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I do a double take through the peephole. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I open the door. “How did you get up here?”

The night before a game—no matter home or away—means lockdown. It means retiring to our rooms after a walk through, meetings, and dinner, only for our doors to be met with a knock thirty minutes later by staff to make sure we’re abiding by curfew.

“And what the hell is that?”

“Gift from the wifey.” Nick pushes past me, setting a basket on the table.

I scratch my head. “It’s after curfew. How did you even get up?”

“Me? I know people.”

I raise an eyebrow.

Nick drops his arms. “Fine. I’m staying one floor up. They really should put security for you guys on the stairs.”

“What’s with the Easter basket?” I ask.

“Some things to help you relax.”

I fold my arms. “So you’re telling me the whiskey I drank earlier won’t do the job?”

“Not funny, asshole.” Nick reaches for something. “Here.”

“Fuzzy socks?”

He hands me a small plastic bottle. “Put them on after you spray your feet with this.”

I look at the label. “Magnesium?”

“There’s lavender spray for your pillow and?—”

“Nick, there’s clearly one person in this hotel room who could use magnesium spray. And it’s not me.”

“Fitzy…”

I lift my head toward the ceiling and groan. I hate when people call me that. “Just say what you came here to say. I should’ve been in bed fifteen minutes ago.”

He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath. “I need you to separate yourself from Foller.”

I should’ve known this wasn’t about magnesium.

“Separate myself? I’m a franchise quarterback. He’s the head coach. That’s contractually impossible. And the guy is like a father to me.”

It was an easy role for him to step into, since my mother never remarried after my dad died when I was a kid. She didn’t have a clue how to jumpstart my football career out of high school and get me recruited. But James Foller, Thacher Prep’s guidance counselor and football coach, sure did.

“You’ve got to stop reminding people of that, alright?” Nick sits on the bed. “You don’t comment on legal matters. That’s it. Next question. No adding He’s made me the man I am today or the I owe everything to him bullshit with tears in your eyes.”

“I didn’t cry .”

“You did in your mind.” Nick rakes a hand over his curly blond hair before he waves me off. “All football guys are softies.”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my joggers. “Are we done here?”

Nick shakes his head. “I’m serious.”

“You’re serious because you don’t like him,” I remind Nick. “But he’s part of my team as much as you are.”

Nick stands. “He’s always piggybacked on your success.”

“Oh?” I challenge. “And who gets 2.5 percent right off the cuff of every deal I make?”

I got the sense there was some sort of jealousy thing Nick couldn’t get over when it came to Coach. I consider both of them on my team. Nick is my manager. He guides me on every business decision I’ve ever made. And even though I know I’ve got enough talent to make good money playing football, Nick has always made me more money. But Foller sure as hell taught me that football is never about money.

I grab the bottle of the lavender juice and spritz the space between us. “Go put your fuzzy socks on and go to bed. You’re stressing me out.”

He holds his hands up. “Listen, Fitz. You played well this season. Very well. You’re maybe the most-liked player in the League. Let’s keep it that way. It will be hard to do if you end up a packaged deal with someone everyone’s pointing fingers at saying he’s a bad guy. I’m trying to keep you America’s Mr. Nice Guy.”

I roll my eyes. Another damn nickname. During my first professional game when I was a third-string quarterback, I fumbled the ball because I tripped over a defensive lineman who failed to tackle me. I was so nervous, I helped the guy up, apologizing, even though the clock was running and I should’ve jogged to the sideline. We won by three touchdowns.

BULLS FIND QB-1 IN AMERICA’S MR. NICE GUY.

To say I was fucking lost when I first got to the League is an understatement. But I went back to my roots. I buckled down and took things seriously. I lived and breathed not just football, but preparation for greatness, exactly the way I was taught. Exactly the way I was coached . The League was hard-pressed to find a quarterback better prepared than me.

These days, when I make headlines, there’s a stark difference.

CAPTAIN AMERICA LEADS REBELS WITH AN IRON ARM AND NO APOLOGIES.

Nick begins to walk to the door.

“Besides, I’d hate for you to get that tattoo covered up if it doesn’t work out long term with the Rebels.” He tosses a smirk over his shoulder that I meet with a grimace.

To Nick, it’s a joke. But there’s nothing funny for me about the tattoo he’s the only one who knows the meaning behind.

