I tug off my practice jersey and grab a towel from my locker before heading down the hall to Coach's office. The door is already cracked, so I push inside, a familiar nervousness settling in my stomach. Despite years of accolades and praise, there's still something about being called into the coach's office that makes me feel like I'm in trouble.
Coach is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, studying his laptop screen. When he looks up, he gestures for me to sit. "Relax, kid. You're not in trouble."
I huff out a breath, sinking into the chair across from him. "That's good to hear." My shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing.
He shuts his laptop and steeples his fingers, eyeing me with that calculating look he gets when he's sizing up a situation. "Just that time of the semester when we do little check-ins with everyone, grades and all that. Yours look great so far. Any classes you're concerned about?"
I straighten a little. I knew this conversation would come eventually. It always does, the reminder I'm not just here to catch footballs. There's more at stake.
"No, sir," I say, shaking my head. "Just trying to keep everything in check." Balance. That's what I've always been good at. Football, school, life. It's only recently that the scales have tipped, weighted down by thoughts of her.
Coach leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "That's what I like to hear. Look, Jaxon, I know this transition wasn't easy—new school, new system, new expectations. But you've handled it like a damn professional. I just want you to know that. Keep it up."
I meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his words. He doesn't have to say it outright, but I know what's at stake. My draft stock is high, but slipping up academically would tank my chances. Scouts look at everything, not just how fast you can run a forty.
"I will," I say, voice firm. A promise to him, to myself.
Coach nods, a slight smile breaking through his usually stern expression. "Good. Because I'm damn happy to have you on this team. You've brought something special to this offense, and you've got a bright future. Don't let anything—on or off the field—derail that. You hear me?"
On or off the field. The words hit harder than they should, like he knows, like he can see Madison written all over me, a distraction I can't afford.
I nod again, swallowing the knot in my throat. "I hear you, Coach."
He watches me for a beat, then leans back with a satisfied look. "Alright. Go shower, get some rest. I'll see you on the bus tomorrow."
I push up from the chair, nodding once before heading out, his words trailing after me like shadows. I make my way back to the locker room, now mostly empty, guys having cleared out for dinner or study sessions.
And even though I should be feeling good after that talk—the praise, the acknowledgment of my hard work—the words "on or off the field" stick in my head like a warning.
A warning about Madison, about the way she might make me lose focus, makes me question my priorities, makes me want things I shouldn't be thinking about. With only East Coast teams interested in me so far, it’s a big risk getting involved with her, but I’ll have to make it work somehow. The hardest part, I’m sure, will be convincing her it’ll be worth it.
Thatweare worth it.
14
MADISON
The apartment smells like garlic and tomatoes, the rich aroma of simmering sauce filling the air as I stir the pot, my sweatshirt sleeves shoved up to my elbows. A half-empty bottle of wine sits on the counter, our glasses next to it, the deep red liquid catching the glow from the kitchen lights. It's our tradition—Sunday night dinners before the chaos of the new week.
Lyla stands beside me, twirling a wooden spoon, a lazy smile on her face as she watches the pasta boil. Her curls are piled on top of her head in a messy bun, a few loose strands framing her face.
I’ve always been jealous of how effortless she is. Even her hair is stunning while mine can’t decide if it’s curly or straight, meeting in the middle in waves.
"Okay, I'm just saying—he totally looked like he wanted to fight Carter at the coffee shop," she says, nudging my shoulder with hers.
I groan, rolling my eyes. "We are not talking about Jaxon tonight."
She grins, a mischievous gleam in her eyes that I know all too well. "Oh, come on. He's been gone all weekend for the away game, and you're telling me you haven't been thinking about him?Is that why you've refused to turn on the game or even check the score?"
I pointedly ignore the way my stomach twists at the mention of him, the way my heart did a stupid little flip every time someone in class talked about the game. I've avoided watching, avoided checking scores, because I know the second I see his name pop up, I'll start feeling things I can't feel.
"I've been thinking about how nice it is to have a weekend without the guys dragging us to some party." I grab my wine glass and take a sip, lifting a brow at her. "You should be grateful. Isn't this better than watching you try to out-drink Carter again?"
Lyla scoffs, crossing her arms. "First of all, I did out-drink him, and you know it. Second of all, I am grateful." She takes the wooden spoon from the pasta pot and points it at me, water dripping onto the counter. "But you can't avoid him forever."
I huff out a breath, stirring the sauce again. "Watch me."
She rolls her eyes but lets it go, moving to drain the pasta. I watch her as she works, her movements efficient despite her obvious exhaustion. Lyla's always been like that—pushing through, never slowing down, even when anyone else would have collapsed hours ago.
