Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Chase
I guess I’m a liar now, too. I’ll just add that to my ever-growing list of undesirable traits, fuckups, and failures.
A list that is likely to grow if the last nine months are anything to go by.
Hell, the last three years, really, if we’re counting all the ways I’ve gone wrong since my high school graduation.
I thought everything would change for the better after that.
Some things—the things I was most looking forward to—did, but for every positive shift in my life, there’s a counterreaction.
Escape the mayhem at home, create it among my friend group.
Fix things with my best friend, get a new coach who hates me.
Ace all my classes so the future I mapped out is a guarantee, find out I might not even get the chance to graduate.
Fuck.
I can’t even entertain the idea of something good anymore, too afraid of what I’ll lose to balance out the gain.
I scrub a hand down my face, closing my eyes a moment, but I don’t stop walking.
I don’t have any time to spare, and since I made up some bullshit about needing to see a teacher, I’m forced to walk all the way around the staff building and the back of the dining hall just to get to the library, when I could have cut straight across the grass.
It’s better this way, though, or else Brady, one of my best friends, would have given me shit and stated the obvious: that I still need to eat regardless of whatever else I had to do.
Thankfully, Paige took care of that issue for me today.
I hated letting her pay, but I’m also glad I didn’t have to.
A five-dollar protein shake, while all the fuel I need for now, isn’t what I would want to spend the money on when it won’t help me make it through practice later.
No, I’ll have to chomp down a few protein bars the athletic department keeps stocked for us in the practice facility.
It’s that or risk passing out when my new asshole receiver coach, Coach Dolton, drives my ass into the ground, like he seems dead set on doing every day.
I could hardly walk the first couple weeks of practice this summer, he had us doing so many leg drills.
Sighing, I pick up the pace. If I get there early enough, I can get all the copies I need made and put away before my next class. That way I won’t have to draw attention to myself during our team’s mandatory study hall period by borrowing books in front of everyone.
We’re only a little over three weeks into the semester, and I’m already beat mentally, which is why I’m trying to win in the physical department.
If my mind breaks down, I need my body to at least keep standing, but the way things are looking so soon into the year, I don’t know how long that will work.
I could talk to my friends about it. Mason and Brady have been there for me since I was twelve years old, and while I know they would understand, I also know there will be immediate disappointment, too.
Not because of what my life has become but because I hid my problems from them.
I can’t stand the thought of seeing the look of betrayal shining in Mason’s eyes when he looks at me.
Not again. Not after I broke his trust by doing the one thing he asked me not to do growing up—fall for his twin sister.
But we’re past that. I know I fucked up and that he loves me like the family that he and I—that all of our core friend group—have become. And family doesn’t give up on one another.
Or so says the people who have never known the opposite.
Guess it all makes sense now why I let myself become what I hate most: a self-serving asshole with little regard for the others affected by my bullshit.
I swear to god, if I sigh one more time, I’m going to smack myself.
I’m not that guy anymore, I tell myself.
I’m not.
It doesn’t take me long to get everything I need in the library, so I find an empty bench at the edge of campus, climb on top, and pull my phone from my bag.
The second I turn it on, the messages flood in.
Fifteen from my mom, two from her lawyer, and one from my dad.
I open his first.
Dad: I’m so sorry, son. I love you.
My jaw locks tight, but I refuse to get emotional.
It’s been the same message every single day around this time.
And nearly the same one every morning with an added I hope you have a good day, talk to you soon.
Sometimes those messages helped me get out of bed, but other times they’re just a reminder of how fucked-up my current situation really is.
I don’t have the heart to tell him seeing his name every morning on my screen sets off a chain reaction that has me fumbling to focus, not knowing what it is he’s going to say this time, what other bad news could possibly be delivered.
But it seems I’m always waiting for it, that other shoe to drop—and for me it always does.
The only thing I have to hold on to right now is the fact that I’m safe for the time being.
