Chapter 6 #2
“Peterson,” he barked the second he saw me.
Nope, scrap piranha. Pissed-off shark.
“Coach,” I said cheerfully, because I liked to live dangerously, and my nerves were close to making me hysterical rather than the upbeat chill I was hoping for.
He didn’t return the smile. Shocker.
“As we talked about yesterday, you’re getting one of our defensive ends. But not Hartley. Mike Whittaker. Freshman. He’s hoping spring training will see him on the starting lineup for next season.”
That was actually interesting. He had something to play for. I scanned the athletes already sweating and training on the field. “Which one is he?”
“Ninety-three.”
“Great,” I said. “Happy to meet him.”
He grunted and jerked his chin toward the field. “He’ll be finishing warm-ups. Don’t distract him.”
I was about to ask how someone could distract another just by existing when Coach Sutherland started walking, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow.
“I expect you to keep up,” he snapped, and I hurried after him. “I don’t like this,” he continued, not caring that I wasn’t beside him. “I don’t like you.”
Feeling’s mutual.
“But the dean wants good publicity. So this is how it’s going to go.
” This time, he looked at me, and I wish he hadn’t.
“You will only be in this building when the team is on the field. You will be supervised at all times. Anything you write will be seen by me first. Any questions you have regarding this program will be answered by me, only by me.”
“Would you like the feature to be on you?” I winced at my snark. Fuck’s sake, Hadley!
He stopped walking, and I had to turn back. I knew he was going to throw me out.
“Smartass comments?” He looked at me coldly. “Keep them to yourself. You might just last the month. Remember what I said.” He pointed toward the twenty-yard line. “Whittaker.” He turned and walked away.
“God above, Hadley, why not give him the rope to hang you with next time?” I said to myself as I headed over to the group of testosterone, currently being yelled at by a small, wiry-haired old man, who they all seemed terrified of.
“How the heck does anyone find this fun?” I asked myself as I approached.
Another coach, and I only knew that because he was wearing a polo shirt, shorts, and a ballcap, squinted at me. “You her?”
“Must be,” I answered, walking toward him. “Hadley Peterson.” I held out my hand, but he didn’t take it.
“Ninety-three,” he yelled right at me, and I jumped.
Jesus, they were all dicks. Why the hell did I think this was a good idea, again?
My eyes shifted past him to the huge wall of muscle jogging toward us. Freshman defensive end, my assigned player.
He was enormous. He was just . . . enormous. He blinked at me. I blinked back. We both looked equally confused.
“You’re . . . Peterson?” he asked slowly, like he wasn’t fully convinced I was real.
“That’s me,” I said, offering a hand. “Mike, right?”
Before he could take it, voices sounded behind him.
Loud. Familiar. Trouble.
Dustin Slater came into my line of sight, with the QB right behind him. They were laughing about something — until they saw me.
The laughter stopped. Their expressions changed quickly. Dante Spence’s to one of curiosity, and Dustin’s to pure oh-hell-to-the-no horror. He looked like he’d just choked on air.
Dante stepped forward, his eyes narrowed like I’d somehow personally inconvenienced him by being there. Before he could speak, Dustin spoke.
“Why are you here?” Dustin asked flatly.
The coach next to me didn’t even bother to hide his sigh. “She’s here for some profile piece. Cleared by the head coach and the dean.”
“Journalism?” Dante asked me, his gaze narrowing even more. “You have permission to be here?”
Yeah, buddy, I didn’t think I’d pull it off either.
“Hi, I’m Hadley Peterson.” I extended my hand, and the QB shook it. “And you’re the winning quarterback.” Ugh, shoot me now, my cheeks were going to hurt if I kept fake smiling.
“Yeah, Dante Spence.” His grip was strong, but not overly so; he didn’t try to crush it like some guys did. It was firm and warm, and not offensive.
“So . . .” Dante looked at the freshman. “What’s the story?”
A perfectly innocent question, face clear of suspicion, but it was his eyes that analyzed me like a puzzle. I knew he was going to be a problem — I could feel it in my gut.
“I’m doing a feature review for my practicum, and Mike here is my . . .” I floundered for a moment. “Star.”
Dustin’s brows raised, Dante smiled briefly, and the coach next to me snorted.
“Uh . . . I’m not a star,” Mike said, shuffling his massive feet. “I’m not on the first team.”
“But you want to be, right?” I asked him.
He was so tall and broad, but when I looked closer, he looked so young.
I felt bad for him. “Spring training gives you the chance, right?” That was right, wasn’t it?
He nodded, and inwardly, I high-fived myself.
“And that’s my feature. While you work on that, and all the other things you need to do as a student, we see the man behind the stats. ”
“And a freshman second-team defense is a fresh take on that,” Dante murmured.
I looked at him in surprise, and he half shrugged.
“It’s not a unique storyline,” he said with no malice, and I accepted he meant no insult.
“The freshman angle, spring training, that’s not overly done.
Interesting.” He grinned at Mike and slapped him on the back. “Should be fun, right?”
Mike looked between us and then at his coach, who still gave off ‘I’m a dick’ vibes. “Uh . . . yeah. I’m not sure what you want me to do,” he admitted.
“Just answer her damn questions,” the coach snapped. Then he turned to me, glared so sharply it could cut glass, and pointed a warning finger. “Stay. With. Him.” Another jab toward the defensive end. “No wandering. No snooping. No bothering any other player.”
I put my hands up, mock innocent. “I’m only here for Mike, promise.”
His eye twitched. “I swear—”
“Do you need to interview anyone else?” Dante cut in smoothly. So smooth. “Will it affect Mike’s schedule? Where do you need access to?”
“I’ll be shadowing Mike,” I threw the big guy a smile. Genuine this time. “I want it to be organic and as fluid as possible. I’ll pick up what I need as we go.”
“Shadowing?” Dustin asked. “Where he goes, you go?”
I nodded. Mike turned bright red. “The locker rooms?” he blurted.
I laughed, and even Mr. Cool-and-Calm QB smirked at the freshman’s question. “No, it’s not that kind of feature.”
Noah Matthews appeared at Dustin’s shoulder. He looked surprised to see me, but it was gone briefly. “Coach,” he said, voice warm and gravelly. “Coach Holt needs you. Second-team scrimmage setup.”
“That’s me,” Mike mumbled to me as the coach hurried off muttering something that sounded suspiciously like my name paired with a string of profanity.
“Right.” I looked at him. “Um, I’ll wait here?”
“Okay.” He grinned at me. “Nice to meet you, I didn’t say it.”
“You too.” He was sweet and young. Hopefully, they hadn’t corrupted him yet. I watched him run over to the scrimmage, whatever that was, and then looked away when I saw a cluster of coaches watching me.
The unholy trio stared back at me.
“Start talking,” Dustin growled.