Page 10

AMELIA/CALEB

Amelia

I genuinely feel like my skull’s been smashed with a hammer. Repeatedly.

Sunlight beams through the curtains, and I squint trying to process my surroundings. The thudding in my head echoes in my ears as I struggle to recall what happened last night.

Wait.

Panic creeps in. My heart’s pounding in my chest and I freeze. The last thing I remember is Caleb carrying me into his room in his arms…

No.

We didn’t, did we? I was pretty drunk last night and I never know what the hell I’m doing half the time. Did I seduce him? Oh God.

I jolt upright, gripping the sheets as I yank them back.

Oh. Still in my dress. Fully clothed. False alarm.

I groan in relief, then glance at the nightstand and spot a small note beside a familiar pottery bowl.

Instantly, I’m back in high school. We used to take pottery classes together whenever we felt stressed and Caleb wanted a breather from his father. It started off as his thing, but after he took me to a class, I was hooked. We’ve done it together ever since.

I reach for the bowl, tracing the uneven ridges and dips. Flipping it over, I find our initials carved into the bottom, like we’d done all those years ago.

A+C

Best Friends Forever

My eyes soften at the memory. Gently, I set it down and pick up the note.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you woke up, I had early practice.

Make yourself at home. Feel free to use my car, it’s parked in Spot B on the second floor.

I ordered a car, so don’t worry about it.

Text me if you need anything. Oh, and there’s a whole bunch of snacks in the kitchen. Take it easy.

—Caleb

I groggily slide out of bed to use the bathroom. After washing up, I glance at my reflection and wince. I look like I visited hell and back…twice.

Mascara smudged, looking like a raccoon. Curls slipping from my bun. And my breath? Reeks.

My gaze drops to an unopened toothbrush on the sink with a sticky note attached with the words

your breath stinks ;)

I shake my head, a small laugh slipping out as I tear it open and brush my teeth without any hesitation. He’s not wrong.

Feeling slightly more human, I shuffle into the kitchen. Bananas, crackers, ginger ale, and Gatorade are all lined up on the counter like it’s my own personal hangover survival kit. Caleb literally thinks of everything.

Cracking open the bottle, I take a long slip. The mix of minty toothpaste and citrus is a deadly combo but I need the hydration.

Peeling a banana, I take a few bites, spot my purse on the coffee table, and order a ride home.

Caleb

It’s been a few hours since I left this morning. I’m leaning against my locker, waiting for Coach to give us our usual morning prep talk, when a chime goes off inside. I reach in and grab my phone off the top shelf.

Amelia

You’re my savior. Thanks again for everything, I’m home now.

You took my car, right?

Amelia

No, I just ordered one.

But thanks for letting me know I can drive your car though lol.

Sent: $100

Amelia

Why are you sending me money?

For your ride.

Amelia

It was only $15. I’ll send it back.

Don’t want it.

Amelia

Fine. I’m paying for something you want then.

Not possible. It can’t be bought.

“Listen up,” Coach Banks announces, looping his whistle around his neck. “Our first game’s in a few weeks.”

His voice snaps me back to the present. I shove my phone into my locker and force myself to focus, even though my brain’s still hung up on Amelia.

Coach stands in front of us, dressed in all black, sleeves pushed up as the overhead lights catch the faint stubble along his jaw. His short salt-and-pepper hair is freshly trimmed, his gaze sharp as it sweeps over the team.

The room falls silent. Every eye is on him. No one dares speak when Coach talks. We’re not scared of him…well, not exactly. It’s more about respect. He looks out for us, but he doesn’t tolerate any bullshit.

“We’re good, but we need to be better,” he barks. “I’ll be damned if we start this season off sloppy. Y'all got that?”

The weight of the team’s eyes is heavy and the pressure creeps in. I’m the rookie quarterback and I want, no, I need to keep making them proud. I can’t afford to disappoint. Not the team, not Coach. And especially not my father.

He’ll tear apart every play like it’s his day job. Nothing I do is ever enough and I’m really not in the mood to hear him talk my ear off about how shit my plays are.

Marcus, my best friend since college, nudges my arm, offering me a reassuring nod. “You got this, man. Don’t stress.”

