Chapter 1
Dominic
Icome off the field soaked in sweat. Cleats scrape against concrete, guys laughing and shoving each other, hyped up on the fact that we ran the drills clean today and the coaches didn’t scream as much as usual.
I love this part. I love the ache in my shoulders and the way my legs feel heavy from drills, the way the field smells torn up and raw under my cleats. This is the only place where everything in my head lines up straight.
Out here, it’s simple. You hit, or you get hit. You read the defense, or you get sacked. You win, or you bleed trying. There’s no gray. I prefer it that way.
“Volkov!” Coach Keller’s voice cuts across the field just as I’m pulling my helmet off. “Office. Now.”
A couple of the guys glance at me, eyebrows raised, but I don’t react.
I hook my helmet under my arm and start walking toward the tunnel without rushing, because I already know what this is about.
I’ve been dodging emails for two weeks. Academic advisor.
Compliance Office. Some bullshit about midterm reports.
I haven’t checked my grades because I don’t need to. I already know they’re bad.
My cleats echo against the concrete as I make my way to Coach’s office. His door is open, light spilling into the corridor. He’s standing behind his desk when I step inside, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight.
“Close the door,” he says.
I shut it behind me and lean back against it, folding my arms. “What’s up?”
He doesn’t sit. That’s how I know he’s pissed.
“What’s up?” he repeats, shaking his head. “What’s up is you’re about to flunk two classes, Volkov.”
I don’t answer right away. I just hold his gaze and let him say it.
“Don’t give me that look,” he snaps. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I’ve been busy,” I say evenly.
“Busy?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You’ve been busy every year you’ve been here. You’re not suddenly too busy to pass fucking Sociology.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not exactly my priority.”
He steps around the desk and walks closer, lowering his voice.
“That’s the problem. You’re projected to be a first-round pick; I know that.
Hell, half the league knows that. But if you’re academically ineligible, you’re not stepping on that field for us again.
And if you’re not stepping on that field, draft projections don’t mean shit. ”
The words land hard, even if I don’t show it. I straighten up from the door and push off it slowly.
“I’m not gonna be ineligible,” I say.
“You are right now,” he shoots back. “Midterm reports came in this morning, and you’ve got mostly D’s. One more dip and you’re under the threshold.”
I drag a hand through my hair, damp strands sticking to my fingers. “I’ll pull it up.”
“With what time?” he asks sharply. “You’re already juggling practice, press, workouts, the peewee coaching, and sponsorship meetings. You think you’re gonna magically wake up one morning and give a shit about case law?”
I don’t like the way he says that, as if I don’t give a shit about anything. I just give a shit about the right things.
“I know what I’m doing,” I say, my voice going colder.
“No, you don’t,” he replies, and now he’s right in front of me. “You think, because you’re a six-four draft pick who can throw a fifty-yard pass on the run, that the rules don’t apply to you. But they do. And if you fail, it reflects on this program. It reflects on me.”
There it is. It’s not just about me; it’s about his reputation when the university’s golden boy starts screwing up.
“I’m not gonna be ineligible,” I repeat.
“You are if you don’t fix it.” He exhales and rubs his forehead. “Look, I’m not trying to fuck you over. I’m trying to protect you. You’ve worked too hard to let some academic bullshit derail this.”
I hold his gaze, saying nothing.
“I’m assigning you a TA,” he continues. “Top of the class. Kid’s a machine.
I’ve seen him drag two other players from borderline probation to solid B averages in a couple of months.
He’ll meet with you three times a week, go over assignments, and keep you on track.
You’ll listen to him, and you’ll do the damn work. ”
I let out a short breath through my nose—a fucking babysitter.
“I don’t need a handler, Coach,” I say.
“You need something, because whatever you’re doing right now isn’t working.”
Irritation flares in my chest. I hate being cornered. I hate it when someone tells me I can’t handle my own shit. “I’ve got scouts flying in next week, you think I’m worried about a fucking term paper?”
“You should be,” he snaps. “Because if you’re not eligible, they’re not flying in for you. They’re flying in for someone else.”
I know he’s right, and that’s what pisses me off the most. I’ve been coasting, because I know what’s coming. I know my numbers. I know my arm. I know what I’m worth. School has always been background noise—a box to check. I didn’t come to Lakehaven for the degree. I came for the field.
“You want to go pro? Then act like it. Pros handle their business. All of it.”
I stare at the wall behind him, then back at his face. “Fine,” I say finally. “Set it up.”
His shoulders drop a fraction. “Good.”
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Brendon Lane.”
The name doesn’t mean anything to me.
