Connor #2
We reset. This time Vega gets a better jump, his hands higher on my frame, and I can’t create the separation I need. The pass sails past me, incomplete.
Vega doesn’t say anything. Just jogs back to the line and waits.
“Knox, you’re dipping your shoulder before you commit,” Wilson calls out. “Telegraph less. Sell it better.”
I nod, irritated that he caught it. More irritated that Vega probably read it before Wilson said anything.
We go again. And again. Slants, outs, comebacks, posts. Every route in the book, and Wilson rotates through them without mercy. Davies keeps firing passes, his arm probably about to fall off by the end of this, but he doesn’t complain.
I beat Vega on a comeback route, the ball hitting my hands right as I turn, and I can’t help myself. Nobody’s officially counting reps out here, but I’ve been running a tally in my head, and it’s going my way. “That’s two for me, one for you. You keeping score, or should I?”
Vega glances at me. “I didn’t realize we were counting.”
“We’re always counting.”
Vega’s not buying it. “We’ve run thirty-odd reps. You’ve got it two to one.”
“I only count the standout reps.”
“Standout reps.” He presses his mouth flat, as if he’s deciding not to smile. “Alright. Then let’s make it interesting.”
The next rep, he’s all over me. Press coverage, tight and aggressive, his hands jamming into my chest before I can even think about moving. I fight through it, twisting my body to create an inch of space, and the ball’s there. I catch it, but barely.
“That’s two and two,” Vega says as we reset.
I grin at him. “You’re getting awfully touchy, Vega. Should I be flattered?”
“Just helping you get better, Boy Scout.”
“I don’t need help. I’m already better than you.”
He looks at me for a long second and then just says, “We’ll see.”
Wilson keeps barking corrections. My footwork’s sloppy on the break. Vega’s hips are opening too early on deep routes. We take the criticism without argument, because what’s the point? Wilson’s right.
The sun climbs higher, the heat pressing down on us. Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. My legs are starting to burn, that deep ache that comes from explosive movement over and over without rest. But I’m not about to be the first one to ask for a break.
Vega looks just as wrecked. His shirt clings to his back, dark with sweat, and his breathing’s heavier now. But he doesn’t slow down or ease up. Every rep, he’s right there, pressing me, challenging me, refusing to give an inch.
I catch a glimpse of Brooks and McKenna on the far side of the field. They’ve stopped pretending they’re not watching. Brooks has his hands on his hips, head tilted, clearly invested in whatever’s happening over here. McKenna’s saying something to him, and Brooks laughs, shaking his head.
“Knox, you’re leaning into contact too early,” Wilson says. “Let him commit first, then counter.”
I adjust, running the next route with more patience. Vega bites on my first move, and I’m past him before he can recover. The ball drops into my hands like it was meant to be there.
“Nice,” Brooks calls out from across the field.
I don’t acknowledge him, just toss the ball back to Davies and jog back to the line. Vega’s already waiting. I can’t tell if he’s impressed or just pissed I beat him again.
“That’s three for me,” I say.
“Four for me,” he counters.
I blink. “No way. We’re tied.”
“You’re not counting the one where you dropped the ball.”
“That wasn’t a drop. That was a bad throw.”
Vega raises an eyebrow, glancing at Davies, who looks like he wants to disappear into the turf. “Was it a bad throw?”
Davies hesitates, clearly not wanting to get involved. “I mean…”
“See?” I say, turning back to Vega. “Bad throw.”
“Sure, Knox. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
We keep going. The reps blur together, exhaustion setting in, but neither of us will quit. My hands are cramping, my quads screaming, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got turf burn on my hip from diving for a ball earlier. But every time Wilson calls out another route, I line up and do it again.
Vega’s the same. Impossible to rattle.
By the time Wilson finally calls it, Brooks and McKenna have migrated closer, openly debating now.
“Knox had the better day,” Brooks says. “Hands down.”
McKenna shakes his head. “Vega’s coverage was tighter. Knox just got lucky a couple times.”
“Lucky?” I call over. “You’re really going to say I got lucky?”
McKenna shrugs, grinning. “I call it like I see it.”
Wilson’s gaze moves between all of us, his expression hard to read. “Good work today. Tomorrow, same time.”
