Chapter 17
Dante
By the time I hit the facility Monday morning, the whispers were everywhere: in the locker room, in the weight room, in the damn hallways between classes.
Coach Sutherland didn’t say much — just that I’d ‘better have my head on straight’ before practice. His way of telling me to shut up, fall in line, and let the story die. He’d said enough the day before.
The fight had already cost me privileges — one step closer to being a problem instead of a leader.
Noah acted like it was any other day. Dustin didn’t. He was waiting for an explanation, and I wanted to give him one — but I wasn’t sure if I’d sound crazy or just confirm it.
I pressed an ice pack harder against my shoulder. The joint was throbbing, and I had taken more pills than I wanted to make the ache dull. I was going to need more, and the fact that I had to ask for more was really pissing me off.
Pads cracked against pads, the sound echoing sharply in the indoor facility. But it was nothing compared to the buzz of noise I felt prickling at the back of my neck. Every set of eyes was tracking me and Noah, like they were waiting for round two to break out in the middle of drills.
Noah and I were pretending this was just another practice.
Only it wasn’t.
I saw it in the way the freshmen stared, wide-eyed, like they couldn’t believe their QB and linebacker had gone toe-to-toe with other teammates.
I felt it in the way the seniors were quieter than usual, their silence saying more than words.
Officially, it was ‘a misunderstanding.’ Unofficially? Nobody bought that line for a second.
When the whistle finally blew for a water break, I yanked off my helmet, sweat dripping onto the bruises on my cheek. Noah dropped down beside me on the bench, shoving a bottle into my hand.
“You good?” he asked, low, casual, like it was just another day.
“Yeah,” I muttered, taking a swig. “You?”
His smirk was sharp. “All good.”
The whistle blew again, pulling us back to the huddle. I ran the next snap clean, my eyes on the defense, but my thoughts stuck in the same loop. Protecting each other was second nature. But around here, silence was starting to feel a hell of a lot like complicity.
Practice dragged on until my lungs burned and sweat blurred my vision, but none of it hit as hard as the weight in my chest.
Noah clapped me on the shoulder, same as he had last night, silent as always. Ride or die. But the longer I held that silence, the more it twisted in my gut.
Here I was — sweat-soaked, aching — and wondering if I should keep my head down or keep digging.
“Spence!” Coach Sutherland screamed across the practice field. “Why in the fuck are you standing there, staring at nothing?”
Fuck my life. “Was waiting for direction,” I yelled back, seeing Coach Hembry’s head snap up with a narrowed glare. “Think I need more ice on my shoulder.”
“Or another beating for your big mouth,” someone muttered as they passed me.
I spun to face them. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”
“Keep it zipped, golden boy,” they taunted as they headed to the locker room.
Golden boy.
I'd heard it a thousand times. From reporters. From fans. From coaches who thought it was a compliment. I'd let it slide off every time, the same way I let everything slide off — smooth, automatic, practiced.
This time it didn't slide.
I caught him before he made it two steps.
My fist connected with his jaw before either of us had registered I'd moved. The crack was loud enough that the nearest guys went still. He staggered and then fell in a heap.
I stood over him, breathing evenly, and waited to see if he had anything else to say.
I stamped down my wave of anger, turning away, and my gaze clashed with Dust’s. He raised an eyebrow, and I gave a resigned nod. I’d tell him after practice, I’d tell them both. This was bigger than me. And I needed them to know it.
“Spence, what is happening?” Coach Sutherland bellowed across the field.
“Absolutely nothing you need to concern yourself with, Coach.”
I waited for the follow-up, but it didn’t come.
By the time Coach blew the final whistle, my shoulder burned, and my patience was gone.
In the locker room, the usual trash talk died fast when I walked in. Helmets hit metal benches, cleats scuffed the floor, but conversation stayed clipped, cautious.
I went for my shower and then a quick PT session for my shoulder; my friends were both dressed and waiting for me. I slammed my locker shut and grabbed my bag. “Let’s go.”
They just followed because they knew I was going to tell them why. Why I’d lost my cool. Why Noah had almost lost his spot not only on the team, but at Wrighton University.
The dorm was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the thud of our bags hitting the floor. Noah went straight for the kitchen, pulling out three waters without asking. Dustin waited until he’d handed them around, then dropped into the chair opposite me at the table, arms folded.
“Alright,” Dust said, calm but cutting. “Talk.”
