Page 47
THE ROAR OF THE CROWD was still ringing in my ears as I stepped off the turf. My body was buzzing with pure adrenaline, every muscle burning from how completely I’d dominated the defensive line tonight.
“George! Son!”
My dad came barreling through the media barrier with a massive grin, pulling me into a crushing, heavy hug. He slapped my shoulder pads hard, the pride rolling off him in visible waves.
“That was the best goddamn game I’ve ever seen you play! You owned those bastards out there. The scouts were watching you the whole night I heard them talking in the box. You’re going pro, kid. I always knew it.”
I smiled, letting him have his moment. “Thanks, Dad.”
He kept talking, going on about specific blocking schemes and how I’d pancaked that defensive end on the final touchdown run. I was only half-listening, my eyes scanning the thinning stands until they locked onto a familiar silhouette. Sig.
He was walking down near the field-level box, heading straight toward one of the official draft scouts. A sharp-dressed guy in a polo with the league logo. My stomach tightened instantly.
Sig approached the man confidently, said something I couldn’t hear over the stadium music, and then smiled. A real, genuine smile. They shook hands firmly. The scout frowned at something Sig whispered, then clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. Then, Santiago turned his head slowly and looked directly at me across the distance.
His golden eyes locked into mine, intense and unyielding, as if the distance between the turf and the box didn't exist at all. There was something entirely unreadable in his expression; a volatile mix of defiance, deep sadness, and something much sharper. He held my gaze for one long, agonizing second before turning his attention back to the official.
“What the fuck are you doing, Sig?” I murmured under my breath.
My chest burned with a mixture of confusion and a flash of possessive anger. I wanted to march right over the barrier and drag him away, but my dad was still gripping my arm, and half the team was suddenly crowding around my row. Sam Howard and Greg Bennett were shouting congratulations, and Coach was waving me over for official photos with the representatives on our side. I couldn’t break away without causing a massive scene.
By the time I finally managed to slip free twenty minutes later, Sig was completely gone. A toxic worry started gnawing at my gut.
I changed out of my gear quickly, ignoring the suspicious, lingering looks from some of the guys in the locker room as I grabbed my keys and drove toward the stadium exits, reaching the isolated back parking lot.
That’s when I saw him.
My headlights cut through the gloom of the back lot, illuminating a nightmare near the maintenance sheds. Three big guys had Sig pinned against the brick wall, striking him open-handed across the face. Just as I slammed on the car brakes, the largest man stepped back and launched his boot straight into Sig's midsection—a vicious, heavy kick meant to break him. My blood drained. I watched as Sig doubled over with a muffled grunt of agonizing pain, the wind driven completely out of him as he slid down the damp brick.
A primal rage exploded through my veins. I didn't think. I just threw the door open and charged.
“Hey!” I roared, sprinting full-tilt toward them.
Another goon grabbed Sig's dark hair, yanking his head back violently, while the third laughed, saying something cruel about messing with the wrong people. But they didn’t see me coming.
I tackled the biggest one from behind, driving his weight into the concrete with the full force of a blind-side hit. I didn’t even get a chance to look at his face. The second guy swung wildly at me and I recognized him instantly. It was Marcus, the toxic Master from the Iron Clad Club. I ducked beneath his sloppy punch and landed a brutal, ringing right hook to his jaw that dropped him flat onto the gravel.
The third guy pulled a pocket knife, the blade glinting, but I was faster and infinitely angrier.
“You fucking dared touch him,” I growled.
I grabbed his forearm, breaking his wrist with a sickening, audible crack that sent him screaming to the ground, clutching his arm.
“George!” Sig screamed from the wall.
Before I could turn completely, a massive pair of arms wrapped around my throat from behind, trying to lock me into a chokehold. I recognized that grip instantly and that fucking distinct stink of his cheap cologne, mixed with his cold sweat. It was Pavel.
My eyes burned with pure fury. I channeled my entire weight, flipped his six-foot-four frame over my hip, and crashed him violently onto the concrete.
Suddenly, college security vehicles drove into the lot, sirens flashing. “Step back! Step the fuck back!” the guards shouted, pulling their tasers.
“You kicked him, you fucker,” I growled, completely ignoring the guards. I stepped forward and kicked Pavel square in the hip bone, savoring the sickening crack of the impact against his ribs. “How does that fucking feel, Pavel? Huh?”
I raised my boot to kick him again, and the security officers rushed forward, physically stepping between us to hold me back.
“George!” Sig cried out, crashing his entire body against my chest and burying his face deep into my shirt.
“Sig, oh baby, I’ve got you,” I breathed, my anger instantly melting as I wrapped my massive arms securely around his trembling frame. I pulled his chin up gently to see his face. His breathing was shallow and ragged, his bottom lip was split, and fresh, dark bruises were already forming along his cheekbone.
