Chapter 4
I scan the field as my teammates try to slip through our defense. Three seconds. That’s all I need. A break for three seconds, and then I can get the ball out.
One. I plant my feet.
Two. I position my body.
Three. I release.
The ball spirals through the air, and my eyes never leave the tight rotation as it cuts through the darkening sky. Reese has his arms out, his fingers spread, and he catches the ball without breaking stride.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Summers bellows from the sidelines. “Now that’s a goddamn throw, Evans!”
I roll my shoulder, hiding a wince. An hour into practice, and my arm's starting to feel like overcooked spaghetti, but I'd rather die than show it. The NFL scouts expected at our next game don't give a shit about tired muscles, which means I can’t either.
“You good?” Reese jogs back, tossing me the ball as he takes me in.
“Never better,” I lie, catching it and spinning it in my hands.
Reese doesn't push it. That's what I appreciate about him. He sees everything and says only what needs to be said—unlike some of my other teammates.
“If your balls were any prettier, I'd marry them!” Sebi shouts from across the field, his hands cupped around his mouth. A few players laugh, and Coach Summers shoots him a glare that would make most men wither into nothingness. Not Sebi, though. The guy's immune to shame.
“Save the marriage proposal for someone who'll say yes,” I call back, earning me a dramatic clutch of his chest.
“You're breaking my heart, Evans,” Sebi pouts, dropping to one knee on the practice field. “I thought what we had was special.”
Before I can respond, Mason shoulders past Sebi with his helmet in hand, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the cooling evening air. The practice defense is setting up for another drill, waiting for us to get our act together.
“If you two are done with your love story,” he says, eyes locked on me, “some of us are trying to run actual practice plays here.”
There's no real heat in his words; that’s just the way Mason is. The guy’s a machine and only has one setting. Football.
“Sorry, did I hurt your feelings by not throwing to you that time?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Need some attention during practice?”
Mason doesn’t flinch. “Just need a quarterback who can keep up with me on these drills.”
“You got it,” I fire back, already scanning the practice field, planning the next play. “Run the cross route again, but this time, I want you cutting sharper at the break. The practice defense is reading you.”
“Noted,” he says, adjusting his helmet.
I nod, about to call the next play, but then I see her.
Honey's walking along the edge of the stands, looking for a place to sit, and I silently thank everything holy that I’m wearing my compression shorts right now.
This. Fucking. Girl.
She’s wearing my jersey, but not just any jersey. My South Point Prep jersey. The one from high school. The one that screams she knows me more intimately than any of the other girls out here watching.
It’s faded, oversized, and mine.
“Earth to Evans,” Dax snaps his fingers in front of my face. “You with us or are we running this drill without you?” His hand comes closer, to the point where I think that he might slap me, which finally breaks me out of the spell.
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes still locked on her, amused that she’s so hot, I almost forgot how to breathe. “Just give me a second.”
Without acknowledging any of my teammates, I jog toward the sideline, ignoring Coach’s confused look.
“Honeycomb!” I call out, stopping at the edge of the field. She smiles brightly when she sees me waving frantically. “You made it.”
Biting her bottom lip, she leans against the railing. “I said I would, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” I drawl out, taking her in. Green and gold—I haven’t seen that combo on her since the last day of high school, and I forgot how much I fucking love it.
“And you’re wearing my jersey.” I don’t even bother to hide my satisfaction because this jersey doesn’t just say she owns me; it makes it clear she’s owned me since high school.
And probably for the rest of my life, if she’d agree.
Catching my look, she rolls her eyes and leans against the railing. “I know that look. You’re letting this go to your head.”
“Can’t help it. I’m just remembering the last time I saw you in it. You had no—”
“Evans!” Coach's voice booms across the field. “This isn't social hour! Get your ass back in formation!”
“Duty calls,” I tell Honey with a wink and a salute. “Stick around after? I want to see you properly.”
“I'll be here,” she promises.
I jog back to the huddle, where Sebi is holding onto a reluctant Mason, making kissy faces.
“Look who finally convinced his girl to come to practice,” Dax says, craning his neck to look at the stands. “First time this season, right? Damn, Evans. I'd be distracted too if she looked at me like that.”
I shoot him a warning glare. “Eyes on the playbook, not my girl. She has no interest in you, I promise.”
“If we could focus on football for five minutes,” Mason cuts in, pushing Sebi off him, “that would be great. We've got scouts coming next week, in case anyone forgot.”
