Chapter 13
Hadley
By the second week of shadowing Mike, I’d learned a few things.
The weight room’s music playlist hadn’t been updated in a decade, Mike was sweating through shirts at a concerning rate, and Dustin Slater — big man, big ego, big mouth — was now acting like I didn’t exist.
Which was rich, considering yesterday he practically cornered me like he was staging an intervention. But today? Today, he wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t speak to me. In fact, he wouldn’t even walk within ten feet of the freshman I was shadowing, as if somehow proximity to me had become contagious.
If he saw me coming, he shifted directions.
If I moved left, he moved right. If I entered a room, he suddenly remembered he needed to be anywhere else.
It would be annoying if it weren’t, honestly, kind of impressive.
Watching him was similar to watching wildlife instinctively avoid a trap.
Only he was treating me like I was the trap.
I tried ignoring it.
I really did.
But by midmorning, after the fourth time he spun on his heel the moment we crossed paths, I was done.
I was so done.
Mike and I hovered near the field entrance while the defense finished their drill rotation. He was catching his breath; I was catching my temper.
Dustin stood about twenty yards away, talking to the QB. Or pretending to talk — because every few seconds, he glanced over like he was checking my coordinates. Then, the moment I took a step toward him, he pivoted and walked toward the opposite sideline.
“Oh for the love of—”
Mike glanced up nervously. “Everything okay?”
“No,” I said. “Not even a little.”
He blinked, unsure how to handle that. “Do you need water? Or, like . . . time alone? Because I’m not allowed to leave you alone.”
“I need answers,” I muttered. “And apparently track shoes.” Before my common sense could catch up, I started walking across the field straight toward Dustin. His back stiffened instantly. Perfect. Great, even. Let him stiffen.
“Hadley,” Mike whispered behind me, panicked. “Maybe don’t—”
Too late.
“Slater!” I called out, picking up speed. He pretended he didn’t hear me and turned his back on me. I tried again, louder. “Slater!”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Okay.
Okay.
He wanted to play this game? Fine.
I picked up the pace into a power walk. He finally looked over his shoulder — and swore under his breath, with a look on his face similar to that of an actor in a horror film who had just watched a monster crawl out of the floor.
He turned and started walking faster.
“Not today, buddy.” I sped up.
He sped up.
I jogged.
He jogged.
By the time he hit the sideline, we were full-on sprinting like lunatics. Someone shouted something behind us, and half the field turned to watch me literally chasing the wide receiver across the field.
I caught him by the bottom of his jersey just as he reached the bench. He stopped, bracing his hands on his hips, his breathing slightly accelerated. I wasn’t out of breath because spite was a phenomenal cardio supplement.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked flatly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I answered sweetly. “Trying to get you to acknowledge my existence?”
He ran a hand over his hair. “Peterson.”
“No,” I snapped. “You don’t get to ‘Peterson’ me. You’ve been avoiding me all morning.”
“I haven’t.”
“You left the weight room the second I walked in.”
“That was a coincidence.”
Bullshit. “You took the long way to the film room.”
“I wanted fresh air.”
“We were inside,” I said through gritted teeth. “There was no fresh air.”
He glared at me. “Okay, fine. Maybe I didn’t want to talk.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think I said enough yesterday.”
“What?” I stepped closer. “You mean, yesterday got uncomfortable for you. You said something cryptic, and then you ran away.”
“I didn’t run.”
“Fine, you walked away. But you just ran away from me right now.” I took a deep, calming breath. “And you need to stop pretending we weren’t having a conversation before.”
His jaw flexed. His eyes flicked to the players watching us, then back to me. “Fuck’s sake, Peterson, I told you to stop doing this,” he said quietly.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
His mouth curved in something that wasn’t a smile. “Out here? I actually do.”
I stiffened.
“You’re making the team nervous,” he said bluntly. “You’re making the coaching staff nervous. And the more nervous they get, the more dangerous this place becomes for you and anyone else associated with you. Or did you forget what the head coach said to Whittaker?”
Dangerous. He used that word again.
He leaned in just enough that his voice dropped beneath the noise of practice.
“You chasing me across the field like a fucking crazy person, or worse, a stalker . . . it brings attention. Attention is a problem.” He looked over my shoulder, and I had the mortifying realization that I had just done that. In front of everyone.
I shoved aside my embarrassment. “A problem? For who?”
“For you, and for me.”
