Chapter 4: Fair Catch: Chapter 3

Sweat dripped in my eyes, that cool breeze we’d felt earlier in the morning nowhere to be found as we wrapped up the first practice of camp. We had about an hour to eat lunch and report for positional meetings, and I stood in the end zone, hands hanging on my hips as I stared at Coach Sanders who couldn’t have cared less that I was in absolute beast mode all day.

Every kick was secured effortlessly, run down the field with speed and stamina that could rival an NFL player. My burning muscles couldn’t stop me from blowing out every drill they threw at us, and I’d always be the first one jogging back and lining up for more. I was explosive, smart, and conscious of any little thing that could possibly land me a penalty.

I couldn’t have been more on.

And Coach Sanders couldn’t have been less interested.

Riley looked just as beat as I was as she slipped off her helmet, her hair waterfalling down her back when she did. She cursed, oblivious to how her shaking out her hair made a dozen guys sneakily scratch their necks so they could watch her, before bending to retrieve her hair tie. That thick hair was pulled up and tight in the next instant, and then she must have felt me watching her, because her eyes snapped to mine.

The greens and golds mixed in those hazel eyes, which narrowed at the sight of me staring at her. I smirked for good measure, making them squeeze into mere slits as she approached me.

“You look winded, Collins,” she said with mock concern. “Better take a nap before meetings.”

“Says the one with the red face,” I shot back.

Her bravado slipped only a moment before she tucked her helmet into her side, nodding down the field. “Coach didn’t seem impressed with what he saw today.”

I was surprised by her talking to me as opposed to glaring at me and telling me to for only a moment before I saw it.

She wanted to storm away from me just as much as she needed me to comfort her.

I didn’t even know if realized it, but all the signs were there — the bob of her throat, the jittery way her fingers moved, how she shifted her weight from one hip to the other. No one else would notice.

But I did.

I used to be that person for her, me and Gavin both, and though she hated me now — and for good reason — I was the only person she knew on the team.

“He’d be crazy not to be,” I said. “He just doesn’t want to show it, doesn’t want anyone to rest easy tonight.”

She swallowed, nodding.

“Hey,” I added, noting the worry she was trying to hide. Her brows bent together, and I reached out, squeezing her shoulders. “It’s all good.”

Again, she nodded, not able to look at me.

And I couldn’t resist.

“I’ll still love you when you’re redshirted.”

Her eyes snapped to mine then, the Riley I’d come to know back in full force as she scoffed, shrugging me off. “If anyone will be riding that bench this season, it’ll be you and that 2.0 grade point average.”

I ignored the sting of her comment, face expressionless like it didn’t faze me at all. “Don’t be salty because I made your kicks look better than you did today.”

She flicked me off, but before she could retort, a petite girl with wide doe eyes and crazy curly hair cleared her throat next to us.

“Um, sorry to interrupt,” she squeaked, adjusting her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “My name is Giana Jones. I’m the Public Relations Intern for the team.” She seemed to grow a few inches with that statement, her shoulders pulling back, and I couldn’t help but arch a brow.

“A few of the media outlets are requesting interviews with you,” she said.

Her mousy brown eyes were on me, and Riley smirked, clapping me on the shoulder. “Have fun with that, .”

“Oh, they, uh…” Giana said, offering a soft smile. “They actually would like to interview of you.”

I returned Riley’s cocky smirk, though hers was gone now, slipping off her face like a sweaty palm on a wet football.

I leaned into her, voice low in her ear. “Enjoy talking about how tough it is being a girl for an hour.”

Her nose flared, but she ignored me, storming off toward the edge of the field where the media was gathered and already interviewing our other teammates.

Giana’s eyes grew wide, and she blinked at me before jogging off after Riley as I followed behind.

“Remember your media training,” Giana said to both of us. “We’ll have more practice time being on camera once camp is over, but for now, focus on being pleasant and succinct.”

She aimed that advice more at Riley, who plastered on her best fake smile before Giana led her to a tall white woman with Texas-big hair and a microphone at the ready.

I wanted to watch her, wanted to admire the way she so effortlessly shelled out memorable answers to every question she was asked while artfully dodging any that bordered on the line of sexist. I’d witnessed it time and again in high school, but I knew it would be even more impressive now that she had national eyes on her.

But as soon as she was set up and going, Giana waved for me to follow her and led me to my own reporter.

I wished I was as calm and collected as Riley, or as much of a showboat as Kyle — who was eating up every minute of the spotlight next to me. But this was a nightmare for me, questions fired at me too quickly, every word threading together to become a complex problem I couldn’t solve.

Calling on our training as much as I could, I found myself repeating the same sentiments over and over with every reporter.

That last one was the most drilled on point from our media training, where the staff directed us to avoid any questions about having a girl on the team unless they were talking about her as a kicker — not a female.

Most of the reporters left looking more disappointed than satisfied after my interviews, but I didn’t care — I wasn’t here to give them a good story.

I was here to play.

And once I ran a few kick returns down the field for a touchdown, they’d have their story.

Once Giana released me from media hell, I wiped my face with my towel, jogging off toward the cafeteria to use what little time I had left to scarf something down before we had to meet with the Special Teams Coach. But before I could even hit the locker room, Coach Sanders called out my name from where he was ducking into his office.

“Collins,” he said, not looking up from his iPad where he appeared to be going over play routes.

I stopped dead in my tracks, turning like a soldier reporting for duty. “Coach.”

“A word.”

That was all he said before disappearing inside his office and leaving the door open for me to follow.

.

There was very rarely an occasion when getting called into the coach’s office was a good thing — especially provided it was day one of camp and there certainly hadn’t been enough time for him to have any sort of news.

