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Not on my watch.

I kick-slid to the left, my massive strides covering the ground instantly. Pavel tried to hit me with a violent bull-rush, throwing his entire body weight into my chest to drive me backward.

CRACK.

The sound of our shoulder pads colliding echoed like a gunshot. A normal tackle might have given ground, but I was an immovable object. I anchored my weight into my hips, sinking low, and fired my hands inside his breastplate. My fingers clamped onto his jersey like iron claws.

"Get off me!" Pavel grunted, his hot breath blasting into my visor as he tried to spin away.

I didn't let him. I drove my legs, pumping my thighs, channeling all the anger and frustration from the scandal into my blocks. I drove him five yards backward into the frozen mud, completely erasing him from the play. Behind me, Scott William had a fortress of safety. He stepped up into the pocket and fired a twenty-yard bullet down the seam for a first down.

As the whistle blew, I finally let go of Pavel, giving him a firm shove onto his backside.

"You're going to have to do better than that," I growled, standing over him and completely casting a shadow over his body. "I own this side of the field."

By the fourth quarter, my hands were numb, my knuckles were bleeding under my tape, and every breath burned my lungs. But Pavel was completely broken. With two minutes left on the clock, we were up by three, facing a crucial third-and-long. Coach dialed up a high-stakes shot downfield.

The Ridgeback crowd was deafening.

I looked across the line. Pavel knew he couldn't beat me on the outside, so he tried a desperate inside stunt, twisting toward the gap between me and the guard.

My instincts took over. I passed Pavel off to the guard, but as I peeled back, I saw a blitzing linebacker looping around the edge. He had a direct, lethal path straight to Scott William. Scott was scanning the downfield coverage, completely vulnerable.

I didn't just block the linebacker; I unleashed a week's worth of suppressed rage. I dropped my shoulder and launched my frame into his ribs.

The collision was devastating. The linebacker flew sideways, flipping through the air before crashing hard into the turf. I stood over him, my chest heaving, as Scott William launched a deep spiral downfield.

The touchdown pass landed perfectly.

The stadium fell dead silent, save for our sideline erupting into pure chaos. Scott William threw his hands up in celebration, but Sam was already sprinting toward me. My captain leaped into the air, slamming his chest against mine, the impact barely shaking me.

"That's my tackle!" Sam screamed, smacking my helmet, his eyes blazing with pride. "They can't touch Scott when you're out here, George! Nobody touches our backfield!"

I looked up at the flashing scoreboard, then out at the cameras on the sidelines tracking my every move. The audio, the board meetings, the rumors, none of it mattered right now. I had just put out sixty minutes of flawless, dominant tape.

Sam and I walked off the field side-by-side: the captain and his anchor. I had cleared the Brooks name the only way I knew how: by being absolutely untouchable.

Santiago

I FROWNED AT THE LIVE broadcast playing in the common area of our residential building. The announcer was chanting George Brooks' name like a mantra. The controversy surrounding him was mentioned as if it were just another badge of honor on his shoulder. No one cared that he supported a rapist, bullied me out of school, or attacked me in the parking lot. They praised him like he was a fucking God, his future written in silver letters on the NFL roster, completely dismissing any doubts from the critics.

“Nah, there was no rivalry. Pavel was great; he was the exact challenge I needed right now,” George told the reporter, his grin magnificent.

But it slightly faltered when the reporter asked about the audio played during halftime on his home turf. “That was an AI prank. It’s being investigated, and none of it was true,” George said. He lied looking straight into the camera, and my blood boiled. Around me, no one even mentioned the audio; they were too busy discussing the game, going gaga over George Brooks like fucking teen cheerleaders. I kicked the floor and rushed toward the gym.

George

I WAITED OUTSIDE SIG’S building again. I’d been waiting for a few nights now; watching him had become an obsession I didn’t want to admit. I knew what I was doing counted as stalking, but I wasn’t thinking. I was only doing what I wanted. Some nights, Sig only came out to head to the cafe for a late-night smoothie and a pastry. My heart raced as my eyes traced his parted, wet lips wrapped around that straw, catching the pink liquid glistening on his skin before his tongue swiped it clean.

Then I watched a guy approach him. He wasn’t the first; I had seen him turn down a few guys who asked him out for a date or a quick fuck. I couldn’t hear them, but I was certain they were interested by the way Sig gave them the cold shoulder. Nothing impressed him; those idiots just wanted to fuck him, and he saw right through them. I wasn’t one of many. I didn’t just want to fuck him; I wanted to own him. My biggest mistake was that I was too nice to him. Nice was not what Santiago wanted; he wanted the raw, hard truth, and that’s exactly what I was going to give him.

It had been easy enough to figure him out. He didn't really have friends, just a roommate he tolerated and some guy from his pre-law seminar he only spoke to during class. I knew how lonely his quiet world actually was, whether he admitted it or not.

It wasn’t until Friday night that he headed toward the Iron Club. I followed him in, but this time, I picked the Ironclad hand pin for my right side. A couple of twinks gave me a hopeful wink. Another pretty boy tried to brush against me, but I ignored them all as I followed Santiago toward the private rooms.

“Excuse me, can I see your invite?” the guard asked as I tried to follow Sig through a red door engraved with an iron heart and key. Sig had already disappeared behind it.

“Invitation?” I asked.