I scoffed. “So your solution is to ignore me until I back off?”
His gaze dropped to my notebook. Then back to my face. “My solution is you stop asking questions that aren’t yours to ask.”
My stomach tightened. “How much do you know?”
“I know enough to stay out of it.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
The word was flat, his tone final.
I searched his face. “Why?”
“Because I said no, Peterson,” he said. “Now walk away.”
I opened my mouth, but he was already stepping back.
“Drop it, Hadley,” he said. Not quietly. Not kindly. “This isn’t a conversation you win.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Coach Merriman snapped behind us. “Slater, you will not shirk practice for some girl.”
Dustin nodded, giving me a glance that blatantly said, ‘I told you so.’
“Yeah, Coach, I know that. I tried to avoid her, but, well . . .” He almost looked apologetic when he glanced at me. “You saw her chasing me across the field, right?”
Oh my God, he just threw me under the bus.
“Yes. We did.” The coach looked at me with disapproval. “Leave my players alone, this is college football, it’s serious. You want to fuck a player, fuck him on his time, not mine.”
My mouth dropped open, and around me, no one reacted. Which was somehow worse.
He started to walk away, then turned back to me. “And just so you know, every minute of their day is my time.” He glanced at Dustin. “Move it, Slater. This one isn’t worth your time.” The coach’s whistle blew, and then he was barking for the offense to set up on the far field.
Dustin backed away, helmet dangling from his fingers, jaw tense. He shook his head once and then turned away from me.
“This conversation isn’t over,” I said, loud enough for him to hear me.
He glanced over his shoulder. “It really is,” he muttered.
Then he turned and jogged toward the team, leaving me standing there in the middle of the field — furious, confused, and way more rattled than I wanted to be.
Because Dustin Slater wasn’t just avoiding me, he was afraid of what I was going to find, and that meant I was closer than I realized.
* * *
“What do you mean I need to find a new assignment?” I demanded of my professor.
He was hunched over his desk, glasses low on his nose, stacks of papers forming little defensive walls around him.
He looked tired. Grumpy. Exactly like someone who didn’t need me adding problems to his day.
In fact, Professor Flannigan looked ready to just give up at this point, and I didn’t like that I was the reason.
Again.
“You chased a player across the field demanding . . .” He looked horrified to say it. “Sexual relations.”
I gaped at him. “I did not.”
He leaned back in his seat and shook his head.
He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Hadley. I saw the footage of you chasing the Lions wide receiver across the field.” His lips twitched.
“Have you ever considered track?” he asked me, deadpan. “Girl, you didn’t even break a sweat.”
I flushed bright red. “He was running away from me,” I muttered. “Wait. They have film?”
He looked at me, eyebrows in his hairline. “Oh, they have film. Every social media platform has it.”
I cringed. “Does it look bad?” I shook my head; it didn’t matter. “Did they tell you why? Did they tell you what that disgusting coach said to me afterward?” Professor Flannigan gave me a look so weary, I sat down, slumping low in the seat. “There’s a story there,” I told him sullenly.
“There probably is,” he said with a heavy sigh. “But, Jesus, Hadley . . .” He blew out a breath. “We chase a story, we don’t literally chase the story.”
“Coach Sutherland pulled the plug?” I guessed. Flannigan nodded. I propped my elbow up on the arm of the chair. My chin in my palm, heavy with defeat. “The dean agreed?” My professor nodded again. “Hard to argue a live stream,” I mused. I saw his lips twitch. “I found something, though.”
“No.”
He said it with such finality that I let it go . . . for now. “Did you ask Dustin? He would have told you I wasn’t seeking ‘sexual relations.’”
“Number eleven said you’ve been very forward since your assignment began.”
The rat bastard.
“I’ve been forward?” I sat up straighter. “Forward? What the hell does that mean?”
My professor rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Hadley, I think chasing him across the football field may be considered by some to be . . . pushy.”
He threw me under the bus again. Just like earlier today. Just like before, when I’d heard from Mike that Dustin told them all we’d hooked up before. He was very good at making sure that the story that was getting told was the one that worked for him.
Didn’t make him any less of a rat bastard, though.
I snorted out a laugh, and he failed to hide his small smile. I pulled my phone out of my bag and opened social media. “Wow,” I said, mortifyingly impressed. “Over a million views.” I looked up at him. I cringed. “Looks a little . . . eager.”
“Desperate, I believe the caption is.”