“He’s a law student as well,” Coach continues. “Preacher’s kid. Straight-laced. Doesn’t fuck around. You show up late, he’ll call you out. You skip work, he’ll tell me.”
A humorless smile pulls at my mouth. “Sounds fun. When do we start?”
“I’ll have him email you tonight,” he replies. “First session this week. And Volkov?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me regret fighting for you.”
I hold his gaze for a long second, then give him a tight nod. “You won’t.”
I turn and leave before he can say anything else, the door clicking shut behind me. The hallway feels narrower on the way out. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it.
A fucking TA. I’m not some idiot who can’t read.
By the time I step back into the locker room, most of the guys are already showered and dressed. The air is thick with steam and body spray.
Colton Brady is sitting on the bench by my locker, towel slung over his shoulders, scrolling through his phone. He’s the only one I can truly call a friend, but even he doesn’t know the truth about me.
He looks up when he sees me. “You look like you want to murder someone.”
“I might,” I mutter, tossing my helmet into my locker harder than necessary.
“That good, huh?” He leans back against the metal, studying me. “What’d he say?”
“That I’m flunking,” I reply, ripping my jersey over my head. “Says if I drop any lower, I’m ineligible.”
He whistles low. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” I grab a clean shirt and drag it over my head. Fuck showering; I’ll do it at home. “Apparently, draft projections don’t mean jack if I can’t pass Ethics.”
He snorts. “Ethics is bullshit anyway.”
“Exactly.”
“So what’s the plan?” he asks.
“Plan is I get a fucking babysitter,” I say, yanking my bag off the hook. “He’s assigning me some TA to hold my hand three times a week.”
“Which one?” he asks immediately, interest coloring his tone.
“Some church boy named Brendon Lane. You know him?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. I know him.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good,” he says. “Annoyingly good. He helped Marcus last year when he was about to get benched over grades. Brought him up almost a full point in two months.”
I pause, looking at him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Guy’s fucking intense. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t party, and basically lives in the library.” He smirks slightly. “Looks like he’s about to apologize for existing half the time.”
I huff out a breath. “Perfect.”
“Hey, you wanted reliable,” he says with a shrug.
“I didn’t want any of this,” I snap, shoving my feet into my sneakers. “I’ve got scouts watching my game film, and I’m stuck worrying about fucking citations.”
He studies me for a moment, then lowers his voice. “You’ve been off lately.”
I glance at him, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re distracted,” he says carefully. “On the field, you’re still killing it. But in between, you zone out, and sometimes you miss meetings. That’s not you.”
I look away, my jaw tight. He doesn’t know the half of it. “I’m fine,” I say.
He doesn’t push, but I can see the doubt in his eyes.
“Look,” he says after a second. “Lane’s a pain in the ass, but he works. If anyone can drag your GPA out of the gutter, it’s him.”
“I don’t need dragging,” I mutter.
“Then prove it,” he shoots back. “Use him. Get your grades up, go pro, and get the hell out of here.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance at him. “You’re not coming?”
“Shower first,” he says. “Try not to punch a hole in a wall on your way out.”
“No promises,” I reply dryly.
He grins faintly. “Text me when you meet him. I want to know if he’s as uptight as I remember.”
I shake my head and start for the exit, irritation simmering under my skin. Outside, the early evening air hits me; it’s cooler now that the sun is dipping low. I parked my Charger near the front, black paint gleaming under the stadium lights.
I unlock it and slide into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel harder than I need to. After a breath, I start the engine, the low rumble filling the quiet lot, and pull out onto the road.
A fucking TA.
I don’t like being told I’m slipping. I don’t like the implication that I’m losing control. Football is control, strength, and precision. School is noise, but apparently it’s noise that can still fuck me if I ignore it.
Brendon Lane.
Preacher’s kid. Straight-laced.
I roll the name around in my head as I drive. I can already picture him. Button-down shirts and clean lines. Will probably look at me like I’m a project instead of a person. I wonder how long it’ll take before he realizes I’m not interested in being saved.
The thought almost makes me smile.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder, and I glance down at the screen when I hit a red light. An email notification. Lakehaven.edu.
That’ll be him.
Suppose if this is what it takes to stay on the field, fine. I’ll play along. I’ll sit across from some stoic, church-going overachiever, and let him walk me through case briefs and whatever the fuck else he thinks I need.
But I’m not losing anything. Not the draft, my spot, and definitely not control.
And if Brendon Lane thinks he’s about to babysit me, he’s going to be the one getting taught a lesson.
Because I don’t get handled.
I get what I want.