Before, I couldn’t wait for the weeks to pass, for the semester to end, if only to be done with finals and moving on to the next phase or the next season.
Now, every time I go to bed, the next morning, it’s like I’m one day closer to everything falling apart.
I open my email for what must be the hundredth time in the last couple days, and I freeze when the response I’ve been waiting for is staring back at me.
I go to open it, but my thumb hovers over the sender’s name, a sudden wave of panic washing through me. Am I ready to find out the answer?
Delaying will get me nowhere. At least I’ll know.
My eyes skim over the formal response, pausing when I get to the line that matters:
We regret to inform you that we are unable to approve this request.
I close out and let my phone fall to my lap, dropping my face into my hands. The reason why doesn’t matter; I got the answer I was looking for.
Karma: three
Me: fucking zero.
But it’s okay. It’s fine.
If there’s one thing in my life I have control over, at least for the next four months, it’s my performance on the field.
And whether the newest addition to the AU coaching staff likes it or not, I’m going to fucking kill it.
It’s that lone thought that gets me through the rest of the day and allows me to keep my head held high as I walk into the locker room to get gear on for practice.
I will be the best goddamn receiver this school has ever seen.
I have to be.
“Damn, my boy!” Brady whoops, running up and bumping his shoulder pads into mine. “I ain’t never seen you so fucking fast.”
I grin, picking up a towel and swiping it across my head and neck. “It’s those running weights. I’ve been doing two miles in them every morning since we got here.”
“Well, keep that shit up.” Mason joins us, picking up a water bottle and squirting a mouthful, swishing and spitting it out a second later. “You shave any more time off that route, and it won’t matter who’s at safety. You’ll be there before they’ve even read the play.”
“That’s the plan.” I smirk, tugging my bags over my shoulders. “Hey, should we—”
“Harper!” Coach Rogan calls, and we all look his way. “Come see me after showers.”
I give a curt nod. “Yes, Coach.”
I can feel my cheeks turning red, but thankfully, the flush of a hard practice hides it.
“Coach been talking to you privately an awful lot,” Brady hedges. I swear, the guy’s got this knack for noticing things we all hope he wouldn’t.
Not wanting to lie to my friends any more than I have to, I go the silent route, shrugging a shoulder as I move ahead of them.
It’s purposeful, giving them a moment’s privacy to do that thing the three of us normally do, where we can look at each other and know what the other is thinking, only this time it’s about me. I don’t draw attention to it, just keep walking, going straight into the locker room.
Thankfully, some of the other guys start talking about a couple guys from the team we’re playing on Saturday, who have been calling us out on social media, so I’m able to strip down and hit the shower without the two trying to start a conversation I’m not ready to have.
It’s embarrassing enough that my coach is privy to all my dirty laundry. I don’t want to see pity in my boys’ eyes, too.
By the time the others are stepping into the showers, I’m stepping out. I make quick work of getting dressed, just throwing on some AU shorts and a T-shirt with my slides.
Coach’s door is open when I get there, but I make sure to close it behind me, sitting across from him when he motions a hand.
“Will do, thanks again,” he says to whoever he’s on the phone with, giving all of his attention to me with his next breath. “I saw the email you forwarded my way. How you feelin’?”
Shaking my head, I slump back in the chair. “Not sure, honestly. Disappointed, for sure.” But I deserve that. I deserve all of this. “But it’s not like I really thought it would work out. Applying was a stretch as it was, and I knew that before I even filled out the forms.”
He nods. “You’re in a tricky spot. Unfortunately, there isn’t much wiggle room for circumstance when it comes to financial aid. It’s sort of one of those you qualify or you don’t situations.”
“Yeah, the only part I’m annoyed about is not getting even a partial academic scholarship. I shouldn’t have even bothered. Saved the ten bucks it cost to get my transcripts rush printed.”
