I freeze in my tracks. It’s the nicest thing Reid’s ever said to me. Is this his version of an apology? He pauses and turns to look at me, a question I’m not prepared to answer in his eyes. He takes a step toward me and I chew my bottom lip, trying to decide if it’s enough, this proverbial olive branch he’s extended. The rational part of my brain—the part that’s cataloged the date and time of every shitty thing my father’s done—is screaming at me to keep on walking, chin held high.
But let’s be honest, I haven’t exactly been a peach myself, doing everything I can to drive a big-ass wedge between myself and this team. And while Reid might very well be a player, he’s treated me with respect since day one. Maybe it’s time to meet him in the middle.
Just this once.
I take one step forward, stopping when we’re face-to-face.
“The reporters might be idiots, but I think it’s safe to say a lot of people are skeptical about my abilities.” I shrug it off like it’s no big deal, although in truth, the knowledge that people are talking shit about me on the internet is a little unnerving.
“Don’t sweat it.” He flashes me a dimpled smile that stirs the butterflies in my belly. “If I do my job well tomorrow, you won’t have anything to worry about.”
Chapter Seven
Austin
Two hours until kickoff and the whole damn town is buzzing with excitement. Coop and I hoofed it to the stadium, experience telling us it’s the lesser of two evils. With tens of thousands of fans descending on College Park, traffic’s a nightmare and there are tailgates on every corner. It’s the first game of the season, and the fans aren’t the only ones out in full force. The media will be waiting in the wings—along with the scouts—to break down every play we make in excruciating detail.
It’s nothing new, but it’s hard to ignore the constant speculation. Can Austin Reid lead Waverly to a national title? Does Reid have what it takes to follow in his father’s footsteps? Is Reid in the hunt for the Heisman? Could Austin Reid be the top draft pick of the new class?
It’s all just noise.
Better to block it out, which is why Coop and I are both wearing headphones. The bulky kind that discourage strangers from stopping you on the street to ask if Waverly’s going to win the game. Like, no, bro, I’m kinda hoping we get our asses handed to us today.
Of course we want to win the fucking game.
Short of going undefeated, there aren’t any guarantees when it comes to getting selected for the championship game. College ball isn’t like the NFL. Championship contenders can’t just win their way into the title game. The top four teams are determined by a selection committee and then compete in a semifinal bowl to determine who will have the privilege of playing for the national title. The road to victory is long, hard, and paved with bruises. Especially when you compete in a conference that’s consistently underrated, despite delivering some of the biggest slugfests week in and week out.
When we arrive at the locker room, my old man is waiting at the door. Just one of the many privileges afforded to an NFL legend. I tell Coop to go on ahead and pretend not to see the flare of jealousy in his eyes. I should be grateful my dad came to watch me play—Coop’s dad never shows—but I’m not really in the mood for career advice at the moment. I just want to focus on today’s game.
It’s Carter’s first game, and I all but promised to keep the pressure off her.
“Austin.” My father looks me up and down, as usual, concerned first and foremost with appearances. Although it’s a home game, I’m wearing dress pants and a collared shirt, well aware that I’m always in the public eye. I must pass inspection, because his gaze returns to my face without comment. I make a mental note to thank Vaughn for ironing my shirt.
“Dad.” Don’t get me wrong, my father’s a good guy and I love him, but once in a while I’d like to come before the game. Hell, just once. “Didn’t expect to see you until after the game.”
“It’s the first game of the season,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulder and clapping me on the chest. He’s got a half inch on me, but otherwise, looking at my father is like looking into the mirror twenty-five years in the future. Same dark hair, same blue eyes, same dimpled chin. And, okay, yeah, same cocky grin. “I wanted to make sure you’ve got your head in the game. The stadium’s full of scouts today and every game can impact your draft selection.”
“I know.” I haven’t told him about my talk with Coach. There’s no point. “I’m feeling good. Should be an easy game.”
He squeezes my shoulder and points a finger at my chest, eyes locked on mine. “Don’t take anything for granted. Play smart, manage the pocket, no turnovers. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” He’s been giving me the same pregame speech for as long as I can remember. I was probably the only kid in the fifth grade getting professional level coaching on pocket management, but I can’t say it hasn’t paid off. I’m one of the best QBs in college football and that’s not bragging; it’s a fact.
“You take care of the ball, son. I’ll take care of the rest. We’ll get you into Pittsburgh, just like we always talked about.”
More like he always talked about.
I nod, keeping my lips pressed flat. If I open my mouth, I might blurt out my interest in Chicago. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Coach said, but I can’t tell my dad. He’d be crushed.
The thing is, Coach Norris is building a