“Relax, Mason,” Sebi says, slapping him on the back. “It’s just a game, remember? It’s supposed to be fun.”
Mason shrugs him off. “Games with million-dollar contracts on the line. Not all of us can rely on NIL deals to keep us afloat until we have the chance to get drafted.”
“Always the life of the party,” Dax mutters.
I clap my hands, bringing everyone's attention back to me. “All right, enough. Mason's right—we need to focus. Let's run the split formation. Reese and Dax wide, Sebi in the slot. Mason, you're blocking. On my count.”
As we break the huddle, I can’t help but glance back at Honey. She’s high up in the bleachers, an entire section away from the cheerleaders and groupies who come to watch our practice, but all of their eyes are on her.
Why wouldn’t they be?
Honey’s exceptional, and she doesn’t even have to try to be the center of attention. It just happens around her.
I push away the fatigue, wanting to impress my girl.
“Set!” I call out, scanning the defense. “Red 42! Red 42! Hut!”
The ball slaps into my hands, and the world narrows to the field, the players, the patterns we've drilled a thousand times. I drop back, scanning for an opening, and find Dax breaking free down the sideline.
I launch the ball in a perfect spiral that he catches in his stride. He sprints the remaining twenty yards to the end zone before raising the ball triumphantly above his head.
“That's how it's done!” he shouts, spiking the ball with enough force to make it bounce higher than his head.
“Nice throw,” Reese says quietly as we jog back to position.
“Nice blocking,” I tell Mason, who gives me a curt nod in response.
We run the play again, and again, until Coach is satisfied we've got it down. By the time he blows the whistle ending practice, my shoulder is throbbing and sweat's pouring down my face, but I feel good. Ready. We're going to destroy Covey U next weekend.
“Hit the showers!” Coach calls out. “Rest up. I want everyone fresh for tomorrow's film session.”
As the team heads to the locker room, I linger behind, waiting for Honey to make her way down the stands. Pulling off my helmet, I run a hand through my sweat-drenched hair, hoping I look presentable.
“Ooh. Honey’s coming over,” Sebi announces, elbowing me as he walks past. Sadly, he doesn’t keep going. He stands right beside me. “Quick, how’s my hair?” he asks Reese and Dax, who also stop.
“Tragic, as always,” Dax answers.
Sebi lets out a disgruntled groan. “Someone a little jealous that I got more attention from our QB today than you?” he counters, flicking his sweat-soaked curls in Dax’s direction.
Dax scoffs, dodging the sprinkles of water like a pro. “In what universe?”
“The one where—”
“Guys,” I interrupt, “can you not be idiots for five minutes? My girl is coming over.”
“That's a big ask for them,” Mason joins in, his equipment bag already slung over his shoulder. Of course he was the first in the shower and already ready to leave. He’s probably going home to eat some microchip boards for dinner.
Sebi clutches his chest. “I'm wounded. Truly.”
When Honey reaches us, she offers a small smile, but I can tell by the way she’s clutching the hem of my jersey that she’s a little nervous.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes moving from me to my teammates and back again.
“Hey yourself.” I pull her into a one-armed hug, not caring about my sweat-soaked practice uniform. “Look who I managed to drag out to practice, guys.”
“Ah, she lives!” Dax exclaims dramatically, clutching his chest. “The vanishing girlfriend has returned. I was this close to putting your face on a milk carton.”
Honey rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. “I've missed your humility, Dax.”
“Ah, but I missed your face so much, fair maiden,” Sebi announces, dropping to one knee in front of Honey, “that I composed sonnets about your return. I was worried our slightly unhinged quarterback had locked you in a tower somewhere.”
Honey laughs, the sound making my chest tight. This. This is how I want her to feel every day. Like she belongs here. “Sorry to disappoint. I’ve just been busy with classes.”
Sebi takes her hand and kisses it theatrically. “The team's morale is restored!”
I snatch her hand back, giving Sebi a playful shove. “Back off, Seb. She’s mine.”
“Hey, you can't blame a guy for trying,” he says with an exaggerated wink.
“Good to see you again, Honey,” Mason says with a curt nod. “Maybe now Zach will stop checking the stands every five minutes during practice.”
“I do not—” I start to protest, but everyone's laughter cuts me off.
Honey's smiling wider now, some of her nervousness fading. “I had no idea I was such a distraction.”