Chapter 3
Dante
The weight room smelled like metal and sweat, the same as it had every morning since I got here. Six a.m., music pounding loud enough that nobody could talk. That was the point of it, and to wake us up.
Strength Coach Merriman had us in stations — Olympic lifts first, then sled pushes, then resistance bands until my shoulders burned. The defensive linemen grunted like they were pushing trucks. I looked over at Noah, who looked like he was in his own personal hell, and the fight between him and the equipment was a fight to the death. Better he got it out on the sled than on me later.
I dropped into my squat, drove the bar up, and set it down with a clang that got Merriman’s nod of approval, even though my shoulder was screaming in protest.
“Good,” he said. “Do it again.”
Dustin slid into the station beside me, sweat already dripping off his jaw. “Pretty sure they’re just trying to kill us until spring ball starts.”
“Yeah, but it’s a slow death,” I said, bracing for another rep. “Maybe that’s more merciful.”
Dust snorted. “Pretty sure death is death, so it sucks.” He stretched out. “I’ve too many women’s beds to warm still.”
“There can’t be many left,” I muttered before I dropped into the squat.Fuck, that hurt.
“Asshole.”
By seven-thirty, we’d moved to the indoor turf. It was just as cold in here as it was outside; my breath was fogging with every burst of movement, but at least it kept the rain off us. We ran cone drills until my legs burned, then footwork ladders untilthey went numb. Receivers joined us for timing routes — short drops, quick releases, nothing fancy.
Dustin ran a perfect out, caught my throw like it was nothing. “Arm still works,” he said, jogging back.
“Always does.” I flexed my fingers, shaking out the sting, knowing I’d need a painkiller before midday. The orange cylinder that held eleven pills inside was tucked safely in my sock drawer, and I was already thinking of the excuse to go to the dorm after practice. My mind wandered, as it did a lot, on whether I should just ask the physiotherapists here, but they’d have to mark it. They’d have to put it in my file that my shoulder was maybe worse than I thought it was, that I needed painkillers to help me, or worse, surgery. I knew that college football players carrying injuries into the Draft dropped from potential first-round picks to later rounds, and I was determined to be a first-round pick.
A shout snapped me out of my thoughts, and I turned the ball in my hand. My shoulder would be okay. It was just a knock that would need some ice packs and deep tissue massages. I’d had worse.
The ball felt slick in the cold, but I wasn’t about to start wearing gloves. Quarterbacks who wore gloves in February got mocked until spring.
After practice was film study just for the quarterbacks. Coach cued up the championship tape again, like we hadn’t all memorized every frame. Sutherland kept freezing the screen mid-play, dissecting my arm angle, my release, my eyes.
“You’re staring down the receiver here, Spence.”
“I completed the pass,” I said.
“You stare like that in the NFL, their defense will eat you — and every play you make — alive.”
I nodded like I took it to heart. Truth? I’d heard it all before. The big plays were burned into my brain. The small mistakes? Icould live with those. The throw wasn't the play. The throw was the right call. Dust was open, and nobody else was going to get that ball in the end zone. Coach could live with it.
After a shower and a quick rundown with the PT about the rest of the week, it was class time. Full ride, same as every guy on the roster — that’s how D1 worked. Housing, food, books, the degree itself, all in exchange for bleeding for the program and hopefully bringing home hardware.
Didn’t mean the classes didn’t matter. I still wanted that degree. Football was my life, but even if you made it pro, nothing was guaranteed. Blow out a knee, get cut after your rookie year — one bad break and you’re done.
When that day came — because it did, for everyone — I wasn’t about to be the guy with nothing but highlight reels to show for it. Blown-out knees ended careers. Degrees didn't.
People passed me, yawning, like ten in the morning was too early. I had been up and working for four hours. Not counting the forty minutes I spent on my own before training even started at six.
I slid into my seat with two minutes to spare and pulled my laptop out of my bag. Dustin took his seat just as the lights went down and the professor started talking.
“You’re late,” I muttered, slouching down in my seat more.
“Got waylaid between classes.” He shot me a grin. He didn’t have film after morning workouts postseason, and Dust took a nine o’clock class elective. He was brainy as shit, and while he was provided tutors due to the athletic program, he rarely needed them.
I didn’t usually need them either, but with us reaching the championship game, and it being played during winter break, I hadn’t had any time to catch up on homework.
But it still pissed me off that I had let my grades slip. I’d told myself I was still in my ‘settling in’ phase since classes starteda few weeks ago, but the Academic Administration obviously wasn’t taking any chances.