My stomach flipped with the anxiety of what it could be that he wanted, and that stress bloomed into a full field of freaked-out flowers when Zeke exited the office just as I was about to knock on the door.

His dark eyes locked on mine, and other than his mouth slightly tugging to the side and a shallow furrow of his brows, he gave nothing away, no indicator of what I was walking into. I couldn’t tell if he was giving me a subtle sign not to be worried, or a very obvious sign that I be worried.

Either way, I didn’t have time to try to figure it out before he brushed past me, and Coach Sanders waved me in.

“Have a seat, Novo,” he said, not looking up from his phone. He finished typing out the message to whoever it was who had his attention before letting the device flop down on his desk. He kicked back then, folding his hands over his stomach as his elbows balanced on the armrests of his chair.

Coach Sanders was young for a head football coach at a D-1 university. At just thirty-three, he somehow had the confidence and swagger of a man who’d coached professional players all his life. He was severe, the line between his brows ever-present, and he didn’t hand out compliments like candy the way my high school coach did.

I knew I’d have to earn the trust and respect of this man, but already, I liked him — simply for the fact that he took a chance on me when he knew what a distraction I could be for his team and the media alike.

“Look, neither of us have time to beat around the bush. We need to eat and get to meetings, but I have something to discuss with you that can’t wait.”

I swallowed as Coach leaned forward with a sigh.

“When we originally discussed your housing situation in the freshman team dorms, we agreed you’d be set up in your own room as opposed to sharing with a roommate the way the rest of the team does. Both the Resident Hall Advisor and myself thought this to be the most… appropriate option.”

I nodded.

“Unfortunately,” he added, sitting back again as he scrubbed a hand over his short amber hair. “That’s not going to be possible anymore.”

My heart hammered against my rib cage, throat closing in.

“We took on a few transfers after the summer term, as you probably noticed today. And though they’re not technically freshmen, we require them to stay in the team dorms their first year just like we do the rest of the team. And because of that decision, we don’t have the space to let you have your own room.”

My lips remained tight, though my heart eased up on its racing a bit.

“My first thought was to transfer you to a different resident hall on campus where you could room with another female athlete.”

“No.”

The word shocked me as much as it did Coach when it tumbled out of my mouth, and I flushed, clearing my throat.

“Sir, if I have a say, I’d very much like to stay in our hall.”

“I understand that, but—”

“We’re all training to be professional athletes, and we’re serious about our sport. I don’t think it will be an issue.”

Coach opened his mouth, but panic had me jumping in with my next point before he could offer a rebuttal.

“Mrs. Pierson has thoroughly analyzed me, and I swear I’ll go to her if there are any issues. Besides, we’ll have a Resident Assistant assigned to us, right? They’ll be there to keep an eye on things. As you can imagine, I’m already isolated enough as it is, and—”

“I agree,” he said, finally cutting me off with something between an annoyed arch of his brow and an amused curve of his lips. “Which is why after a long discussion with Mrs. Pierson, you’ll be staying in the team dorms.”

I heaved a sigh of relief.

“But you’ll have a roommate.”

“That’s not a problem, Coach.”

“That’s what I assumed, as well. Unfortunately,” he admitted with a frown of disappointment. “It turned out to be more of a problem than I anticipated.”

He didn’t have to say the words for me to know what he meant.

“No one wants to room with me.”

I didn’t state the obvious with an ounce of pity or sadness in my voice, nor did I show the anger that bubbled in my veins at the realization that boys could be such…

sometimes. No, I spoke the words level and calm, just stating a fact.

Coach’s brows furrowed, and he shook his head, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk again. “Look, you and I discussed this when you signed your letter of intent. This isn’t going to be easy — not for you, not for me, not for anyone. But you have talent, and that’s what we’re going to focus on. Not the noise.”

I nodded. “Yes, Coach.”

He sat back again, pulling out his iPad and swiping his finger across the screen to unlock it. “I did manage to find one player who was unbothered by having you as a roommate.” He paused. “Zeke Collins.”

My eyes tripled in size, heart galloping again as I opened my mouth to protest, but Coach held up a hand.

“He already informed me you wouldn’t be happy with the assignment, but he’s the only one who agreed. And for the sake of not starting your season off by rooming with someone who was to be your roommate, someone who’s looking to have an issue with you? I suggest you accept and we move on.”

His eyes found mine then, and I knew just by the way he leveled his gaze that this wasn’t up for debate.

I forced the slowest inhale I could manage, letting it out through flaring nostrils as I compelled myself to smile. Through my teeth, I muttered the only possible response there was.

“Yes, Coach.”

He nodded. “Good. Go eat. Team meetings start in twenty.”

That was my only dismissal before Coach Sanders was picking up his phone to call someone, and I let myself out of his office, ignoring the dozens of eyes that followed me when I did. No one muttered a word to me, but I knew as soon as I was out of the locker room, there’d be speculation.

I changed quickly out of my practice shorts and jersey into comfortable joggers, a tank top, and a light hoodie. I knew from the summer that it could be cold in those meeting rooms, regardless of the weather outside.

And the entire time I changed, I kept my cool.

It wasn’t until I was down the hall and ducking into the women’s bathroom by the cafeteria that I allowed myself a moment, slamming my back against the door once it was closed. My head fell back, a against the metal, and I closed my eyes on a sigh.

I knew the season would be tough. I knew, like Coach mentioned, that I’d have a lot of odds stacked against me. I was prepared for the ice out from the team. I was prepared for the jokes at my expense. I was prepared to not be taken seriously, to have to prove myself every step of the way.

I was prepared for this.

Now, not only was I , but I was rooming with the one person in the entire world whom I truly hated.