“Overall, you’ve kept good grades, son, so it was worth a shot. It’s just a competitive game out here when it comes to scholarships, so the slip you had at the end of last year puts those who didn’t ahead of you.”
“Yes, sir, understood, which is why I was expecting the rejection. The annoyance is coming from the fact that I let my personal mess get the best of me.”
He eyes me. “I didn’t say that to call attention to a failure, Chase.
The opposite, in fact. You’ve held a 3.8 the last three years, with the exception of last spring.
You had a tough year last year, and from what I can tell, you’re trying to handle this on your own.
I’m assuming Johnson and Lancaster don’t know you nearly lost your spot on the team this year because of funding?
” he asks, mentioning my friends by the last name.
“They don’t.”
“Can I ask why?”
I clear my throat. “Mason is busy. He has a family now, and Brady is also in a relationship. You saw that last season. They’re in good places in their lives, and I don’t want to bring them down with my…issues.”
“You realize they’re going to be upset when they find out.”
“I don’t see how they would, Coach.” I give him a pointed look. “My grant came through since I scraped by at the 3.0 mark last semester, which covered my tuition fees, and my partial scholarship from the team covered housing. I have nothing to worry about this semester.”
“And next semester?” he pushes, “The one you’re due to graduate after?”
Looking away, I run my tongue along the backs of my teeth. “Still working that out.”
“How many more responses are you waiting on?”
“One, but Mrs. Fredrick”—I mention the adviser he hooked me up with last year when shit first hit the fan—“said that one was the least likely to be approved, so not betting on it either.”
Coach Rogan nods, taking all this information in before leaning forward on his forearms. “Okay, so we know where we are with all that, then.”
“Yes, Coach. Right in the middle of shit creek.”
The man chuckles, and despite the literal dumpster fire that has become my life, my lips twitch.
“Listen, Chase. I know it’s easier said than done, but don’t get discouraged, because the good that seems to have come out of this is your improvement on the field.
” He holds my gaze strong. “You came back a different man, son. If your helmet were on and you weren’t out there with the last name Harper and the number thirteen on your jersey, my eyes would be glued to you, and I’d be asking every person I could find who the hell you were and how I could get you on my roster.
You were good, really good, in fact, but I don’t think I have to tell you that you’re on the path of becoming great.
You are aware you’re a top-five-ranked receiver across the nation, right? ”
I avert my gaze, a tightness winding in my gut. “Yes, sir.”
“Chase.” He waits until I look his way, a knowing look in his eyes. “You should be proud of the work you’ve done. This is a huge accomplishment. You weren’t even on the board last year, and you’re top five just three weeks into the season.”
“Mason is a great quarterback, Coach. He always gets the ball where it needs to go.”
“And none of that would matter if he didn’t have a receiver he could trust.”
“It’s a team effort.”
“Chase,” he snaps. “Accept the damn achievement.”
A low chuckle leaves me, and I shake my head, pulling a deep breath. “Trust me, I’m trying but it’s tough. I don’t want to get complacent. I can’t get complacent. As you said, the season has only begun. A lot could happen in the next ten weeks.”
He knows what I’m saying without saying it—that this is my only chance.
That if I don’t do the nearly impossible and beat out thousands of receivers across the league, earning myself a spot in next year’s NFL draft—a less than 2 percent chance—then I’ll be a washout.
The last three years of my life—last decade, really, if you count all the hard work from youth and high school football days, let alone academics—to get here will have all been for nothing.
After this semester, I’m cooked. Done.
If my name isn’t called come draft day, I’ll have nothing in my life that’s worth a damn.
Maybe then karma will pull its claws from my chest.
Then again, maybe not.
Maybe this is the consequence of that yellow brick road. The result of the U-turn I took, back to the point of the split, choosing the opposite path in the end, the one that not only hurt the girl I never should have allowed myself to get close to but also hurt my best friend.
It’s like I said to Coach: A lot can happen in a single season.
Maybe even more than I’m prepared for.