Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

I don’t like leaning on my athlete status to get through school. It feels like cheating. Probably because it is cheating. Every senior athlete gets a no-penalty retake for every test in every class during travel season. In the real world, we should probably be made to plan ahead and set the right priorities—aka put academics first. But football isn’t the real world. Not when it makes so much damn money. And I’m tired today. I’m tired every day lately. I know I blew the online test I took this morning for my finance class, so I need to play my get-out-of-jail-free card while I’ve got it.

Use it or lose it, isn’t that how the saying goes?

I rap on the door for my professor’s office. It’s cracked open, so it squeaks and opens a little more from my touch.

“Dr. Ambrose?”

I’ve only ever seen this man in a tiny square on my computer, so I’m a little surprised when he swings around in the chair behind his desk and he’s not four-feet tall and bald. Well, he is bald, but it appears to be by choice. And he also seems to be quite large. Then there’s the Air Force shirt he’s wearing that isn’t the kind one buys off the rack somewhere, but rather the type of shirt that’s earned.

“Ah, Mr. Stone. To what do I owe the privilege of this in-person visit?” He gets to his feet and reaches out his hand for a shake. He nearly crushes my fingers in his grip. Yeah, that’s definitely an earned shirt. Also, he’s definitely still able to pass whatever fitness test is thrown in front of him.

“I’m not sure if you saw my entry this morning, but the late travel from the weekend caught up with me, and I don’t think I did so well on that last test.”

Mr. Ambrose sits back in his seat and pulls the gold-rimmed glasses from his face.

“I’m guessing you want to use your travel retake?” He’s chuckling as he asks.

He pulls a stack of forms out of his side drawer and flops it down on his desk, along with a pen.

“Must have been some pretty serious jet lag, what your travel being a whole day ago and all,” he chuckles.

My brow pinches as I sit down and take the pen in my hand.

“I . . . guess? I mean, we got in late Saturday. But I’ve had a lot going on, and?—”

“Yeah, yeah. You and the other six guys who came in this morning filling out the same form.” He laughs to himself, the kind of laugh a person lets out when they’re not amused but rather . . . miffed. And if six of us, seven including me, all cashed in our free passes at once, maybe he has good reason to be fed up. Except, I’m not being lazy. If anything, my problem is I’m trying to be too much—too many places all at once. And my head is vacillating non-stop between guilt and paranoia.

I put the pen down about halfway through the form and stare at it for a few seconds while Dr. Ambrose busies himself typing something—probably an email to a colleague about what a loser I am for taking a freebie.

“You know what?”

I stand up, tearing the top sheet in half. I push the stack across the desk, the pen resting on top, and wad my free pass into a tight paper ball in my fist. Dr. Ambrose pushes away from his computer and leans back in his chair as his eyes settle on me.

“You’re right. I deserve what I get. I’ll keep that score, whatever it is, and if it means I need to be perfect from here on out just to pass, then so be it. That’s what I get. Hell, maybe you’ll get to mark me ineligible for the grades. I won’t even fight it. To tell you the truth, I could use the fuckin’ break.”

I toss the paper ball into the trash by his door on my way out and walk straight to the weight room where Bryce and Whiskey are waiting for me. I don’t remember taking a breath the entire way, though I must have. I’m still standing. And I have enough of a voice left to tell Whiskey to fuck off when he comments on me walking in late. He has a point—I did set the time for today.

But still.

“Fuck off.” I say it again.

The silence between him and Bryce while I move plates to the bench press bar is palpable. It’s full of judgement. I pop my head up after I put a clip on the right side of the bar, and when my eyes meet Whiskey’s, he immediately looks away. I’m like a predator sniffing out weakness. Or maybe I’m the weak one looking for an easy kill.

I grab the forty-five-pound plate from Bryce’s hands and push it on the other side, snagging the clip from Whiskey’s grasp before he has a chance to help. Without looking either of them in the eyes, I flop down on the bench and center myself under the bar. Perfectly still, I wait for one of them to get in position to spot me, but when it becomes clear neither of them intends to, I drop my hands to my forehead and growl like a wild animal.

“Dude, you’re still in your jeans. You want to talk about what’s up your ass this morning?” Whiskey kicks the edge of my shoe lightly after he calls me out, and I lift my head enough to see I’m not only in my jeans, but I’m also still wearing the polo shirt I slipped on for my meeting with Dr. Ambrose.

