Next Play (Thorndale Hearts #1)

1. Charlie

Charlie Carnell sent a tight spiral forty yards downfield and the knot between his shoulder blades loosened for the first time since May.

The August sun beat down on the practice field, the heat shimmering off the turf in waves that made the yard markers ripple.

Thorndale College’s navy-and-gold uniforms darkened with sweat as the team ran drills, and the cheerleaders practiced their chants.

None of it mattered. The ball left his hand clean, cutting through the thick Connecticut air, and Booker caught the pass without breaking stride.

Charlie rolled his arm in the socket and lined up the next throw.

This was the only place where the scoreboard didn’t care whose name was on the stadium or which cars sat in the donor lot. Where the only currency that counted was the ball leaving his hand and finding its target. Four months of this. Four months before the rest of his life swallowed him whole.

“Nice arm.” Grant appeared at his elbow, helmet tucked under one arm.

His best friend had used the same dry tone for as long as Charlie had known him, from the first time he had introduced himself while moving into their dorm freshman year, whether he was ordering coffee or announcing the apocalypse. “Shame about the rest of you.”

“Your support means the world to me.”

“I live to serve.” Grant squinted across the field to where a cluster of new players ran drills. “New meat looks promising. The tall one, number twelve. The kid from California?”

Charlie followed his gaze. Wyatt Torres moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d been throwing spirals since birth.

The freshman quarterback had arrived on campus two days ago with a highlight reel that made scouts salivate and a wide-eyed wonder at Thorndale’s ivy-covered buildings that made Charlie feel ancient.

“He’s good.” Charlie watched Wyatt execute a perfect pump fake. “Really good.”

“Better than you?”

The honest answer was probably yes, or would be in a year or two. Wyatt had the raw arm, the hunger, the future stretching out ahead of him unobstructed.

“Different.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Kid’s got a cannon.”

Grant made a noncommittal sound. That was the thing about Grant. He never pushed. He just stood there, close enough that his shoulder guard pressed against Charlie’s, and let the silence carry what questions would have ruined.

Coach Reed’s whistle cut through the afternoon heat. “Bring it in. Water break, then we’re running the new plays.”

Charlie jogged toward the sideline, already reaching for his water bottle. He poured half the water over his head, letting the cold shock away the drowsiness that came from two-a-days in ninety-degree weather.

“Yo, Charlie.” Seb dropped onto the bench beside him, tanned skin gleaming beneath his gold practice jersey. “You see that catch Welland made? Kid’s got hands like—”

Seb stopped mid-sentence, eyes fixed on the parking lot beyond the field.

The drills stopped first. Then the chatter. Forty players on a practice field and the only sound left was the August wind snapping the yard markers.

Charlie’s hand tightened around his water bottle. He didn’t need to look. He already knew.

He turned anyway.

The McLaren 750S was orange. The aggressive, look-at-me orange of a traffic cone or a hunting vest. The luxury car prowled through the parking lot, a predator drawing every eye on the field as the vehicle slid into the spot closest to the stadium entrance.

Behind the car, a black SUV with tinted windows. Behind that, a white van with a satellite dish on the roof.

Charlie’s stomach dropped through the turf.

“Is that—” Seb started.

“Yeah.”

“Did you know he was—”

“No.”

The McLaren’s door swung upward. Brennan Carnell emerged in a suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent, blond hair perfectly styled despite the August humidity, teeth gleaming in an expression Charlie had learned to read before he could read books.

A woman with a camera climbed out of the SUV. Then a man with a boom mic. Then another woman checking her phone and gesturing at someone Charlie couldn’t see.

“Camera crew,” Grant observed flatly. “Always a good sign.”

Charlie breathed. In through the nose. Next play. Out through the mouth. Next play. The mantra that had gotten him through a lifetime of being Brennan Carnell’s son. It would get him through the next five minutes. Keep moving forward.

His father crossed the grass with the camera crew in tow. Coach Reed straightened on the sideline, the way everyone reacted when Brennan Carnell entered a room. Spine a little taller. Chin a little lower. The posture of a man remembering whose name was on the athletic center.

“Charles.” The name carried across the field, warm and proud and pitched for the microphone clipped to his father’s lapel. “There’s my boy.”

Every player on the field turned to stare.

Next play. Charlie’s fingers squeezed the water bottle until the plastic crackled. Next play. Next play.

He stood, forced his mouth into a broad curve, and walked toward his father.

“Dad.” The word sat heavy on his tongue. Too casual, too familiar for what they actually were to each other, but the cameras were rolling. “This is a surprise.”

“Couldn’t miss the first day of my son’s final season.” Brennan clapped him on the shoulder, grip firm enough to leave bruises, and angled them both toward the lens. “How’s the arm? Ready to show these freshmen how it’s done?”

“Feeling good.” Every muscle in his face held its position. After all, he had years of practice at this. “What’s with the cameras?”

“Can’t a father document his son’s senior year?” His father’s eyes were the same blue as Charlie’s, but colder. Always calculating. “Besides, I brought you something. A little start-of-season gift.”

He gestured toward the parking lot. Toward the orange McLaren gleaming like a small sun.

Charlie’s expression didn’t waver. His heartbeat didn’t spike. He’d trained himself too well for visible reactions.

“The 750S.” His father loud enough for the entire team to hear. “Zero to sixty in 2.7 seconds. Eight hundred horsepower. Top speed of two-eighteen.” He dangled a key fob in front of Charlie’s face. “What do you think?”

The camera swung toward Charlie, capturing his reaction. The boom mic hovered just out of frame. His teammates had stopped pretending not to watch.

What did he think?

He thought about his Audi Q7, currently parked in the student lot, with its third-row seats that fit half the offensive line and its trunk that held everyone’s gear on road trips.

