Forever Reckless (Fourth and Forever #1)

Chapter 1

Dante

Two weeks after winning the national championship, my shoulder still hurt like a bitch.

The February air carried a damp chill that settled into your bones, but practice still left sweat running down the back of my neck. My breath puffed white in the cool air as I hooked my helmet under one arm. The turf still slick from last night’s rain smelled faintly of rubber and wet grass.

Practice was supposed to be lighter now — but the coaches were still screaming as we ran two-minute drills — and my muscles were burning.

The way it was supposed to be.

The stadium sat quiet above the field, empty seats waiting. Next season they'd be full again. I'd make sure of it.

We’d lifted the trophy under lights a thousand miles from here, and confetti had stuck to the sweat on my face, but even then, I was ready for the next season.

My shoulder wasn’t. My shoulder was ready for summer vacation, and a bucket of cold beer.

We’d brought it home. National champions. Instead of celebrating, I was focused on bringing my A-game. A lot of guys peaked in junior year. I wasn't going to be one of them.

I wanted the repeat.

I would be remembered.

I would be the number one Draft pick.

I wasn’t there yet. The advisory board feedback had come in January. The projection for the Draft was good. But not top-five good.

I’d wait.

Coaches clapped me on the shoulder as I headed toward the locker room, congratulating me on a good practice.

Like me, they were ready to move on from the win and focus on spring training.

Freshmen trailed behind, still a little in awe, like walking next to the quarterback might rub off some of his ‘magic.’

I gave them the easy grin. A nod here, a ‘good work today’ there — smooth, automatic.

Golden boy.

Face of the program.

Knows how to play the game, on and off the field.

The locker room buzzed — the slap of palms, the scrape of cleats on tile, offseason banter bouncing off the walls. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and turf.

I moved through it at my own pace, occasionally sharing a quick hand slap or a short laugh, allowing the energy to pass without letting it sweep me up.

The celebration after winning was overwhelming — parades, interviews, endless photo sessions — all eager to get a piece of us while we were still riding high.

But then reality slowly sank in. Classes, winter conditioning, media days that now felt repetitive — every mic pushed in my face asking the same question: “Can you do a repeat?”

What I wanted to say was take a breath and relax. Had I said that?

No, because that would be media suicide.

I gave them exactly what they wanted — a grin for the cameras, a shrug that said anything’s possible. “If we play well, why not?” Non-committal enough to be safe, confident enough to make headlines.

I was their star, but I also had a reputation for being cool. Unflappable under pressure. Measured.

“Hey, Spence.”

I turned to Hernandez, one of the offensive linemen. “Yeah?”

“You came out of the pocket too many times today. You’re not a runner like Santo.”

I sniffed once and looked down at my hands.

“I’m not like Jett Santo,” I agreed. “He hasn’t won the national championship.

” I looked up and flashed my signature smile.

“I came out of the pocket because you aren’t protecting my pocket, and Noah Matthews is a fucking machine who likes to break the bones of QBs and he doesn’t give a shit it’s offseason, or the fact I’m his teammate.

” I glanced over at my roommate, who was sitting on a bench with a towel over his shoulder.

He didn’t look Hernandez’s way. “So do your fucking job, stop the defense, and give me time to throw the fucking ball.”

Hernandez shook his head and rolled his eyes slightly. “Shit, Dante, I was joking.”

“Is practice a joke to you?” I asked coolly. “Tighten the pocket protection tomorrow, or we’ll all be looking at your protection stats. Spring training is eight weeks away. We go in sharp, we come out sharper.”

I glanced around the locker room. More than one of my teammates was listening to me.

Their QB.

Their leader on the field.

“The media keep asking me if we can do a repeat.” I turned slowly to look at my teammates. “I say fuck yeah we can!”

The locker room erupted into cheers and chaos, and I turned to my locker, ready for my shower. Job done. They needed to hear it. I needed them to hear me say it. Same thing, different reasons.

Coach Sutherland’s voice cut through the noise, barking at a freshman for too many penalties. I rolled my neck, slow and deliberate, and started peeling off my jersey. The fabric clung to my shoulders, sticking before it let go.

“Spence,” Coach Sutherland called out, “when you’re done with the shower, hit the sauna for fifteen.”

