My mouth compresses. “I don’t have a choice.”

Raven suffered a traumatic brain injury, also known as a TBI, in the accident. Now, at nineteen, she drags her right leg and has speech issues, and don’t even get me started on the loss of cognitive ability and emotional outbursts. Worry tugs at me as I think about everything she’s lost.

Everything I lost.

She’s been staying with my dad temporarily for the past few weeks since we removed her from the state-funded group home where she’d lived since the car wreck three years ago.

I never liked the home with its tiny rooms and smell of death, and when she showed up with unexplained bruises on her skin a few weeks ago, I knew right away that I had to get her out of there. I removed her and placed her with my dad, but she needs somewhere besides his trailer. She needs stability and a routine and a regular nursing staff to check on her every single day, not just the one her disability helps pay for that only comes out three days a week.

If only I had known about the abuse before I’d signed the paperwork to not go into the draft early. I let out a deep breath. Now it’s too late, and I have to wait until next year.

“You should talk to Coach Al—maybe he can help.” He’s saying what he always does, but Ryker doesn’t get it. No one does.

“Help with what?” I can’t help but be annoyed with him. “Going out to my dad’s trailer and cooking dinner? Helping her get in the shower? Getting her ready for bed? Get real, man. I need money, and no one affiliated with football or Waylon can do that because it would be an infraction with the NCAA. I can’t accept any compensation or donations, remember? Coach can’t even buy me a fucking candy bar. If they think any kind of money or benefits changed hands—for anything—I’ll be out of a career in the NFL. Those are the goddamn rules.”

“Stupid rules,” he mutters. “If you weren’t such a damn fine player…”

Yeah, tell me about it.

“I’m cool, okay. Things will work out,” I say with a lightness I’m not feeling, playing off my worry. I show him my fists, which are rough and red from hitting the punching bag at Carson’s Gym, an off-campus facility I’ve been sparring at for extra cardio. “I work out my frustrations this way.”

He shakes his head. “You always get all squirrely on me this time of year. Do me a favor and get laid, or ask that girl out.”

“What girl?”

He sends me an are you kidding me? look. “Dude, don’t even pretend.”

I ignore him, grab my socks out of the drawer, and slide them on while he watches me like a mother hen.

“And we need to talk about this fight thing, man. I’m worried.” His voice has lowered and he’s whispering, and I assume he doesn’t want the chick in his bedroom to hear.

I pause. I confessed to him last week that a casino owner, Leslie Brock, was at the gym where I spar and offered me a flat fee if I would box another college football player at his casino. No one would ever know, and it would be enough money to get Raven set up somewhere.

“If anyone finds out, that will ruin your fucking career. Look at Michael Vick—went to jail just for financing a dog fighting ring.”

I groan. We’ve had this conversation. “No one’s getting arrested, and Vick was running a million-dollar operation with illegal gambling, plus he killed the dogs that refused to fight. I’m not gambling or killing animals for sport. I’d just be fighting for money.”

That said, it is risky as hell, and I haven’t decided if I’m going through with it.

His lips flatten. “You really don’t know what this guy is planning. Who the hell knows if it’s even legal? I can see it now: you’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit and taking it up the ass.”

I snort. “Someone else would be my bitch.”

He huffs, letting out a sigh of frustration. “He owns a casino, and that shit will blow up the NCAA rules.”

I stop getting dressed and give him a long look. We’ve been friends since freshman year when we met on the field, so by now I’ve known him long enough to see that he needs reassuring, just like he does when I slap him on the back and tell him his arm is fucking golden and he’s going to take us to a championship next year.

He might be the quarterback, but I’m the glue that holds our defense together, the glue he needs.

I push out a grin even though I don’t feel like it. “Dude, I’m not getting arrested. Next year is going to be our year for a championship, and there’s no fucking way I’d jeopardize that.”

Except when it comes to my sister.

He nods, the scowl lifting, revealing his All-American face that is usually lit up with a permanent grin. “I knew you’d make the right decision. You know if you ever need any money, I can maybe see if one of my relatives has some extra cash. It’s a long shot, but—”

My pride jacks its head up. I was the recipient of a lot of handouts growing up, and I never want to revisit that. “No, I’m cool. I’m making it.”

“Ryker, where’d you go?” comes the sleepy voice of the jersey chaser in his bed.

I arch my brow at him, recognizing the nasally whine even with a wall between us. “Is that Muffin? Seriously? Don’t tell her shit. Her mouth is bigger than your ass.” I pause. “I thought she was doing Alex now?”

I’ve never been with her, but half the team has. A bit of a schemer, she’s never gotten over the fact that I turned her down cold freshman year when she snuck into my room one night and tried to crawl in bed with me.

Ryker shakes his head. “Apparently that was a one-time thing. Alex is probably still in love with you know who.” He cocks an eyebrow and I know he’s waiting for me to comment about Delaney, but I don’t—not going there. Yeah, I’m interested in her, always have been, but she is my teammate’s ex, and that’s touchy.

“Rykeeerrrrr, I need you, big man,” she coos from the other room, her voice making a weird throaty sound.

I suppress a laugh. “Sounds like you’re being paged, bro, and FYI, she’s looking for a paycheck, so instead of worrying about me fighting, maybe worry about Muffin pulling a fast one on you. Wrap it when you tap it.”

“You’re just trying to change the subject,” he mumbles.

I’ve finished dressing so I grab my shoes and shove them on. Once I’m ready, I put on my orange and blue Waylon Wildcats cap and jog past him into the small living area we share with two other players. A quick glance tells me their doors are still shut and I haven’t woken them up. Good.

He follows me and stands there glaring, concern on his face. “Where you going?”

“For a run.” I chug down a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge in the kitchenette.

“At five in the morning? It’s still dark—you might get run over.” He’s got an obstinate look on his face.

“I’ll stick to the sidewalks and areas with streetlights.”

“At least wear pants. It’s cold as shit out there.”

I huff out a laugh. “Dude, are you sure you aren’t a girl?”

He shrugs. “Just worry about you is all.”

“Bye, Mom,” I say sarcastically as I head out the door.

Delaney

He-Man: Are you over your ex?

Me: Why?

He-Man: Just curious. Do you miss him?