“I get it man,” Clay muttered, as he toweled off in his own corner. “I've been where you've been, you know. Sometimes the right woman can get you out of your head. When I first met Victoria—well, hell. You remember when we went up in flames against Rice last year?”

“Sure do. Didn't you fumble? How did that even happen?”

Clay winced at the memory as he struggled to wrangle his dreads into a rubber band. “I'm just saying, I've been there. You're thinking with your main vein, and not your brain.” I snickered at this, then swallowed. I wanted to confide in Clay. Of all people, he did seem the most likely to understand. But then, Denny's shitty rant kept bouncing around in my head, filling me with the weirdest sense of guilt: why do you make it so goddamned hard on yourself?

Secret's out: I'd gone to Derby's the night before, fully intending to at least pump the brakes with Doll—but instead, we'd done just about the opposite. As soon as I'd told her I loved her (at that most crucial of moments), I'd realized it was true. I'd realized that I loved her more than football, more than my friends, more, possibly, than the rickety Pastor. It had been scary to admit—and ridiculous, and satisfying. But it had felt right.

“Landon, lemme ask you something,” Clay was saying now. “And please don't take this the wrong way. But, man—do you really want to get scouted? Are you actually trying for the draft in April?”

“I've been playing that shitty, Hoskins? You gotta dog me like that?” I thought my bud would smile, but he didn't. Instead, he rounded a bank of lockers to face me, in the ridiculous orange leggings we all had to wear. I sure hated those things.

“Tell me straight, man,” he said. His eyes were kind, but I wasn't really in the room just then, having this conversation—my heart was out in the stands with Doll, who was supposedly keeping field-side vigil with her friends Lotte and Melanie. I think even Carson had been convinced to come to this game, even though she was pretty blatantly anti-football. And for all I knew, Anya and the Pastor were watching on ESPN.

“Landon,” Clay repeated, gently.

“No.”

“Whoa!”

“What, man? Are you that surprised?” This word vomit had been just like the evening prior's—I'd spoken the words, and they had become true as soon as they were out of my mouth.

“It's not that I don't love the team,” I continued. “Or even the game, you know? I mean, football's basically all I've ever known. And it's something people have always told me I'm so good at. And it's come easy to me…”

“Now you're just bragging.”

“...but the thing is, I don't know if I want to go pro. It's more like, I'd do it because I couldn't think of anything else to do.” It sounded so lame. I was afraid to look at Clay—thinking he might slap me for a second there. But surprisingly, my friend did not seem judgmental.

“As your linebacker, I'm sorry to hear that,” he continued. Beyond our conversation, I could hear the swinging hinge of the locker room door and some hushed voices. We had to wrap up our little Oprah moment right quick, before the team walked in. “As your friend, I say—Godspeed. Find what makes you happy. Just maybe don't go out of your way to fuck up the rest of this season, think of your teammates bro.”

I leaned in for a dap, and felt for the first time a surge of adrenaline. The hunger for the game I'd been missing. Sometimes at the Super Bowl, you'd see players talk about how they dedicated their performance to God, or their parents—but I'd dedicate this game to my friends. Clay and the Longhorn hooligans. Ashleigh.

As I returned to my suiting up, I felt a harsh tap on my shoulder—and there they were, like some kind of fucked-up jury. Coach Wells, Coach Yeardley, Denny, some man I didn't recognize, and...improbably...Zora. What the fuck were they doing here?

“Son, could we talk to you for a second?” asked the man I didn't recognize. I looked to Yeardley and Wells for approval, and they nodded. I barely had time to pull a t-shirt over my head before I was being corralled into Wells' office—not unlike a prisoner, I thought.

The door slid shut behind us all and I was aware of how stuffy the office was, how rarely I had cause to come in here. Wells gestured that I take a seat, but everyone else remained standing.

“Am I in some kind of trouble, Coach?” I asked, swiveling my head around, unsure who to address. The new dude smiled—or, more like he leered. His teeth were spread far apart and he had a tight little buzz-cut. I thought I recognized him from somewhere, but figured it was also possible he just had one of those faces.

“Son, my name is Timbers. Alex Timbers,” the mystery man began. “I represent the San Francisco 49ers. We've been keeping a close watch on your football career, Mr. Sterling.” I felt a thrill of pride zip down my spine, then thought of Clay out in the locker room. I'd literally just told him I didn't care about being scouted. Why couldn't Mr. 49er be looking for a linebacker today, instead?

“I'm so flattered,” I said, hating how mealy I sounded. I stole a confused look at Zora, who made no facial concession to the fact that it was weird she was in here. Though I had no clue just how these meetings were supposed to go, I would've bet any bonus that ex-girlfriends and ex-friends usually weren't invited to contract signings.

“Thrilling. That's just thrilling. Because we've got an eye on you for the draft come April,” Shiver-me-Timbers continued. “The only thing that's really giving us pause is a little disciplinary matter, which has been brought to our attention by the coaches and your two good friends here.”

Fuck me.

I would never in a million years have figured that Denny would be right about the NFL's alleged “image overhaul.” Everything I'd ever learned about football supported the unpleasant fact that all sorts of creeps and criminals were above the law, if only they won Super Bowls. I fought the urge to grimace at Denny, all conspiratorial-like. Then I remembered the word Timbers had just used: friends.

Oh, no, no. These people were not my friends.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I continued, angling to save face. Alas, I'd never been much of an actor.

“Is it not true that you were at Derby's Bar and Grill last night with a minor? By the name of Ashleigh Bennett?”

It had to be a dream. This was a pre-game nightmare. Any second, I would wake up in bed with a jolt and Ashleigh would soothe me back to sleep with sweet words and little kisses. Denny and Zora were refusing to make eye contact, and through the paneled glass in Coach's office, I could see most of the team was pretending to go about their business while they coyly watched my tribunal.

“Landon, we didn't want to ambush you like this. But we're all well aware of your potential in the NFL, and your largely spotless record with this team,” Coach Wells was saying. “Now, these fine young people have come forward with a pretty hefty accusation, that you've supplied liquor to a minor. This is bad business. The police could be involved. But in the interest of putting everything above board for Mr. Timbers here, we're all prepared to sign a statement and move forward with your career provided you stop seeing little miss jailbait.”

“First of all, she’s not a minor, let’s get that straight.” I tried.

“It's true, Landon,” Zora said, making her voice sound especially mousy and weak. “I was at Derby's last night with a girlfriend, and I saw you two. You guys know he's her step-sister, too, right? It's all pretty sick, in my opinion.”

I closed my eyes for a second, as if to tamp down the fury. Behind my lids, I saw my man Clay. Being a badass on the field, then going home to Victoria. I saw Anya, weeping beside my shithead father on their wedding day, pledging before God that she would trust him forever. I saw my mother, in one singular, strange flash—in a dress she'd been wearing on our Denver trip. In my memory, she was laughing with her full body, apparently at something the Pastor had said. They'd actually been happy, once. It was hard to believe. They'd been happy before everything had been ruined, and what good had that brief happiness done them?