My first thought is Shit, he knows, and a wave of dread washes over me. He’s been nothing but kind to me, a good coach who saw right away that I had no father figure at all, and freshman year, he made sure to check in with me from time to time.

My second thought is that this is a pep talk. He knows how much I’m hanging on to the fact that the scouts are interested in me, especially since I didn’t go out early. They want to see if I’ll live up to the hype.

I follow his broad frame into his office. Boxes of equipment, helmets, and padding are stacked against the walls, and a white board and a projector sit in the back surrounded by several desks and chairs. This is the coaching headquarters where the assistants meet to decide how we’re going to be playing the game. He leans against his desk.

“Shut the door.”

I close it as quietly as I can, suddenly a ball of nerves.

“Take a seat.”

His voice is hard as nails—the usual.

His eyes bore into mine, that deep frown on his face, making his chin triple as it digs into his chest. A long stretch of ten seconds goes by as a myriad of emotions cross his face, ones I can’t read…don’t want to read.

My hands shake as I clasp them in front of me. “Sir? Is everything okay?”

“No, Monroe, everything is not fucking okay.” His voice is deadly quiet.

That’s when I know it’s bad. He’s not yelling, and this is even worse than if he were.

“I want to know why the motherfucking hell I got a call from the athletic director this morning about an anonymous tip that you’re somehow involved in gambling.”

It’s not just my face that pales—it’s my entire body. I feel my skin grow cold. I lick my lips.

“I don’t know anything about that, sir.”

“Don’t fucking play with me, son. Have you been gambling?”

I feel faint.

I tell the truth. “Sir, I have not been gambling. I would never gamble on a game or throw a game. Winning—this team—means everything to me.”

He squints at me, a scrunched up look on his face as if he’s tasted something sour. “Then where the hell is the AD getting this from?”

“A girl, Coach. She thinks she knows shit and she doesn’t.” I grip the edge of my chair. Part of me wants to tell him everything…

Tell him, my inner voice screams as nausea washes over me. Let out the guilt you’ve been carrying.

But…I’d never play for him again.

“Son, are you sure you’re telling me everything? The AD says I’m supposed to question you, but if you got nothing, I’ll let you play today. It is a big fucking day.”

I feel the weight of his stare and it makes my heart jerk.

What I’ve done is so goddamn wrong.

I should just quit football and get a job and support me and Raven. I can live at the trailer with her and take care of her. I can get a job.

I exhale. I don’t want to hang on to this any longer. “The truth is—”

“Al!” It’s the quarterback coach at the door, and his eyes go from me to my coach. “Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting anything?”

Coach Al moves off his desk, sticks out his hand, and hauls me up to my feet. “We done here?”

“Uh…”

He gives me a nod and a shove toward the door. “Get the hell out of here, get dressed, and hit the field. I want you out there shining today for the scouts—no matter what. You’ve told me everything I need to know right now. You got me?”

His gaze brushes over me, dismissing me as he turns to talk to the quarterback coach, but there’s a question in his gaze. I realize he likely knows there may be some truth to what was reported to the AD, but he doesn’t want to know. If he knows, he’s culpable. If he doesn’t know, I can play today—and I have to play today.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it.

Maybe I’m just paranoid.

Maybe I’m just fucked up.

I picture what things would look like if I didn’t have football, and I want to run as far away from Coach as I can.

I can’t tell him.

I give him a brief nod and slide out the door.

Delaney

Skye, Raven, and I weave our way through the crowd of people to get to the section of seats reserved for players’ family members. I told Maverick weeks ago I’d make sure Raven saw the game, and that’s what I’m doing.

I think back to Maverick and swallow down the lump in my throat as I recall our conversation last night. I still feel like I can’t breathe. I’m worried about him, but I’m also angry.

I force a smile, trying to put on a brave face.

With a quick survey of the nearby seats, I find a collection of six men, all dressed in various forms of suits that look a bit too posh for rural Mississippi. They’re sitting on the front row at the fifty-yard line, and several of the coaches from Waylon are shaking their hands—must be the scouts. I send up a prayer that Maverick does well.

Waylon’s team has been divided up into two separate teams, red and blue, and the winner gets bragging rights for a year plus a party tonight in their honor.

Maverick and Ryker are both on the red team, and when Maverick’s name and stats are called, Raven jumps to her feet and claps furiously. I stand up with her and we root for the hometown boy.

Even though my heart aches, my eyes can’t get enough of him as he takes the field.

Skye rolls her eyes but stands anyway. “I really don’t see what all the fuss is about.” Her eyes drift over the players as they line up on the field, seeming to linger a little on Alex. “Guess I like a more trim look.”

“Football…is…king,” says Raven, and I grin behind my popcorn.

Skye laughs. “Well, aren’t you just the little spitfire?”

Raven turns her head to Skye. “Spitting…is…gross.”

“It means you’re sassy and smart,” I add.

Raven grins, her big eyes finding mine.

I nod.

Raven leans over on her knees, propping her chin up, laser focused on the team as they line up. Maverick barks out encouragement and when the blue team snaps the ball, his team flows into motion and tackles the quarterback.

Two more downs, and each time the red team stops the running game before blue can get the ten yards needed for a first down.

“He’s…good,” Raven murmurs as she crams a handful of candy into her mouth.

“The best,” I say, running my eyes over those sure, confident shoulders. He’s the focal point of every eye in the stands.

“He…deserves…best,” she adds slowly, and I look at her with interest, noting the quiet tone of her voice.

“Of course he does. You do too.”

She squints up at the sun that’s beating down on us. April in Mississippi can either be humid or freezing, depending on God’s sense of humor, and today he must be happy because it’s a beautiful seventy degrees.

“I…know…what…he’s…doing…is…wrong.” Her hands twist at the box of Skittles.

I stop chewing my popcorn. Does Raven know something?

“What’s he doing that’s wrong?”

A pensive look crosses her face. “Heard…phone…call…at…my…house.”

“About what?”

“Fighting…football…players…in…casino.”

Skye’s eyes have widened and she puts her phone down, a confused expression on her face. “No, a casino is where people go to gamble—”