“I’m never drinking with you again.” I yank open the door.

“Just give it your all tomorrow, Fitzy. Heart and soul.”

Nick throwing a cheap shot at my tattoo doesn’t exactly inspire me to play with heart. After all, I got that tattoo because of my heart.

I try not to think about it too much, but man, it’s awfully quiet in this hotel room. And do you know what quiet does to me? Makes me fucking lonely.

It’s something I don’t often admit to anyone, not to Nick or my friends—and certainly not my mother. For someone who lives such a loud life, you’d think I’d relish in the quiet moments. What people don’t know is that inside, I’m screaming.

And it’s not the kind of noise that can be muffled by just anything, or anyone.

My bare feet shuffle against the carpeted floor before I peek back at Nick’s basket. But I don’t go and pick up the mask or the bed perfume or whatever that shit is. I take one step closer and backhand the basket right to the floor, the contents sprawling out across the carpet.

Immediately, I feel better. I should’ve been a linebacker. Coach always joked about that, saying even though I was big and tall, it would be a waste of a good arm if I played anything other than quarterback. And I bought into that—into everything. There was conditioning and footwork before class, practice after school, weight training and film, and more coaching sessions. And that was only in high school. But as many things landed on my plate as a kid when it came to football, some things were taken away—like my best friend, Parker, who had no idea I was madly in love with her.

I didn’t lose Parker all at once, at least, not at first.

The truth is, I lost bits and pieces of her over time. I was too young to remember my Dad dying after he flipped his car over. But my mother always used to say was how thankful she was that it happened quickly. That’s because there’s nothing worse than losing someone you love slowly. You lose them looking for you, the tap of their fingers against your bedroom window late at night. You lose the strength of their smile, the magnitude of their laughter that was the soundtrack of your childhood. It’s one thing after another.

The thing is, unlike my dad—or Parker’s grandmother, whose death she struggled to cope with—some of Parker remained—the wild bits. She was, always a bit rebellious. But Parker in the after was more extreme, more reckless. And for that reason, Coach deemed her not just a distraction but a threat to my future because of her behavior at school, at least on the days she decided to show up. The same school we broke into the last night I saw her.

“There’s a fence for a reason,” I tell Parker. “To keep riffraff like us out.”

Parker grabs the links and lets out a laugh that’s too loud, considering we’re sneaking onto campus at night. “Riffraff? I thought we were rebels.”

“Same thing,” I offer.

“Not even close, Fitzy. But I guess with the clubhouse gone, we can rebrand.”

It was technically a treehouse Honey had built when Parker and her sister moved in full time after her father’s political career really kicked off when we were about to start Kindergarten. One day, when my ball went over the fence into the yard next door and was returned to me quickly, everything changed.

We played catch without talking that day. The next afternoon, Parker lifted a lose plank of the fence and asked me if I wanted to play on the same side. I crawled under, becoming a dirty mess, and soon enough was a regular in the Montgomery compound and a founding member of the Rebels Only club, established between the summers of first and second grade. It started off as a joke to keep Parker’s sister Madeline out of the treehouse. “Rebels only,” we’d call down to her as she tried to wrangle us inside. “No goody-two shoes allowed.”

I did whatever Parker did, which meant defying bedtime or coming in for dinner, digging holes where we were told not to—all the best kinds of childhood trouble that centered around our clubhouse that was disassembled almost a year ago after Parker’s parents inherited the home when Honey died and her mother deemed it an eyesore.

Everything changed a year ago today.

“Let’s go,” I tell her. “There’s probably a security guard making rounds.”

“Just go home before your mom notices you’re gone, chicken.” Parker bawks at me.

It’s not her words that hurt me—I’m not that much of a baby. It’s the fact that she thinks they’re true, that my mom has tightened my leash, when really, Coach has, worried that Parker might drag me down the wrong path. But sneaking out and breaking into school grounds? This is child’s play. Last month, Parker stole a car.

I take one step back and charge. By the time I run and reach it, I’ve got little left to climb.

“Now who’s chicken?” I swing my leg over the top. I lose my balance and drop to the ground, hoping it looks more purposeful than accidental to Parker.

“I guess if this whole quarterback thing doesn’t work out, you could always try for a wide receiver,” she snarks.

“Toss me your backpack and come on.”

