I’m already exhausted by the time I get to the fifty-yard line, and it feels like I still have an eternity to go. As I approach the end zone, Oz yells, “Pick it up, Moore! Looking slow today.”

That’s because I feel like I’m going to throw up my lungs, Coach.

I drop to do my push-ups and the constant up and down makes my nausea double. My arms are burning when I finish and drag myself to my feet.

“Move your ass, twenty-two!”

I’m still running when the rest of the team comes out on the field, and Coach Cole lines them up along the sideline to wait and watch as I finish.

I try not to get angry. I really do, but the humiliation gets to me. Might as well make me hold a sign that says I can’t do anything right. Not even on the first day of practice.

I grit my teeth so hard I expect my jaw to break as I finish my last sprint from one end zone to the other. I drop for my push-ups and growl my way through them. When I’m done, I stand and face Oz. It’s a dumbass move, but I’m pissed and not thinking straight, so I raise my eyebrows and ask, “Should I keep going?”

It’s Coach Cole who answers. “That will do for now.”

As I walk over to join the rest of the team on the sideline, I try to keep my breathing steady, but it feels like one of the linemen has been using my chest as a trampoline.

“Mr. Moore has just helped demonstrate our new discipline policy, gentlemen. When you skip a class, when your grades drop below the line, when your actions reflect poorly on this team, that’s an infraction. For the first infraction, you run.” He gestures back toward Coach Oz, and a few players groan quietly. “If you commit a second infraction or the problems persist, your entire position group runs with you.” People start looking around at the players around them, the guys who now determine whether or not they’re subjected to the will of Coach Sadist. “And if one of you is stupid enough to get in trouble a third time, you, your position group, and your position coach will run.” He shoots his staff a sly smile, and I can tell this is news to them. And when they fix their eyes on the players, they definitely aren’t screwing around. “We are a team,” Coach yells. “We win and lose together. So, we’ll screw up and get better together, too. It’s not just your own ass on the line, it’s everyone’s.”

Brookes catches my gaze, and I turn away. Like I don’t feel like enough of a chump already.

“Any questions?”

Players and coaches alike shift, but no one says anything.

Then Torres opens his big mouth. “If we get in trouble a fourth time, do you run, sir?”

Nobody moves a freaking muscle. And I just know . . . we’re all gonna run for that one. But then Coach surprises me. He laughs and shakes his head, but when he speaks, he’s serious again. “Mateo, you don’t want it to get that far. It won’t be pretty.”

My new roommate never does know quite when to shut up, though.

“No, I imagine that wouldn’t look pretty at all, Coach.”

“Teo!” “Torres!” “Seriously?”

Every player surrounding him turns and lays into him. He covers his head with his hands and jumps back.

Coach blows his whistle, and we all snap back to attention. “It looks like you boys are beginning to understand what it means to be responsible for your teammates.” He stares at Torres for a long moment and then looks at the team. “We’ll let that one slide. Now, into your position groups. We’ll start by seeing what you’ve retained over the summer.”

A small whoop raises up from the crowd and as we disperse, Torres yells. “I love you, Coach! You’re the best!”

“We’ll see if you still feel that way when we’re through. You know we don’t do easy days here, not even first day back.”

Chapter 9

Silas

I get my ass handed to me.

Multiple times.

By multiple people.

I’m focused. My head is in it, but my body just isn’t. Between my binge weekend and my punishment at the beginning of practice, my legs are too f**king slow and my arms too weak to hold the ball as tightly as I need to. I keep making stupid little mistakes, and odds are that I’m going to leave practice with a damaged eardrum from all the yelling.

Coach is on me because he’s still pissed about the fight with Levi. Coach Gallt, the running back coach, is all over me because he’s taking over offensive coordinator from Coach Cole now that the team is settled. The entire offense is his responsibility now, which means my failures come down on him. So, he’s coming down on me . . . hard. And some little asshat freshman (the same freaking one that passed out on my couch Friday night) is all keyed up trying to outdo me, soaking up every bit of praise like he’s just won the freaking Heisman.

All of the noise just keeps swarming around me, and I can hear myself f**king panting for breath, and I’m melting in this heat, and I’m so damned frustrated I could scream.

“Damn it, Moore!” Coach Gallt yells. “I’m sick of watching you screw up. Is this what this season is going to be like? Because if so, Williams is gonna take your place in no time.”

I don’t even know who Williams is, but when I get a good look at the cocky grin on the freshman’s face, I figure it out. His name is Keyon, or something like that. I don’t give a f**k.

I rip off my helmet. To do what . . . I don’t know. My head is about to explode, and I feel like I can’t breathe with it on. I’m about to mouth off to Gallt when Coach Cole cuts in. “Go get some water, Moore. Shake it off.”

I do what he says and head off to the sidelines. I gulp down a few mouthfuls of water and dump the rest over my head. It’s so dry and hot out that the water feels like heaven. Or as close as I’m likely to get to it anyway. I go to repeat the process when McClain sidles up to grab a drink of his own. Unlike me, he’s been killing it today. I had no f**king clue when Levi got kicked off the team that Carson would ever be able to replace him, let alone be better than him. But he did it . . . is doing it every day. Knowing him, he probably didn’t take a single day off all summer.

“You all right?” he asks.

I wipe some of the water and sweat from my forehead and say, “Fine, QB. Just an off day.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He nods, but I can tell choirboy has more he wants to say. He doesn’t wait long to get to it, either. “Listen, that lady who showed up at your party . . .”