He’s not big on distractions. Especially ones with the potential to derail my career. His advice when I came to Waverly? No cheerleaders, no trainers, no teammates. He labors under the delusion that as long as my hookups aren’t attached to the team, the chance for fallout is nil. It’s an old-school view, but I haven’t bothered to correct him.
No point when I’ve always kept things casual.
Truth is, he’ll be more concerned with bad press than anything else. He’s always trusted that the game comes first and I wouldn’t let a woman—or anything else—stand between me and the dream. But bad press? It could negatively impact my draft selection, something he won’t tolerate.
Not that the press has been bad. So far. But I’ve been around sports media long enough to know it’s just a matter of time. The media thrives on scandal. All it’ll take is a few trolls to stir the pot. I scroll through my social media feeds and roll my eyes. The current narrative is sweet and sappy, a modern twist on the old QB-cheerleader cliché.
If they only knew our relationship was more like hate-fucking in the beginning.
Doesn’t matter. The more time I spend with Kennedy, the more I realize how much I want her in my life. Sure, she’s a spitfire, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. She gets me. Not the cocky QB, Austin. And she calls me on my bullshit. She doesn’t pander to me because I’m some hotshot football player.
Hell, I’m pretty sure she’s attracted to me in spite of it.
Plus, there’s the sex.
Fact is, there was no scenario where I was going to walk away at the end of the season. The Collegian article created an opportunity, and I took it. Of course, it also created a lot of headaches, but I’ll handle it, just like I did with Coach. Sure he’s pissed, and I would’ve preferred to wait out the season, but shit happens.
When the guys start pouring into the locker room, I gesture for them to huddle up. My stomach clenches. Good thing I skipped breakfast. Facing the team is going to be more difficult than taking a verbal beating from Coach. These guys made me captain, chose me to lead the team. They expected more of me and I let them down.
I wipe my hands on my shorts.
Never let them see you sweat, my ass. It’s hot as hell in here.
The coaching staff joins us, and Kennedy slips in the back door just under the wire. Can’t blame her. I’d do the same in her position.
The team’s uncharacteristically quiet. Even for an early morning start. Their silence speaks volumes.
No excuses.
I stare out at the sea of faces, most of which are carved in stone. I don’t know if it’s a trick of the light or a side effect of the guilt, but whatever they’re feeling, it’s on me. Doesn’t matter if I meant to breed hurt or mistrust, only that I did. And a splintered team doesn’t win games.
Time to get the focus back where it belongs: on football.
“I’m sure most of you saw the article in The Collegian,” I say, forcing myself to meet the eyes of each and every person in the room. “I’m not here to make excuses. I knew Coach’s rules and I not only broke them, I lied about it. My selfish actions have brought undue speculation and distraction to the team at a time when we can ill afford them. For that, I’m sorry. As your captain, I expect more from this team and from myself.”
I pause, giving them time to process my words. The room’s so damn quiet, I can hear Langley’s ragged breath. No one talks. No one moves. Not even Coach. He just watches with flattened brows, stoic expression in place.
“Coach and I had a long talk this morning and we agreed that since the entire team is impacted by my choices, the team should decide the consequences. Up to and including benching.”
There are a few surprised faces in the crowd and a murmur starts at the back of the room, slowly increasing in fervor. Can’t say I’m surprised. Caught me off guard too when Coach said he’d let the team decide. I steal a glance at Kennedy. She’s chewing her thumbnail, keeping a low profile at the back of the room. I know she’s itching to weigh in, but I’m hoping she’ll stick to her word and let me deal with the fallout.
Better me than her, captain or not.
No scout wants to recruit a player who can’t follow simple directions like keep your dick in your pants, but the impact would be minimal, even if I’m benched for a game. Still, I’m hoping the guys are in a forgiving mood. The thought of riding the bench for the Indy game brings bile to the back of my throat.
I swallow it back down.
The noise in the room has reached fever pitch, and I’m laced tighter than a damn pigskin. Finally, Daniels, the defensive captain, steps forward. He raises a hand and the room falls silent, all eyes pinned on me.
Man, this is fucking brutal.
I’d kind of been hoping Coop or Vaughn would speak up—they’re my roommates and I know they have my back no matter what—but it’s probably best to have another captain step up. It’s a struggle not to fidget or wipe my hands on my pants. Hell, it’s all I can do to keep from clenching my fists.
“All right, all right,” Daniels says, his deep voice carrying easily. I can’t help but notice he doesn’t look at me. Not a good sign. We’re on opposite sides of the ball, but we’ve always been on good terms. Like me, he’s a senior. I can’t