I turned just enough to meet his eyes, one eyebrow lifting. “I’m already sweating through winter practice, now you want me to cook?”

A few guys laughed. My tone was dry, but my posture stayed loose — the kind of easy stance that said I wasn’t challenging him . . . not exactly.

Bobby Ray Sutherland gave me the look — the one that said, I like you, son, but you’re getting benched if you keep it up.

I spread my hands in mock surrender, the ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth. “Fine. Fifteen it is.”

He turned and started ripping into Hartley, our defensive end.

“It’s like you want him to throw something at you,” Dustin said from the bench beside me, his voice calm enough to carry more weight than yelling ever could.

Dust was a real weapon on this offense. He had stats that made scouts sweat. So did I. We'd both go early — different rounds, maybe, but both early.

He was built for the spotlight — broad shoulders, light brown skin, lean muscle, dark hair cropped close at the sides, and a sharp beard framing a face that always looked camera-ready.

Even post-practice, with his black workout shirt clinging to him and his forearms resting on his knees, he had that thing.

The kind of presence that made people stop talking when he looked at them.

Sharp-eyed and smooth-talking, he said a lot in press conferences without actually saying anything. The one guy in this room I'd told anything real to. Which wasn't the same as trust, but it was close.

“Sauna?” he asked, glancing sideways at me with that small, knowing smirk.

“Apparently.” I rolled my head on my shoulders. “Like fifteen minutes is going to be enough to ease my aches.”

“You staying for thirty?” he asked with a grin.

“You know it.” I let out a sigh as I sat down beside him.

I tipped my head back against the wall, letting it all soak in. The game was the only thing that made sense. Everything else was noise.

Once I got drafted, it would all be worth it — every five a.m. start, every ice bath, every bruised rib, and every trip to the physical therapist. Then I’d do the exact same thing every day of my pro career. Only difference? They’d finally be paying me to do it.

“Spence! I don’t see you heading to that sauna.”

“Good to see you’ve still got twenty-twenty vision, Coach.” I saw his glare as I stood. “I’m going to regret that in the morning. You know, that’s what Slater said to the girl in his bed last night.” The locker room filled with laughter and catcalls for my roommate.

Coach Sutherland’s glare landed on Dustin. “Slater, you sitting there looking pretty, or are you moving?”

“I’m moving, you grumpy old bastard,” Dustin muttered under his breath, then louder, “Yes, Coach!”

“You two are so slow, it’s like you want me to shower you!” He was already halfway to his office.

Well, no one needed that visual.

The mistake most people made was thinking the offseason changed anything.

Season over, championship won, cameras gone — some guys relaxed into it. Thought the structure loosened. Thought the order of things became negotiable when there was no scoreboard to clarify it.

If they were serious about playing football past college, they would be mistaken with that thought.

There were currently three of them at the back of the locker room. Offensive linemen, all of them, big enough to think size equated to authority.

They'd been running their mouths for ten minutes about the new conditioning schedule, Coach's decisions in the final game, and who'd earned what and who hadn't. The kind of talk that started small and needed to be addressed before it became a problem.

Amid the jokes and the general locker room buzz, they didn’t think anyone was listening to them.

I didn't look at them. I just turned my head slightly, and Dustin stopped whatever he was about to say and cocked his head. Both of us listened.

Dustin looked at me, and I nodded, but he was already moving. He walked over and stopped close enough to be part of their conversation without being invited. He said something I didn't catch that made one of them laugh.

Then he said something else that made the laughter stop.

I watched the shift happen. The mood changed without anyone able to pinpoint exactly when.

Dustin had a gift for that — for making people suddenly aware they’d miscalculated something, without being able to say what.

Three sentences, and the biggest of the three was rethinking everything he’d said since waking up this morning.

Deciding whether the thing he'd been about to say next was actually worth saying.

Dustin turned and met my gaze. I met each of theirs.

No threats. No confrontations.

Noah hadn’t moved from his locker. He’d been there the whole time, head down, carefully peeling the tape off his wrists with the focused patience of a man who had nowhere else to be and no reason to hurry.

But I’d seen it — the moment he looked up.

Just once. As the loudest of the three, he was the one who’d been doing most of the talking. One look, steady, flat, and completely empty of anything that could be called hostility, yet somehow communicating the precise opposite.

The loud one stopped talking first.