Her eyes soften. "I know being a Kappa Mu might not seem exciting to you right now, but honey, I made some of my very best friends in this very house when I went to college. Twenty-five years later and I'm still close with them. Sorority sisters look out for each other and you're going to meet some of the best people here. Try to be open-minded."
I sigh. "I'll try."
"Now, let's get this room situated."
EIGHTY-TWO
Dominique
Roman takes off down the field and I step back with my left foot, keeping my feet staggered as I bend slightly at the knees. I raise my left arm over my shoulder, bringing the football behind my head before snapping it forward, focusing on rolling my left shoulder as I do.Fuck.It takes all my concentration to get the ball pointed where I need it to go.
The ball whistles through the air, heading straight for Roman, but as soon as he turns to spot the football, I realize my mistake and curse.Too short.
“Dammit.” I kick the turf and tear off my helmet, frustration coursing through me.
Roman jerks to a stop before lunging forward to salvage the throw. He manages to catch the ball with both hands, tucking it against his chest before rolling to the ground. His momentum throws him into a complete rotation before he springs up to his feet, a bounce in his step over the save. “Fuck, yeah!” he hollers, and jogs back toward me, ball in hand.
“Not bad, man.” He throws the football at me and I catch it, fingers gripping the laces.
“That was a shit throw and you know it.”
He offers a noncommittal shrug. “Progress at least. And did you see that save? Perfección.”
“English asshole. I’m black. Not brown like you.”
He smirks. “Perfection.”
True enough, and with Roman as my receiver, we have a shot at pulling this off, but it won’t matter if I can’t get my left arm to go the distance.
Coach called me in for an emergency meeting. I dropped E off on the way but Roman decided to tag along. Nosy bastard. The team doctor took it upon himself to inform our coach of a recent injury. Fucking snitch. If I wanted Coach to know about my shoulder, I would have told him myself.
“You could always sit this next one out,” Rome offers, but I shake my head.
“You know I can’t.” Our second string quarterback—Deacon Hunt—is a freshman without any experience playing at this level. The guy is green. He came from a small school in the middle of nowhere and while he has a great arm, he buckles under pressure. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t care. The point of bringing him on board is to train with him, get him where he needs to be so that by the time I graduate next year, he’s ready and can lead the team. He’s got potential and he needs the field time if he’s going to grow, but next week we have scouts coming and they’re expecting me to play.
If word gets out I’m injured and won’t be on the field, there's a chance some of the scouts, maybe all, won’t show. I could care less if anyone sees me play, but the other guys on the team, they need as many opportunities as they can get to shine so they have a shot at going pro. I won’t be the reason they lose that.
“Let’s go again,” I tell Roman and he nods, getting into position, but before he starts, a voice from the sidelines draws our attention.
“Price!” Coach yells. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I grind my teeth together and wait as he stalks across the field like a bull. Barely six feet and thick around the middle, it’s been a hot minute since the man was in his prime, but he still has no problem going toe to toe with any one of us. When he’s within earshot without me needing to yell, I tell him, “Practicing, Coach.”
“Practicing what, exactly? I gave you explicit orders to rest and—”
“I’m not throwing with my right,” I tell him. “I’m using my left. I’ll be good in time for next week's game.” I have to be.
His brows pull together and I know he wants to fight me on it, but he’s aware of the situation we’re in just as much as I am.
“Repetitive motion tendonitis is no joke, son. If you don’t take care of that arm, you can end your career before it ever starts.”
“And if I don’t play in next week's game, the guys on my team may find themselves in the same boat.”
He takes off his red Suncrest U baseball cap and shakes his head. “They’re not your responsibility. There will be more scouts, more opportunities—”
“For Davis and Elliot?” I ask, cutting him off. “They’re seniors. They won’t have many more chances like this.” I know it. He knows it. Hell, even the guys know it, which is why so much is riding on this game. Elliot’s a defensive tackle and Davis is a defensive end and they’re both good. Better than good. But that won’t matter if no one sees them play. They transferred in as seniors from smaller schools hoping to get some face time with scouts, but they’re no-name players. Scouts aren’t coming to watch them because they've never heard of them. Their best shot is to kill it on the field and have one of the already scheduled scouts recognize their potential and invite them to the NFL Scouting Combine.
Coach mutters under his breath before rubbing his jaw. “How's your right arm feel when you throw with your left?”
