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The locker room suddenly felt ten degrees colder. "Are you shitting me? We’re up against Michael?"

Sam nodded, his jaw tight. Michael Mackenzie. The King of King's Shield High. The boss of everyone, and the guy who used to dictate every single breath we took on the turf. Now he was lining up on the opposite sideline.

"Nobody beats Michael when he’s on," I muttered, the old high school hierarchy instinctively clawing its way back into my chest. "When he wants to win, he wins. Period."

"Yeah, well, he had us protecting his blind side back then," Sam snapped, stepping directly into my space. "He doesn't have us anymore. Why don't we take a page out of his own textbook and take the game because we want it more?"

"Easy for you to say. You're the Center. I’m a Left Tackle, not the damn QB. Michael was our captain, Sam. He knows exactly how we move."

"I’m your captain now," Sam growled.

"Yeah, I know, but you know better than anyone—"

"Shut up. You sound like a fucking loser right now, George." Sam snatched my helmet off the top shelf and whipped it straight at my chest. I caught it in midair, the hard plastic stinging my palms. "Get your head in the game. Now."

He turned and stormed toward the tunnel, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The air in the tunnel tasted like hot rubber, wintergreen liniment, and the stale sweat of fifty guys who had been hitting each other for three hours.

"Listen up! Eyes on me! Bring it in!" Sam Howard’s voice boomed, trying to rally the troops. As Center and Captain, Sam was doing his best, but the man he was trying so hard to ignore was stamped in our souls for eternity. He was wearing an away jersey, standing on the opposite sideline.

Michael Mackenzie. The King. Our old QB at King's Shield High, and the man who used to run our lives. Sam had been his most loyal follower, and now he had to stand against him. I wasn’t far behind; I’d take a bullet for Michael Mackenzie. Hell, I had taken a bullet.

Earlier, during pre-game warmups, Michael offered a brief nod across the grass. I walked over to meet him near the midfield logo, and we shared a quick, tight hug.

“I hear you’re the hurdle I need to watch,” Michael said, his eyes scanning my frame.

“You know me. We trained together.”

“More like I trained you.”

I chuckled. It was true; I could never be where I was without the tight shift Michael used to run. “I love you, man, but I'm not gonna throw you a bone today.”

“Ahh, you’re getting cocky if you think you have to throw me a bone, George. Did you forget who I am?” His blue eyes were just as charming and commanding as they had been back in high school.

I shook my head. “Not in this lifetime, man, and you know it. It’s good to see you. How is Nathan?”

“He’s over there,” Michael replied, gesturing toward the stands. We both turned and waved at Nathan sitting in the lower bleachers, his smile ever so enthusiastic. We had bullied him once at Michael’s command, back before Michael had completely fallen for him.

“Look alive—captains' meeting,” Michael warned as the referee blew the whistle for the coin toss.

“You too,” I said, jogging back to my line.

The game became a brutal, grinding war of attrition, stretching deep into the final minutes of the final quarter.

“Hey. Brooks. Earth to King’s Shield,” Greg Bennet muttered, adjusting his receiver gloves with his teeth before spitting out his mouthguard. “Mackenzie is tearing our secondary apart out there. Wake up. We need to answer this drive.”

I blinked, locking my helmet visor into place. “He’s not getting through me. Scott's blind side is locked down.”

“Keep it clean, line!” Coach Loranger barked, pacing the edge of the tunnel. “Fourth quarter, down by four. This is the drive. Scott, look for the tight seam.”

Scott William, our current QB, just nodded, looking stressed but determined. He slapped Sam’s shoulder pads. “Let's go.”

As we trotted out onto the field, the pressure was suffocating. I dug my cleats into the turf, taking my position at Left Tackle. I didn't look at Michael on the opposing bench yet. Instead, my eyes instinctively strayed toward the lower stands near the player tunnel.

There he was. Santiago Mercer. His eyes were locked onto me with that familiar, bitter intensity.

Sig looked completely out of place among the rowdy college fans. He wasn’t dressed in his usual black hoodie; he looked sharp, put-together, wearing a tailored suit befitting the pre-law student he was. I looked up to meet his eyes, the dark, submissive current hanging heavy between us. Sig hated how much power I held over him, but he couldn't look away. Leaning against the railing, his eyes narrowed into a silent, dangerous challenge: Show me what you're worth.