I might have had a mental breakdown .

“I’m a little rattled today, is all,” I say, pulling myself up to straddle the bench. My gym bag is by the door, my change of clothes inside. I vaguely remember tossing it there when I marched in here.

“You don’t need to be here, you know.” Bryce’s observation, however right, eats at the source of my anxiety.

“You’re right. I don’t need to be here,” I say, meeting his stare. “But I should be here.”

We lock eyes for a few seconds while Whiskey looks on. I give my friend enough credit to understand how fucked up this co-quarterback relationship I find myself in is.

“Do you want to know the difference between us?” Bryce finally says.

I shrug and shake my head, my anger and frustration quickly morphing into defeatism.

“I don’t know, Bryce. What is it? Your determination to just keep pushing until our roles are reversed? Or the fact that if you blew a test like I did this morning, you’d have no qualms taking the free do-over. Because why shouldn’t we take advantage of our perks. Or is it that you sleep fine at night, while I . . . ha! Bryce, I hardly fucking sleep at all!”

My face feels hot, and my chest is heaving with my ragged breath. I’m so emotionally spent that I’ve exhausted myself. Peyton and I barely got to talk yesterday. And I couldn’t visit because of some nerve tests she had, and I needed to watch film to make sure I never throw an interception again. Ha! Like that’s a curable fault.

“You done now, jackass?” Bryce sits on the bench across from me and leans forward, his elbows balanced on his knees as he levels me with a hard stare.

I breathe in deeply, then exhale, blinking away the latest rush of rage attacking me. I don’t like feeling like this, like life is unfair. I haven’t felt this way since my dad died.

“I’m done. Sorry,” I say, lifting my hand in gesture.

“You’re forgiven. Now, do you want to know the serious answer?” He’s reminding me a lot of Peyton’s mom right now. Maybe a little bit of my own, too.

I nod.

“The difference between us is I would have picked football. Every time. Tough test I should study for? Fuck that—football. My teammates need attention? Screw them, football is mine. They can get their own game.”

I pull my mouth into a wry smile and lift a shoulder, not sure where he’s going with this. I mean, it’s big of him to admit he’s a selfish asshole, but not sure I’m getting clarity from his?—

“The best person to enter my life needs my help? I’m busy. With football. She’s broken and hurting? Fighting for her self-worth? Her dignity? Her life? That sucks, but man . . . I have football.”

Oh.

“I had a gift in my hands. And I fucking chose football every single time. You? You chose her. You chose her over that dumb test that won’t matter a decade from now. You chose her over getting on an airplane ten hours earlier for a game you weren’t sure you would get to start in.”

He stands up and closes the distance between us, dropping his hands into the pockets of his joggers as he breathes out a sad laugh.

“Wyatt, you chose her over sleep, over your own ambition, over football, and you know what? You were right. Every fucking time you made that choice, you were right.”

My lungs fill at his words, and my pulse shakes my limbs back to life. He’s right. If he’s feeding me bullshit to get me out of the way, then bravo to him for one hell of a performance. Because I believe him. Bryce might have just become the better person he said he wanted to be. That right there—his words? Those were genuine.

My mouth inches up on one side as I reach my hand out for him. He grips it and helps me to my feet before we bring each other in for a real, honest-to-God hug. His palm is heavy along my back, and I mutter, “Thanks, man,” over his shoulder.

“Now, go see your girl. If Coach asks, you got in early and put in your work.”

We part, but I square up with him, leaving my hands on his shoulders for a beat while I stare into his eyes.

“I’ll do better,” I promise.

He spits out a soft laugh, then rolls his eyes as he nods toward the door. I pull Whiskey in for a hug on my way out, apologizing for taking things out on him. He waves me off, but I can tell by the way he struggles to meet my gaze that I hurt him.

I snag my gym bag, which never got used, and sling it over my shoulder.

“Hey, Wyatt?” Whiskey stops me before I pull open the weight room door.

I turn and nod.

“I don’t know about that test you failed or whatever. But you should know that you don’t ever have to worry about choosing football. You put in the work because that’s what they tell you to do. But you’re better than the work. Fuck, Wy. You’re better at this game than all of us put together. So, just go fix your girl. This will be right here. The ball will wait for you.”

My lip curls, and damn that big man, but I think I feel the burn of teary eyes coming on.

“Thanks, Whisk,” I say, just before I leave them behind and go do exactly as they said.

I’m going to fix my girl.