Chapter 3
Dante
The weight room smelled like metal and sweat, the same as it had every morning since I got here. Six a.m., music pounding loud enough that nobody could talk. That was the point of it, and to wake us up.
Strength Coach Merriman had us in stations — Olympic lifts first, then sled pushes, then resistance bands until my shoulders burned.
The defensive linemen grunted like they were pushing trucks.
I looked over at Noah, who looked like he was in his own personal hell, and the fight between him and the equipment was a fight to the death.
Better he got it out on the sled than on me later.
I dropped into my squat, drove the bar up, and set it down with a clang that got Merriman’s nod of approval, even though my shoulder was screaming in protest.
“Good,” he said. “Do it again.”
Dustin slid into the station beside me, sweat already dripping off his jaw. “Pretty sure they’re just trying to kill us until spring ball starts.”
“Yeah, but it’s a slow death,” I said, bracing for another rep. “Maybe that’s more merciful.”
Dust snorted. “Pretty sure death is death, so it sucks.” He stretched out. “I’ve too many women’s beds to warm still.”
“There can’t be many left,” I muttered before I dropped into the squat. Fuck, that hurt.
“Asshole.”
By seven-thirty, we’d moved to the indoor turf.
It was just as cold in here as it was outside; my breath was fogging with every burst of movement, but at least it kept the rain off us.
We ran cone drills until my legs burned, then footwork ladders until they went numb.
Receivers joined us for timing routes — short drops, quick releases, nothing fancy.
Dustin ran a perfect out, caught my throw like it was nothing. “Arm still works,” he said, jogging back.
“Always does.” I flexed my fingers, shaking out the sting, knowing I’d need a painkiller before midday.
The orange cylinder that held eleven pills inside was tucked safely in my sock drawer, and I was already thinking of the excuse to go to the dorm after practice.
My mind wandered, as it did a lot, on whether I should just ask the physiotherapists here, but they’d have to mark it.
They’d have to put it in my file that my shoulder was maybe worse than I thought it was, that I needed painkillers to help me, or worse, surgery.
I knew that college football players carrying injuries into the Draft dropped from potential first-round picks to later rounds, and I was determined to be a first-round pick.
A shout snapped me out of my thoughts, and I turned the ball in my hand. My shoulder would be okay. It was just a knock that would need some ice packs and deep tissue massages. I’d had worse.
The ball felt slick in the cold, but I wasn’t about to start wearing gloves. Quarterbacks who wore gloves in February got mocked until spring.
After practice was film study just for the quarterbacks. Coach cued up the championship tape again, like we hadn’t all memorized every frame. Sutherland kept freezing the screen mid-play, dissecting my arm angle, my release, my eyes.
“You’re staring down the receiver here, Spence.”
“I completed the pass,” I said.
“You stare like that in the NFL, their defense will eat you — and every play you make — alive.”
I nodded like I took it to heart. Truth?
I’d heard it all before. The big plays were burned into my brain.
The small mistakes? I could live with those.
The throw wasn't the play. The throw was the right call.
Dust was open, and nobody else was going to get that ball in the end zone. Coach could live with it.
After a shower and a quick rundown with the PT about the rest of the week, it was class time. Full ride, same as every guy on the roster — that’s how D1 worked. Housing, food, books, the degree itself, all in exchange for bleeding for the program and hopefully bringing home hardware.
Didn’t mean the classes didn’t matter. I still wanted that degree. Football was my life, but even if you made it pro, nothing was guaranteed. Blow out a knee, get cut after your rookie year — one bad break and you’re done.
When that day came — because it did, for everyone — I wasn’t about to be the guy with nothing but highlight reels to show for it. Blown-out knees ended careers. Degrees didn't.
People passed me, yawning, like ten in the morning was too early. I had been up and working for four hours. Not counting the forty minutes I spent on my own before training even started at six.
I slid into my seat with two minutes to spare and pulled my laptop out of my bag. Dustin took his seat just as the lights went down and the professor started talking.