Noah lowered himself into the seat beside me, cracking the cap off his bottle. “If this is about the fight, I don’t need the why. They mouthed off, you swung, I swung. Done.” He took a long drink. “I’d do it again.”
That was more than I'd expected from someone I'd known half a semester. He’d backed me without knowing the full story — and he deserved better than half-truths.
I braced my forearms on the table, staring at the condensation ring forming under my bottle. “Last week, in the weight room . . . I overheard something.”
Dustin’s eyebrows rose. “Overheard what?”
“A redshirt junior was talking to his spotter, one of the guys from Saturday, I think,” I said to Noah, who grunted. “Think you took him on.”
“Stick to the details,” Dustin snapped, fed up with waiting.
“Alright, calm down. Jesus, impatient much?” I saw his look and carried on. “They were talking about . . . payouts.” I paused, the word tasting dirty. “And keeping it quiet.”
Noah stilled mid-drink, eyes narrowing. Dustin leaned forward, voice low. “Payouts? Like boosts under the table?”
“Like that,” I admitted. “But worse. It sounded like cover-ups. Shit being handled so the NCAA doesn’t get wind.”
The silence stretched, heavy.
Dustin finally let out a slow breath. “And the fight?”
I shrugged, tension coiling tighter in my shoulders. “They brought it up in the bar. Said I should keep my mouth shut about what I heard in the weight room.”
Dust swore under his breath. “So you didn’t start it.”
I looked at Noah, who gave a minimal shrug.
“I might have started it,” I said evenly. “But they shot their mouths off and mentioned Mason Sterling. Remember him?” I asked Dustin, who shook his head. “They said — well, they implied — that players who ask questions get gone. They said they didn’t need the NCAA poking its nose in again.”
“Again? Shit,” Noah mumbled. “Then they all stared at you, all bullshit like.” He looked at Dustin. “You’d have swung for them too.”
I nodded. “I sure as hell wasn’t backing down.”
“Yeah, no doubt.” Dustin rubbed his jaw, thoughtful. “If what you heard is true . . . and their actions afterward definitely imply there’s something to hide, then this isn’t just locker room trash talk. Do you think it’s program-deep?”
“I don’t know, but if I push too hard, I’m the problem,” I muttered. “Someone else told me to keep my mouth shut today. They don’t want golden boy causing waves.”
Noah slammed his bottle down. “Fuck that. You’re not the problem. You said shit about what you heard; them making it a big deal is what’s bringing attention to it.”
The room settled in a thick, loaded quiet. For the first time since this morning, I didn’t feel like I was carrying it alone.
I looked between them both. “You haven’t heard anything like that?” I asked, and both shook their heads. “What about you, Noah? You’re a transfer, there’s nothing you heard at your old school?”
He frowned. “No.” He ran his hand through his hair.
“There's always flexibility," Noah said.
"Guys sail through classes they shouldn't.
Coaches overlook things. That's everywhere.
" He shrugged. "But players getting paid to keep quiet?
Never heard that. Not once." He frowned.
“The program being really well disciplined was one of the reasons I liked that the coaches here were looking at me and I considered it a good fit for me.”
“It is a great fit for you,” Dustin mumbled automatically. “You’re killing it every week,” he added honestly. He stared at me. “What the fuck does ‘payouts’ mean?” He scratched his short beard. “I mean, we won, so they weren’t being paid to lose.”
“They don’t even play,” Noah grumbled. “What the fuck are they doing? Paying them to sit there and keep the bench warm?”
I hesitated, and Noah saw it.
“What else?” he asked. “You know something else.”
“My shoulder’s been . . . troublesome.” I looked between them. “I got Doug last week—”
“Trainer Doug?” Dustin asked, and when I nodded, he grinned. “Doug’s cool.”
Is he?
I plowed on. “So he asked me if he should put my injury in the report.” Both of them looked at me, and I nodded. “Yeah. What do you think that means?”
Dustin sat back. “Why would he not put it on your report?”
“I don’t know.” I looked at Noah. “Any thoughts?”
Noah was staring at the wall. “You were surprised the hockey team lost.”
I swallowed. Of course he’d remember. “Yeah.” I didn’t have a lie prepared. “I thought they were all fit and good to play. But you knew they were carrying injuries. But there’s nothing saying that, anywhere, about injuries.”
“Then why would they play if they weren’t healthy?” Dustin asked. He was rubbing his jaw, his tell when he was uncomfortable.
“I dunno. I feel like I was too close to something, but I’m not sure what that something is . . .”