Page 2 of Hard Count (Newhouse University #4)

I huff a laugh and shake my head in irritation.

Probably because she’s right. I do know I have a lot I need to work on.

However, I can't seem to pinpoint what I need to change. I keep making tiny adjustments but nothing is working. Football has always come naturally to me. Now I’m fighting for my life with this mental mindfuck and I’m not winning .

Digging my wallet out of my pocket, I signal for the bartender to bring me my tab. “You don’t think what you said was harsh?” I ask, leaning toward her on the bar top.

“I think what I said was true. It’s unfortunate the coaching staff is placating him instead of correcting the issues.” Wisps of blonde hair escape the band of her hat and brush against defined cheekbones.

“You’re something else.” I stand from my chair as I wait for the bartender to bring me my credit card receipt. “Who made you the authority on college football anyway?”

“I’m not.” She tilts her head toward me. Her eyes narrowing to slits. “I do, however, have two eyes. I pay attention.”

I drag my teeth over my lower lip and scratch my signature onto the credit card slip. Her gaze never waivers as she watches me with curiosity. She’s aware of who I am. My face is plastered on banners all over campus and there isn’t a day when my name isn’t mentioned on a sports broadcast.

“Thanks, man,” I say to the bartender. I glance over her head. The suits seem to be entertained in their own conversation. Good . Taking a step closer, I turn to her. “You’re paying attention to me. I’m flattered. Do you enjoy watching me?”

Her chest rises under her baggy sweatshirt as she inhales an agitated breath.

She straightens her spine, adjusting her positioning.

“Not really. To be honest, your performance on the field is lackluster. You aren’t as dynamic as you were.

” She clears her throat. “As you could be, I mean,” she adds quickly to cover up her admission .

She’s been watching me for a while. I study her face. A light dusting of freckles covers her nose and cheeks—so faint they’re hardly noticeable. Did we go to high school together? I would have remembered her. Those green eyes would be hard to forget.

“Lackluster. I’ve never heard that about the way I perform before.” I smirk.

“Let me be the first then,” she snarks. “Being an athlete at your level is mental just as much as it is physical.” Her body drifts closer, smothering me in her citrus perfume.

“You’ve got the physical part down.” She openly admires my body with a smirk.

“However, the moment you were handed the job, you decided you didn’t earn it and it shows. ”

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”

“You and every other player in the conference.” Confidence leaks out of her. Is she some kind of football savant? “I know you overthink every pass, every handoff, and every step you take on that field.”

“You’re wrong,” I lie. Not that she believes me. A dimple forms in the middle of her left cheek as she grins.

“Watch last year’s game film. It’s all there. I personally found week six very enlightening.” She takes a sip of her soda. It’s red and filled with cherries. My sister Sydney used to order something similar when she was a kid.

Week six we played one of the toughest teams in our conference. It wasn’t pretty. They ran a blitz defense and put me on my back more times than I care to admit. We barely won the game on field goals and defensive touchdowns .

“And what exactly did you learn watching that game?” I ask through gritted teeth. What did she see that our coaching staff hasn’t already pointed out? I may be opening Pandora’s box but not knowing will keep me up at night.

“I’m not going to make this easy for you. Watch the tape. You’ll see it.”

Moving closer, I say, “Give me a little hint.” My eyes drift over her face and land on her pink lips momentarily.

Letting out an irritated sigh, she says, “Fine. Your hands.” Her eyes drop to my arms resting on the bar. She runs her pointer finger over the vein on my hand like a fortune teller tracing a lifeline on your palm. Instinctively I squeeze my hand into a fist making the vein plump even more.

Her eyes catch mine and a tiny breath escapes her mouth, filling the small distance between us with the scent of the sugary cherry syrup of her drink.

I dart my eyes down to my hand where the tip of her pale blue fingernail still touches my skin.

Realizing her hand is still touching mine, she curls her fingers into her palm and pulls away.

“Thanks for the tip but I’m doing just fine. I don’t need to rewatch tapes.” I straighten my spine and square my shoulders. At six foot three, I should be intimidating. Self preservation should have her shrinking back, instead she rises to the challenge.

“Of course. Ignore everything I’ve said. You know best. I’m sure your coaches have already told you what I know anyway. And if they haven’t, you’re in for a rough season.” She spins in her seat dismissing me .

I’m overcome with the need to have the last word. Yet, I can’t think of anything to say. Coach Prescott hasn’t mentioned an issue with my hands. I’ve been working on my agility and speed during the off season. I’ll never admit she’s right about that.

“What’s your name?” I ask. The basic question makes her shoulders stiffen.

“It’s not important.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirrored wall behind the bar before drifting over to the television.

I decide not to push the issue. She’s right.

It’s not important. She’s likely drifting through town on summer break.

I won’t be seeing her again. Putting a name to the girl with an arsenal of insults about the way I play football doesn’t do me any good.

I leave the bar more tense than when I entered.

She was also right about another thing. This game is mental and I need to focus.

I try to shake off all her snide remarks.

Commentary on my performance is nothing new.

I hear it weekly, if not daily, from coaches, trainers, and sports anchors.

Yet, there’s something about her words that hit differently.