“You’re late,” I muttered, slouching down in my seat more.
“Got waylaid between classes.” He shot me a grin. He didn’t have film after morning workouts postseason, and Dust took a nine o’clock class elective. He was brainy as shit, and while he was provided tutors due to the athletic program, he rarely needed them.
I didn’t usually need them either, but with us reaching the championship game, and it being played during winter break, I hadn’t had any time to catch up on homework.
But it still pissed me off that I had let my grades slip. I’d told myself I was still in my ‘settling in’ phase since classes started a few weeks ago, but the Academic Administration obviously wasn’t taking any chances.
“You’re not asking me what waylaid me?” Dust asked from the corner of his mouth.
“Nope,” I murmured back. “I’m guessing you have her number, though.”
“Damn straight,” Dustin said, and I could hear his smugness without having to even look at him.
I shook my head, but the two of us settled down and paid attention. I didn’t need to let my grades slip in all my classes.
The morning went quickly; it always did.
Which is why my feet were a little slower in getting me to my next class before lunch.
Education Policy and Governance. My least favorite hour of the week.
The professor’s voice was like static, my notes a half-assed scatter of keywords that made no sense without the context.
I'd picked it expecting an easy A. It wasn't.
By two, I was back in the athletic wing, eating lunch and then warming up.
Three o’clock meant seven-on-seven drills — no pads, no real contact, just routes and coverages.
I lived for this part. Dustin caught everything I threw his way, talking trash to the defensive line with every touchdown, and I saw Noah saying nothing, but I also knew he was going to switch positions and shut Dust down soon.
Just before five, I was easing into an ice bath that made my teeth chatter. My throwing shoulder was feeling even more tender — nothing that would keep me off the field, but enough to make me wince when the trainer dug into it.
“You gonna be ready for spring ball?” he asked.
“I’m ready now,” I said, and he said nothing as I schooled my face from the twinge as he dug his fingers into my muscle.
I distracted myself from the gnawing ache as he worked, and the distraction was in the form of one Savannah Cole.
The dean’s daughter. I hadn’t known who she was until later — why hadn’t she led with it? It was interesting that she hadn’t. Most people in her position would.
She was sharper than she looked. Trained in public politeness, but the dry edge under it was real. She had the same scowl her father wore, differently used. I’d need to be careful about what I said around her.
I was already being careful; now I’d need to be more careful.
She was definitely pretty. I didn’t like that I kept coming back to that.
She looked good, but I suspected that under the pretty packaging, she was as dull as her father.
She'd held my attention for a beat. I wasn't sure why. If she did it again, I’d need to find out.
“You’re good, Spence,” the trainer said, bringing me out of my thoughts.
“Thanks.”
That was followed by an hour of film study. At six, when most of the guys hit the dining hall, I headed for the academic center. I had time to squeeze in some studying before meeting Savannah.
I half-heartedly flicked through an assignment for a sports management class that I could write in my sleep, and then went on to social media just to pass the time.
An image of Jett Santo wasn’t what I wanted to see when I opened my feed. I didn't waste energy on rivalries I couldn't win. Jett Santo, though — Jett was worth expending energy on.
I really didn’t like the so-called Devils. Ash was okay, I corrected myself. But the twins? Gray was a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off, and Jett was a jerk.
Sure, he could throw a ball, and in truth, when we declared for the Draft at the same time, it would be a contest between which one of us got drafted first, which the media had already started to speculate on. But him, as a person, yeah . . . I just didn’t like him.
Ava, Jett’s girlfriend, and far too good for the likes of him, I really liked.
She loved football, not in an ‘I’m saying this to seem cool and interesting’ way; her enthusiasm for stats would rival any player’s — hell, I bet she knew more about some players than they knew about themselves.
The few times I’d met her at parties, I’d enjoyed our conversations.
They’d all been about football, and she had no agenda for making it more; she was just enthusiastic about the game.
