Page 5 of Dirty Hit
He studies me for a moment, then lowers his voice. “You’ve been off lately.”
I glance at him, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re distracted,” he says carefully. “On the field, you’re still killing it. But in between, you zone out, and sometimes you miss meetings. That’s not you.”
I look away, my jaw tight. He doesn’t know the half of it. “I’m fine,” I say.
He doesn’t push, but I can see the doubt in his eyes.
“Look,” he says after a second. “Lane’s a pain in the ass, but he works. If anyone can drag your GPA out of the gutter, it’s him.”
“I don’t need dragging,” I mutter.
“Then prove it,” he shoots back. “Use him. Get your grades up, go pro, and get the hell out of here.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance at him. “You’re not coming?”
“Shower first,” he says. “Try not to punch a hole in a wall on your way out.”
“No promises,” I reply dryly.
He grins faintly. “Text me when you meet him. I want to know if he’s as uptight as I remember.”
I shake my head and start for the exit, irritation simmering under my skin. Outside, the early evening air hits me; it’s cooler now that the sun is dipping low. I parked my Charger near the front, black paint gleaming under the stadium lights.
I unlock it and slide into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel harder than I need to. After a breath, I start the engine, the low rumble filling the quiet lot, and pull out onto the road.
A fucking TA.
I don’t like being told I’m slipping. I don’t like the implication that I’m losing control. Football is control, strength, and precision. School is noise, but apparently it’s noise that can still fuck me if I ignore it.
Brendon Lane.
Preacher’s kid. Straight-laced.
I roll the name around in my head as I drive. I can already picture him. Button-down shirts and clean lines. Will probably look at me like I’m a project instead of a person. I wonder how long it’ll take before he realizes I’m not interested in being saved.
The thought almost makes me smile.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder, and I glance down at the screen when I hit a red light. An email notification. Lakehaven.edu.
That’ll be him.
Suppose if this is what it takes to stay on the field, fine. I’ll play along. I’ll sit across from some stoic, church-going overachiever, and let him walk me through case briefs and whatever the fuck else he thinks I need.
But I’m not losing anything. Not the draft, my spot, and definitely not control.
And if Brendon Lane thinks he’s about to babysit me, he’s going to be the one getting taught a lesson.
Because I don’t get handled.
I get what I want.
Brendon
23 Years Old
Igripthesteeringwheeltighter than I need to as I turn onto the narrow road that leads away from campus, tires humming softly against asphalt that hasn’t been repaved in years.
