating, still furious at myself.
Dustin was right behind me, still catching his breath. He tossed his gloves into his locker and spun on me. “What the hell was that out there? You missed me by half a field. Twice.”
I didn’t look at him, just yanked at the tape on my wrist. “Bad day.”
“Bullshit,” he snapped. “You don’t have bad days, Dante. You screw up a read once, fine. But that? That was like you weren’t even here.”
Noah peeled off his pads and snorted. “Told you, Dust. He’s got something on his mind.” He turned, pinning me with a stare. “So, what is it?”
I shoved the tape into my bag harder than necessary. “Drop it.”
Dustin stepped closer, arms crossed. “Nah. Not this time. We’re your guys, remember? So either you spit it out or keep tanking practice until Sutherland benches you.”
I gave Dust a ‘what the fuck’ look and he looked away.
“If what we think is happening is happening, do you think they aren’t waiting for you to fuck up?” he said under his breath. “Don’t hand it to them on a plate, man.”
The air between us felt thick and too tight. I glanced from one to the other — my friends, my teammates, the only ones I trusted on this whole damn campus. All I could think about was Savannah’s laugh, Savannah’s mouth, Savannah’s father watching me on Saturday night like he already knew I was amistake. Savannah knew too much — and instead of her being my pawn, I think I was hers.