It had never been more than just talking.
Plus, at the time I’d had a girlfriend, but we broke up at the start of last semester. I hadn't thought about her since she cheated.
The first time I saw Ava after the breakup was at a party on Cardinal Saints’ campus. Seeing Ava was a nice surprise, but realizing how close Jett stood to her was not.
I'd fucked with Jett at the party because I could. Jett had marked Ava like he owned her, and I wanted to see if Jett would bite.
Jett had bitten.
A few days later, I’d posted a picture of a blonde in a Lions shirt just to twist the knife.
Worth it.
When I saw him next time on the field, he’d been very quick to tell me Ava was his.
It’d made me laugh. That had only pissed him off more, and I’d laughed harder when I saw the anger in his black stare.
My luck with women wasn’t good lately, but any chance to piss a Santo off, I wasn’t going to let it pass me by.
I closed the app and checked the time. Savannah had sent an email last night, and that’s when I realized who she was.
Savannah Cole.
When I put two and two together, the dress she’d been wearing made more sense.
None of the guys on the football team had been tutored by her, but then I was probably the only one stupid enough to do an elective on Education Policy and Governance. It had sounded quirky and interesting, but it was instead dry and boring.
I rolled my neck. I wouldn’t need much help; I was confident I could pick this subject up in only a few sessions.
I packed my stuff up and stepped out into the cool February air, thinking about training tomorrow, the throws, and the plays. The things I could control.
Meeting room C. This time, I had time to check the library directory and found the room with no assistance. It was on the first floor, and when I opened the door, Savannah was already there.
“Hey,” I greeted as I walked in, closing the door behind me, flashing her my signature smile.
She looked up and gave me a tight smile in return. “Hey, I’m just setting up,” she said, and I saw her surreptitiously look at her watch.
“I’m early,” I said, knowing I should have let it go, but something about her checking the time just irked me.
Savannah gave me that same flat smile again and returned her attention to the three notebooks, the laptop, and the two different-colored pens she pulled out of her purse.
“That’s a lot of paper.” When she looked up, I tapped the back of my laptop as I opened it. “I take my notes on this.”
Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but I saw it. “I find writing it down on paper is a better method of learning.”
“For you.”
She held my stare. “It’s our first session. Are you going to challenge me on everything?”
I liked her ‘cut to the chase’ approach, but I wanted to see how far I could push her. “I wasn’t aware I was challenging you at all.”
Savannah pulled her ponytail over her shoulder, her fingers stroking through the ends twice, and I wondered if that was a tell. I made it my business to read people — some were easier than others.
“You challenged me on the time—”
“You mean for meeting now? Seven? Not so much a challenge as an adjustment to a time that was convenient for both of us.”
“You were free at six,” she replied coolly. “I checked your schedule this morning.”
“I’d have sent it last night if you’d asked.”
There was that smile again. Practiced. False. I wore my own too many times not to recognize it on others.
“Why don’t you indulge me, keep your mind open, and let’s see how it goes.” She linked her fingers together as they rested in front of her.
Another tell.
I gave her the same plastic smile she gave me. “Fine, but if you wanted to drag our time together out, I suggest next time, just ask for my number.”
She slid her pen across the page without looking up. “Trust me, Spence, if I wanted your number, you’d already know.” She glanced down at her hands and then up at me again. “I don’t.”
I laughed — low. “Careful, Cole. Keep talking like that, and I might think you actually like me.”
“That’s not going to be a problem,” she said, tone crisp, but her eyes flickered — just enough for me to wonder if she was lying. That half second was all it took for me to file it away for later.
I leaned back in my chair, stretching my legs under the table until my foot almost brushed hers. “Guess we’ll see.”
She didn’t move back. Didn’t flinch. Just opened her notebook, clicked her pen, and said, “Page forty-seven. Let’s start there.”
It wasn’t much, but in my playbook, holding your ground was the first sign you were both in the game.