I knew what I was doing. I manipulated her, knowing there was something there between us, a delicate string. I dipped my toe across the line and tested the boundary, part of me excited, the other side terrified she’d jump across to grab me.

He was getting trashed on tequila, and I told him to dump her. Anastasia will never make you happy.

My eyes shut. I lied to push him over a cliff and then he went and did it all wrong!

Deep down, she would make him happy. Sure, he’d be sad about Harvard, but he loves her. That kiss with Harper? It bothered him. I saw his face when he turned away from her that night at the Delta house—and he told Anastasia the truth about it. He admitted to it. Dude is in love with her, but I tinkered with it, playing on his insecurities about his future and his parents, shoving Harper at him, encouraging him to tap that. Don’t you want to see if something’s there, man? I told him. She’s perfect for you. She’s hot. (She’s not.) You have so much in common. Your family loves her.

Jesus. I don’t know if he fucked her, but…

I. Fucked. With. Them.

I run faster.

When she kisses me, the world disappears.

Yeah?

When I kiss her, the world explodes.

As I round the turn to finish my last lap, I see Crew and Hollis talking to Benji at the bench. I jog their way and snap up a towel to rub the sweat off my face.

“You’re running like someone’s chasing you,” Hollis murmurs, giving me a long look. Not surprised. I came home from the library last night, ignoring Donovan’s texts, and went straight to my room. Then this morning, I didn’t knock on their doors to see their faces. I got up, got dressed, and left.

I slap the towel down. “The question isn’t why am I running so hard, it’s why your lazy ass isn’t.”

Hollis stretches his arms out wide. “There ain’t no lazy on me, boo bear. I’m below ten percent body fat like always.”

“Showoff.” Benji looks down at his body, then at the three of us. “I don’t know why I work out with you guys. I go to the student center gym and I’m a god—here I’m a peasant.”

“You remind us of what we could become if we stopped playing sports. You’re the cautionary tale,” Crew says with a smirk.

We head inside to the weight room.

“What up, River?” asks Chris, a sophomore wide receiver. He’s gifted, but most of his freshman year, he acted like a scared puppy on the field. The transition from high school to college is tough.

I wave and walk over to him.

“There he goes,” I hear Benji murmur as I leave our group. “Talking to his fan club.”

“Why do people adore him?” Hollis says. “He’s a terrible roommate. Messy. Needy. Thinks he’s prettier than me.”

“I can hear you, and I am.” I flip him off behind my back.

“You playing with us next fall or getting paid in the NFL?” Chris asks with a grin as I reach him. He’s about six one with dark skin and hands the size of dinner plates.

“Lots of factors in play. I promise, you’ll be the last to know.” I chuckle.

“Once you’re gone, I’m gonna make all those fans forget you were ever here.”

“Not with skinny little arms like that you won’t,” I say, flexing my bicep and comparing it to his.

“Yo, that’s why I’m here. I gotta get in that River shape. Be Tate 2.0.”

We bump both elbows, a thing I started with the wide receivers after any of us scored a touchdown.

“These young guns. They can’t wait for us to get out of here,” Crew says when I return.

Benji slides his gloves on and starts his first set on the bench press.

“Put some more weight on that,” Hollis calls out, and Benji glares at him. He gets up and slides two more weight plates on the bar, muttering the entire time.

“Chris is a good kid,” I murmur. “He’s like the rest of us, doesn’t know what he wants.”

“Speak for yourself,” pants Benji. “I know I want to stop working out with you assholes.”

We laugh and do a few sets of arm curls before working on our legs.

“Coach Taylor, you gonna work out with us? Show us what you got if you still got anything,” Chris calls out as our coach enters the room.

Coach gives off a subtle chuckle as he eyes the young wide receiver up and down. At six five, he’s built like a tractor.

My chest tightens, a feeling of loss hitting me. I let him down this season.

Coach puts a hand on Chris’s shoulder and replies in a deep gravelly voice. “Kid, there ain’t enough weight in this room for me to waste my time on. Get your shit done then get in the film room and figure out why you can’t get off the line against press coverage. Speaking of someone who does know how to get off the line—Tate, there’s a man who wants to see you.” Coach swivels his head toward me. “My office.”

I start.

“Who’s here to see you?” Benji asks.

“No clue,” I tell them then call out, “Coming, sir,” to Coach as I grab my towel off the bench and wipe my face. “See you guys later.”

“Pizza at the house tonight,” Benji says as I leave. “Spike misses you. Wants you to hold him.”

I roll my eyes.

Coach is waiting for me and we walk down the hall together. He asks me about classes and my mom. I answer automatically. Fine and fine. That’s me: living a lie. At first when people would ask about her, I’d go into detail, her treatments, her day-to-day, but not anymore.

Her cancer is progressing…

She keeps telling me everything is okay…

I lie to myself all the time. I never believe me.

My pulse ramps up.

In Coach’s office is a man with his hands in the pockets of his khakis as he looks out the window. He turns as we enter: older, white hair, nicely dressed. He narrows his gaze and checks me out, assessing. I straighten my shoulders, recognizing that look.

Are you worth it? it says. Show me what you got.

Men with an eye for talent have been assessing me since I caught my first football.

“River, I’d like you to meet an old teammate, Dan Simmons. He never got much time on the field, but he practiced a lot and got paid for it.”

They chuckle.

The man moves forward and stretches out his hand to shake mine in a firm grasp. “Don’t listen to this old man,” he says in a smooth voice full of energy. “I started three years with him in Philly, and he knows it. Most people feel like our ’87 line was the best in history.”

I rack my brain, and surprisingly find what I’m looking for. “That was the year Philly had Jack Smith and Savage Carter. I can never remember who that other guy was.”

The man scoffs. “Exactly. I was the ‘other guy’ on the greatest defensive line in history. Nice to meet you. Heard a lot about you from Taylor.”

I glance back at Coach. “Hope it was good.”

Coach nods. “Dan’s a scout for Houston.”

I let those words sink in.

A small kernel of hope unfurls. Nervous, I nod and murmur a greeting as I take a seat.

Coach says, “He knows you’re leaning toward coming back but wanted to talk. We good?”