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“Obviously.” Reeve slides his hands through the sides of his blond hair, which has just been cut into a fade. “Gotta show off this hair.”

The three of us are in Shafer’s newly renovated football gym, which sports row after row of shiny red equipment, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the indoor practice field, and a giant Shafer Red Phantom logo looking down on us. The gym is unusually quiet, these early weeks of summer before training camp the best time of year for those of us who prefer to work out without a crowd. Unfortunately, my lifts are limited to lower body at the moment.

“Since when doesn’t the Phantom open the patio until school ends?” I ask over the clank of metal on metal. “I thought they did that the first day it hits sixty degrees.”

“They redid the whole patio this spring.” Cash turns to me, the diamond studs in his ears catching the sun. “Where you been, man? God, you need to get out more.”

“And you need to put on a shirt,” I say, watching him halfheartedly wipe his sweat marks off the bench. Reeve grunts in agreement. “Anyway, tonight’s not the night. I’m seeing Dr. Halpert this afternoon, and if the news is good?—”

“Which it will be,” Reeve says. As quarterback and captain, he’s not in the habit of being pessimistic when it comes to the team.

I nod and sit down in the leg-press machine. “If it is, I’m not risking screwing up my body this summer.”

Cash scoffs. “Yeah, a couple beers and your leg might fall right off.”

“We all know what a summer patio and drink specials do to your lightweight ass,” I tell Cash. “I don’t need to be tripping over you sprawled on the pavers.”

Cash smiles sheepishly. “Wasn’t it a girl that tripped over me, anyway?”

I finish my set before I answer. “Yeah. Her name was Alli, and she was my girlfriend. Ring a bell?”

Cash looks dumbfounded, then laughs. “Oh, right.” With junior year behind us and weeks before football camp starts, Cash is in his prime. Other than football season, there’s nothing my best friend loves more than summer, when he can spend all morning in the gym, all afternoon in the sun, and all night chasing girls.

Reeve loads a set of bright red weight plates onto a barbell. “Lor, if you’re cleared to get back to full workouts and practice, all the more reason to celebrate. Come on, man, you’re such a fucking hermit anymore.”

“No, all the more reason to stay inside until I’m forty and done with football.”

“Good luck with that,” Reeve says. “I’ll help you out by fucking all those girls who show up to the Phantom wearing their Rossi jerseys on Saturday nights.”

I get up from the machine and grab a spray bottle of disinfectant to wipe it down. “Thank you for your service, Dalton. I’m out of here.”

“Bedtime for Grandpa Lor?” Cash asks.

“Physical therapy, asshole.” I nod and turn to go. “Keep up the reps, boys.”

I rinse off quickly in the locker room, then head down the hallway of the football facility to the trainer’s room. I’ve practically spent more time in this room the last four months than I have in my own bedroom. The fact that this might be my last session puts a little pep in my step.

Until I walk in and see White Bread getting his ankle taped.

Brad White—better known in my mind as White Bread—is our long snapper and has been my teammate going on three years now. And up until this month, I almost liked the guy.

“Rossi. Hey, man, what’s up?” he asks, raising his arm so I have no choice but to return his fist bump. “How’s the shoulder?”

“I’m about to find out. Doctor’s appointment after this.”

“You’ll be cool. You played half a season with a broken hand and still managed to set a couple records.”

I look for a reason to be annoyed by this bit of cheerleading but can’t get there. “Yeah, hope so.”

It’s just us in the room, plus a trainer over by the door, talking on his phone. I pick up a set of exercise bands and start warming up, trying to keep my distance from Brad without making it obvious. My mind wanders to my doctor’s appointment. I shouldn’t jinx it by thinking about how to celebrate if Dr. Halpert tells me I’ve fully recovered from my shoulder dislocation, but I’ve been following doctor’s orders like my life depends on it. I promise myself I won’t drink, but maybe Ruby and I can make a celebratory meal together. She’ll need it after the day I’m guessing she’s having.

“So what’s your summer looking like?” Brad asks, deciding for some reason that of all the empty spaces in the room, the one two feet away from me is the perfect place for him to stretch.

“I’ll be on campus. Hopefully I’m cleared to return to full practices, and then I don’t plan to do much but practice and work out. Senior season, right?” This line is pretty much universally appropriate in any conversation with any football player right now.

“Fuckin’ right,” Brad says. “I’m heading back to Cali for a week but, other than that, chilling here and trying to enjoy summer before camp starts. This time next year, it’s on.”

“Yeah. Real life.” Brad doesn’t have much of a shot at the NFL, but I could see him in sports broadcasting or something like that. The dude loves to talk. And I guess he’s not bad-looking.