Page 2 of Hard to Score

But none of that matters.

The only thing that does is that I’m here now and I’m going to capitalize on any opportunity I’m given.

That’s my father’s past.

This is my future.

“Doesn’t every player remind someone of somebody?” I ask to divert his attention.

“True.” He glances over his shoulder again to the other coaches waiting. “Do you have some kind of pitch you want to make to me? Something for me to take away so on draft night I say your name instead of one of the other quarterbacks out there?”

My dad’s advice runs through my head. Roger doesn’t like kiss-asses. He likes aloof confidence. He likes to answer the questions himself. He has to be the one in control.

“Nope. Nothing to say. Your team and its record speak for itself just as my stats and performance today does.” I set my helmet down on the bench. “Thank you for your time.”

I reach a hand out to shake his and he stares at it for a beat before reaching out and shaking it. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You’ve got nothing else to say?”

My smile is slow and steady as I meet his eyes again. “Like I said, I like to leave it all on the field. That should be proof enough.”

He stares at me with an incredulity I love. That means I’ll be memorable. That means I did my job.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says, hands in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels.

“I look forward to it.”

And those five words are the only inkling I give him that I’m interested in playing for the Tigers.

The only inkling at all.

And when all is said and done—when I’ve spoken to coaches and chatted with other players I’ve previously admired from afar—I take a seat in the stands of Lucas Oil Stadium and look around.

I take in the rise of the seats around me, the rows going up one after another until they become huge walls that form an oval around us. I can imagine what a packed crowd sounds like. I picture being on the middle of the field with cameras flashing and fans cheering so loud that I have to shout the cadence before the snap—and even then, I doubt my offensive line would hear me.

There would be adrenaline. A rush that edges on what I’d assume getting high would feel like . . . and even then, it couldn’t rival the feeling of sixty thousand people cheering or booing you and your team.

How could he have walked away from this without a fight?

But as I sit down on the bench and breathe it all in, I know my secret must keep. I fear if all is found out, the one thing I want the most, might all come tumbling down.

When it comes to athletes, fans and history remember two types: the undeniable stars and the ones who caused scandals.

I could be the first one.

But my fear is that the second one will rob me of that possibility.

They say the sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children.

For my sake, let’s hope that’s not true.

CHAPTER ONE

BREXTON

“SO I’M THE REASON YOU’VE been hanging around,” Justin Hobbs says with a half-cocked smirk before readjusting the towel that covers his freshly showered lower half.