Davies looks so relieved I think he might cry. He hands the ball off to Wilson and practically sprints toward the building.
I grab my helmet and gloves from the sideline, my legs protesting every step. Vega’s already heading toward the locker room, and I fall into step beside him without really thinking about it.
We don’t talk on the walk back. Just the sound of our breathing, heavy and uneven, and the crunch of our cleats on the pavement. By the time we reach the locker room, I’m ready to collapse.
The space is empty, cool and quiet after the heat of the field. I drop onto the bench and close my eyes for a second, trying to get my heart rate under control.
Vega sits across from me, elbows on his knees. For a minute, neither of us says anything. Just two guys catching their breath after beating the hell out of each other.
“You know what makes you so hard to cover?” Vega says finally.
I crack one eye open. “My devastating good looks?”
He doesn’t laugh or play along. “Your release. Specifically, the way you vary your tempo. Most receivers have a rhythm. You can time it, anticipate it. But you don’t. Every route, it’s different. Keeps me guessing.”
I sit up a little straighter, caught off guard. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s true.”
“Yeah, but we’re rivals. You’re supposed to keep that shit to yourself and use it against me.”
Vega tilts his head slightly. “Or I could just say it. Give credit where it’s due.”
I snort, disbelieving. “Right. Sure.”
He’s quiet for a second. I push up off the bench, done with the conversation, but Vega stands too. He closes the distance in a few easy steps, backing me into the lockers until there’s nowhere left to go. He stops a breath away, closer than he needs to be.
“Why do you have so much trouble accepting compliments?” he asks.
I don’t answer. Can’t, really, because I don’t know what to say. My brain’s scrambling for something to deflect with, but it’s not cooperating.
Vega studies me, his gaze moving over my face like he’s reading it. And then he reaches up and brushes a loose strand of my damp hair off my forehead.
I freeze.
His fingers are warm against my temple, feather-light, and he lets them linger there for a second too long. My pulse kicks up, loud in my ears, and I can’t move or think.
“You don’t realize how incredible you are,” he says. He doesn’t rush the words or look away after, like he means them and won’t soften them for me.
Something in his voice gets to me. It’s low and certain, like he’s stating a fact instead of offering praise, and I feel it settle over me like a blanket.
I don’t know what’s happening. Just that I can’t look away from him, my breath’s gone shallow, and my brain won’t start working again.
My gaze drops to his lips. They’re slightly parted, soft-looking, and I wonder what it would feel like if—
No.
What the fuck?
But I can’t stop staring. My tongue flicks out, wetting my bottom lip, and Vega’s gaze follows it. His hand’s still near my face, not quite touching anymore, but close enough that I can feel the heat of it.
There’s noise in the corridor. Voices, footsteps getting closer.
Vega steps back just as the door swings open. Brooks and McKenna walk in, laughing about something, and the spell breaks.
I blink, disoriented, and focus on Brooks instead. He’s saying something to McKenna, and McKenna’s shaking his head, grinning.
“Where are you guys staying?” McKenna asks, glancing between me and Vega.
It takes me a second to process the question. “Uh. The Marriott. The one near the freeway.”
Vega looks at me a beat longer than he needs to, but he doesn’t say anything.
“We’re at the Hilton down the street,” Brooks says. “Want to grab drinks later? There’s a bar near our place that’s supposed to be decent.”
“Maybe,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. My brain’s still trying to catch up to what just happened. Or almost happened.
Brooks nods, unfazed by my non-answer, and starts peeling off his shirt.
I stand and move to my locker, hands shaking as I pull off my own shirt. I don’t let myself look at Vega. If I do, I’m going to have to acknowledge what just happened, and I’m not ready for that.
I yank my shorts down, toss them into my bag, and grab a towel. My mind’s racing, replaying the moment over and over. His fingers against my skin, my whole body going still, and the way I stared at his lips. Jesus Christ.
I head toward the showers, keeping my eyes down, and step under the spray. The water’s cold at first, shocking, and I welcome it. Anything to clear my head.
But it doesn’t help. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my temple. Can still hear his voice saying you don’t realize how incredible you are. I press my forehead against the tile and close my eyes, trying to figure out what the fuck just almost happened.