I clap his back. “Appreciate it.”

“Because one bad throw and I’ll never let you live it down.” He grins.

I roll my eyes, but deep down, I’m forever grateful to have him by my side. We met when he asked if I had a spare condom, mind you, we’d known each other for less than an hour in our shared dorm and he’s been a pain in my ass ever since.

“With that being said”—Coach claps his hands together—“practice starts now. Let’s go, Vipers!”

Practice is brutal. Endless sprints, drills, reps…

Coach stands across the field, eyes narrowing as he watches our every move like a hawk.

We’ve been running different plays for the past two hours, now wrapping up practice with some simple pass-and-plays.

Sweat trickles down my back as I line up behind my center, Nico. He crouches low, snaps the ball, and drops into the pocket while the defense closes in fast.

Carter, our wide receiver, is a few yards out, signaling that he’s open. I nod, dig my cleats into the turf, and launch the ball in a tight spiral.

He takes off.

The defense locks in, ready to level him, but Carter stretches out with perfect timing and snatches it just before it hits the turf. With a sharp pivot, he zig-zags through and bolts for the end zone.

I exhale, watching him spike the ball into the ground. Damn. If we keep playing like this, the Titans won’t know what hit them.

Their fans have been up our ass nonstop for months, always pitting us against each other online. The Titans only fuel them, and I’m more than ready to shut them the hell up.

Coach blows his whistle, signaling the end of practice. My shoulders sag with exhaustion. Sweat now clinging to my shirt, I yank off my helmet, running a hand through my damp hair as we head for the locker rooms. The blast of AC hits me like a godsend.

“Hell of a practice,” Nico groans as he pulls his helmet off, revealing his black hair and tattoo on the side of his neck.

“Golden boy did good out there,” Carter grins, his shirt streaked with grass stains, blonde hair plastered to his forehead.

“Golden boy, my ass,” I mutter.

That nickname’s been mine ever since I first signed with the Vipers. Coach gave me one compliment on how I handled the clock during the last two minutes of the fourth quarter in my first game. And because compliments from Coach are as rare as Marcus actually committing to one girl…

The name stuck. Unfortunately.

“Please, Coach would build you a throne if he could, or is it already built in his office?” Marcus hollers from his locker, stripping down to his compression shorts. He pulls off his helmet, short curls damp and his light brown skin drenched with sweat.

“Funny. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of a comedian.” I toss my helmet onto the bench, lazily glaring at him.

“That’s why you’re Rookie Of The Year, my man,” Carter chimes in, leaning against his locker. “Driftwear loves you.”

But they avoid scandals like the plague, and I’m already dangerously close to crossing the line. Thankfully, they’re still trying to work with me. Their hope is the noise will fizzle out once the season starts. I’ll play a good game, and maybe that’ll be enough to drown out the bullshit.

I can’t afford to screw up now, not with the contract signing in a few months. Driftwear could pull the deal in a second if they wanted.

The locker room door slams open, banging hard against the wall. Coach storms in, looking absolutely pissed off. Damn. I’d hate to be the poor bastard on the receiving end of that glare.

“Hayes. My office. Now,” his voice slices through the air before he turns and marches out.

What the fuck?

Silence falls. The entire team all collectively turn around to look at me.

“What the hell did you do now?” Carter pipes up, rubbing a towel across his forehead.

Marcus, who always has something smart to say, stays quiet. Unruly quiet. He gives me a look, one that says you’re in deep water. Coach has yelled at us before, but this? This is another level.

I exhale sharply, rubbing the back of my neck.

The walk to Coach’s office felt longer than it should. I didn’t even get a chance to change, so my cleats echo against the title with every heavy step, loud, making my nerves flare.

When I reach his office, he’s already behind his desk. Our manager Daryl right beside him.

Daryl rarely shows up at practices, this must be more than serious.

“Shut the door,” Coach says without looking up, gaze fixed on his screen.

I tilt my neck to crack it, then close the door behind me and step toward them. “What’s going on?”

Coach doesn’t say a word. Instead, he swivels his computer toward me.

I stare at the images, my stomach sinks to my ankles.

“Care to explain?” His voice is eerily cold.

Oh, shit.