Page 91 of Campus Muscle

I downed the bitter liquid, and within minutes, the fog lifted. My vision sharpened to a pinpoint, and the world came back in high-definition just in time for the third quarter.

I came out of the tunnel in a sprint. On the first handoff, I saw a gap no wider than a doorway and flew through it, my feet light, my body pumping pure electricity. I was five yards from the end zone before three Bisons dragged me down by the jersey. We settled for a field goal, then they answered back. By the end of the third, it was a 17-17 deadlock.

The fourth quarter was a war of inches. We came up short on a desperate fourth-and-two. The silence on our sideline was deafening. But then Ethan took a keeper, diving three yards for a gutsy first down that breathed life back into the stands. With minutes left, we were trading blows like heavyweight boxers. I took a hard hit that sent me to the turf, and the Bisons capitalized, sprinting for a quick touchdown that put them ahead.

I looked at Ethan. The clock was a ticking executioner.

“Let’s go for the practice play,” I said, my breath coming in fractured stabs.

“Your shoulder, Trace... can it take the impact?”

“It can take whatever I tell it to,” I shot back.

The snap was perfect. I sliced through the Bisons’ secondary like they were made of smoke. My shoulder screamed, a white-hot flare of agony as I broke a tackle, but I didn’t stop until I’d crossed the goal line to tie the game.

Fifteen seconds left. 24-24.

Cam stepped up for the extra point. The kick was high, true, and beautiful.

25-24.

The buzzer sounded, and the stadium turned into a riot. We’d done it. The team everyone had written off. We were going through. No Delaney, no dirty money, just us.

As the field cleared, I stood in the center of the logo, trying to let the reality of it sink in. My shoulder was in a furious flare-up, but I barely felt it. Nothing could’ve touched the feeling of this win.

“Trace.”

I spun around, and my breath caught in my throat. “Dad?”

He was standing there with my mom, his eyes red-rimmed and wet. He looked at me not as a disappointment, but as something he finally understood.

“We decided to come back,” he said, his voice thick. “We didn’t see enough last time. And I have to say, son... it was worth the wait.” He stepped forward, wiping a stray tear. “We’re proud of you. We were stupid to doubt that this was where you belonged.”

The win on the scoreboard was huge, but the look in his eyes? That was the whole goddamn championship.

33

Dakota

It was the sixth dress I had tried on, and still none of them looked good enough. They actually seemed to be getting worse the longer I kept at it. I didn’t know if it was the clothing or how my anxiety rose with each hour that passed.

My first real date with Trace, and he was taking me to the campus pool bar. This was enough to have me second-guessing my outfit, but there was a catch: the Highlanders would be there too, celebrating their playoff spot. It was supposed to be a romantic milestone, but it felt more like I would be walking the plank. I’d gone from being their biggest critic to Trace’s plus-one, and the transition was giving me a serious case of social vertigo.

I sat on the edge of my bed, mindlessly crunching on a handful of pretzels as I stared at the three outfits laid out. A puzzle refusing to be solved. I finally reached for the dark green slip dress. Confident but not desperate. The silk was cool against my skin as I turned to face the mirror.

Instead of thinking about Trace’s reaction to what I was wearing, my mind drifted back to the team. I was happy about the date, but the thought of the Highlanders made my stomach do a slow, nauseous roll. I already knew how they felt about me. They’d made that painfully clear outside the med bay.

I grabbed a hairbrush and started tugging at a knot, my reflection looking as frazzled as I felt. They hated me, and rightfully so. It was a mess of my own making, playing out exactly the way Tara had warned me it would. I swept my hair up into a loose, messy bun, then immediately pulled the tie out, letting the strands fall flat again. Nothing felt right.

I stepped into a pair of black boots, checking my profile in the full-length mirror. I desperately wanted to find a way to make them hate me just a little less. These guys weren’t just colleagues to Trace. They were his brothers, and they meant the world to him. I reached for a dark lipstick, then hesitated, staring at my own eyes. I didn’t want him to spend the playoffs feeling like he had to choose between his loyalty to them and his feelings for me. I wiped the lipstick away with a tissue, opted for a simple gloss, and took a deep breath. If I were going to walk into a den of Highlanders, I needed to look like I belonged there, even if I didn’t feel like it.

“I’m ready,” I said, swinging the door open for Trace. Of course, he’d chosen today of all days to be exactly on time.

He stood in the hallway, his gaze tracing a slow, appreciative path from my boots to my face. “You look delectable.”

“Why, thank you,” I said, mocking a slight curtsey to hide the flutter in my chest. “It’s a big night for the team, so I figured I should at least look the part.”

“Is it really that big of a deal to you?” Trace asked, leaning against the doorframe as I grabbed my keys. “Because at the end of the day, they’re just guys. Their only issue was the article. When you’re not digging for dirt, they’re actually pretty laid back. You’ll see.”