I wait for Parker to throw me her near-empty bag. It takes two tries for her to get over to the other side and onto the field, but she manages, landing far more gracefully than I did, needing to do nothing else than smooth down her torn jean shorts over her tan legs.

“Why did you want to come here anyway?”

Parker shrugs back into her backpack, pulling her wavy, dark hair stuck between one strap and her shoulder free. “I was bored.”

“Call me crazy, but breaking into a football field at night doesn’t exactly seem all that fun.”

She sighs. “Then why did you follow me, Fitzy?”

“Because you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

Our eyes lock in the dim light. The truth is, she shouldn’t have been alone the last few months either. But I left her that way. I’m about to apologize when the gentle hum of an engine steals my attention.

I snatch Parker’s hand, tugging her as I run toward the opposite sideline. When we get to the stairs of the bleachers, I take six quick steps up and pull her in front of me. “Go.”

Parker drops into the space beneath the bleachers, and I follow. Even though we’re a distance away from the security lights and can’t really see anything, I hold a finger to my lips. There are muffled voices, but they’re not close.

Parker grips my hand tighter. I squeeze back. I want to call her out on being nervous after talking such a big game, but I don’t want her to stop holding my hand.

I tilt my head up toward the space we climbed through and listen, but it’s hard to hear anything because my heart is pounding in my ears. It takes another minute, but eventually the voices fade and a car door shuts, and the fading sound of the engine lets me know they’ve pulled away.

But what I haven’t done is pull away from Parker.

And I notice she hasn’t pulled away from me either.

“That was close,” she whispers.

I shift side to side as I squat. “Not like you’d have much to worry about.”

“No.” Parker finally drops my hand, opening the backpack. She produces a flashlight and turns it on. “You’re right. Thacher doesn’t want me anymore.”

I had a feeling this might happen, but I was holding out hope that Parker’s parents would pull some strings to keep her here. After all, her dad is running for president.

“I’d just hate for something to happen to you, Fitzy. You’re working so hard and have everything going for you.”

I cringe because that’s what Coach says.

With the light pointed up, Parker glows in the dark. My head nearly bumps the seat of the bleacher above me. My right leg is going numb. But I don’t want to look away. Not for a second.

This is it, I think to myself . It’s now or never. I either tell Parker I love her and want her to be my girlfriend, or I accept that I am absolute chicken shit.

She hands me the flashlight, and I keep it pointed up while she rummages around in her backpack again.

“Are you looking to pass your get-out-of-jail card to me? Does that work even if my mom isn’t running for president?”

“We always bail each other out,” she reminds me, pulling out a black marker. “Isn’t that what we agreed on?”

Parker pulls the cap off, sticking it between her teeth, and lifts the marker. I smile because I know what she’s going to write. It’s not our initials in the middle of a heart with an arrow going through it. What she’s going to write is something more than that. What she writes is our secret.

REBELS ONLY.

The inscription on the bleachers doesn’t differ all that much from where she carved the same saying into the outside of the clubhouse that no longer exists.

Parker plucks the marker cap from her mouth. “Let’s see if it’s still here at our tenth high school reunion.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Will we still be rebels then?”

Most of Parker’s face disappears when she turns to tuck the marker into her backpack, now hidden by her dark wavy hair. But I can see the smile on the side of her face. And even if it’s only half, it’s enough for me. I wish I was brave enough to tell her, she’s enough for me.

And for a second, during what might be the last time we’re ever on the campus of the same school, I contemplate it.

But Parker’s right. I’m a chicken. Because to have her, I risk losing some things. Our friendship, for one. And, according to Coach, my future.

Parker fully faces me once more, the whole of her smile coming into view. “We’ll always be rebels, Fitzy.”

I storm into the bathroom, ripping my clothes off, watching my chest expand and shrink quickly. But my uneasy breathing isn’t what I remain focused on. My eyes fall to the black lettering just below my right hip bone.

REBELS ONLY.

Nick is wrong. The words forever etched into my skin will never not hold meaning no matter the uniform I wear.

I was a rebel long before I signed with the team or even before I got this tattoo the night I graduated from high school, months after Parker left home without ever saying goodbye.

I trace the letters of her handwriting copied into my skin.

I’ll always be a rebel. And Parker—wherever she is—will be too.

A rebel with or without a cause. The rebel who will always hold a piece of my heart.