He thought about the parking ticket he’d get every single time he left that ridiculous orange spaceship anywhere near campus.

He thought about the way Wyatt Torres was staring at the car with naked wonder, the way the freshman quarterback probably assumed Charlie had a life people dreamed about.

He thought about the fact that this wasn’t a gift. The car was a billboard. A three-hundred-thousand-dollar advertisement for Carnell Automotive Group, driven around Thorndale’s campus by its most visible student.

“It’s incredible,” Charlie maintained the act for the cameras. “Thanks.”

His father’s face sharpened with satisfaction. “Take the keys. We’ll get some footage of you behind the wheel after practice.”

Everything was a content opportunity. His father had three million Instagram followers who tuned in to watch Brennan Carnell give away cars to deserving families, surprise his employees with bonuses, and shower his quarterback son with gifts that proved what a wonderful father he was.

The brand was built on generosity, on warmth, on the image of a self-made billionaire who never forgot where he came from.

Charlie had learned a long time ago that the image was all that mattered.

He took the key fob.

“There we go.” His father beamed at the camera. “Dean Fairchild, good to see you.”

Charlie turned to find the Dean of Students approaching, slightly out of breath and entirely too pleased to see a major donor show up unexpectedly with a camera crew.

Fairchild was a small man with a receding hairline and an ambitious stance, the kind of administrator who remembered exactly how much money Carnell gave to the school annually.

“Brennan, what a wonderful surprise.” The Dean shook his father’s hand with both of his own. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us today.”

“Spontaneous gesture. Senior year only happens once.” His father draped an arm around Charlie’s shoulders, the weight of the embrace familiar as a shackle. “I wanted to make sure my boy starts strong.”

“We’re always delighted to have you on campus. In fact, I was hoping we could discuss the plans for Senior Night. Your continued sponsorship of the program—”

“Of course, of course. Why don’t we step into the shade and you can walk me through the details.”

The two men drifted toward the bleachers, heads bent together, and Charlie let out a slow breath. The camera crew followed his father. The boom mic followed too. For a moment, at least, Charlie was out of frame.

“So.” Seb appeared beside him, eyebrows raised. “That’s your new ride?”

“Apparently.”

“It’s… orange.”

“I noticed.”

“Like, really orange.”

“Sebastian,” Grant grumbled.

“I’m just saying.” Seb’s mouth twitched. “He’s gonna look like a pumpkin driving that thing.”

“Thanks.” Charlie turned away from the camera crew. “That’s helpful.”

“That’s me.” He glanced toward where his father and the Dean were still deep in conversation. “Your dad seems . . . excited about senior year.”

That was one word for the situation. Charlie could think of several others, none of which he’d say while cameras were within earshot.

“He wants to make sure I end on a high note.” Charlie studied his hands. “The scouts coming this season, the exposure, the whole show. Every moment matters to him.”

What he didn’t say: After this season, I stop being useful. After graduation, I’m not the star quarterback anymore. I’m just another Carnell, expected to take my place in the family business and fake more of his life.

Unless.

Unless a miracle happened and he got drafted, which would buy him a few more years of freedom.

Unless his father developed a sudden respect for boundaries, which seemed about as likely as the McLaren learning to fly.

Unless Charlie figured out how to want the things he was supposed to want, instead of the things that kept him awake at night, filling the notes app on his phone with words he’d never show anyone.

“Charles.”

Charlie looked up to find his father beckoning him over, Dean Fairchild hovering at his elbow.

Next play.

He crossed the grass and arranged his features into attentiveness.

“The Dean was just telling me about your course load this semester.” His father rubbed his hands together. “Sounds like you’ve got quite a lineup.”

“Pretty standard senior year stuff.”

“Including that English class?” The tone was light, but his father’s eyes had gone flat.

Charlie forced his muscles to relax, the picture of apathetic. “I can’t avoid the course.”

“Creative writing.” His father made the words sound like a disease. “This can’t be waived?”

“I’m afraid not.” Dean Fairchild offered, with the particular brand of apologetic firmness that administrators used when delivering bad news to major donors.

“We’ve made accommodations where possible, of course, but this is mandated by the curriculum board.

Though I assure you, Mr. Carnell, we’ve placed Charlie in an excellent section.

Professor Whitmore is one of our finest.”

“I’m sure she is.” His father’s amiability didn’t reach his eyes. “Well. Can’t let a little coursework distract from what matters, can we?”

He phrased the statement as a joke.

It wasn’t a joke.

“I’ll manage,” Charlie insisted.

“Of course you will.” His father squeezed his shoulder again, nails digging through the jersey. “You always do.” He released Charlie and turned back to the Dean. “Now, about that Senior Night sponsorship. I have some ideas about the opening ceremony . . .”

They wandered off again, leaving Charlie standing alone on the grass with a key fob to a car he didn’t want and a familiar ache behind his ribs.

“Hey.” Grant materialized at his side. “You okay?”

Charlie looked at the McLaren, blazing orange in the afternoon sun.

At his father, deep in conversation about ceremonies and cameras and all the ways Charlie’s last season could be monetized.

At the freshmen still running drills, Wyatt Torres among them, all young enough to believe that talent and hard work were enough.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m great.”

Grant didn’t call him on the lie. That was why they were friends.

“Coach wants us back on the field. New plays.”

“Right.” Charlie looked at the fob in his hand, where it sat like a small, expensive weight. He crossed to the bench, set the key beside his water bottle, and grabbed his helmet. “Let’s go.”

He jogged back toward his teammates, and if his smile was a little too bright, a little too practiced, no one mentioned the discrepancy. They never did.

That was the thing about being Charlie Carnell. Everyone assumed they knew exactly who he was.

None of them had any idea.