I wrinkle my nose, blowing out a calm breath as I push the bar up. I can only imagine the kind of dirty work he does. And with the way our locker room smells sometimes, I definitely don’t envy the dude.

“I’m hoping to do this for a year or two and then jump to student trainer. I’m a kinesiology major.”

I’ve still got the rest of the year to declare my major, but kinesiology is definitely one I’m considering. I’m pretty sure I can’t hack the math and science classes it requires, though.

I lift with Ryan for the next half hour, moving through a few other stations. He sticks with me even when I don’t need a spot. He’s good about knowing when to talk, when my arms are tired and the distraction helps me think past the weight. But he also knows when to shut up, when I need all my focus to finish out that very last rep. And as crazy as it sounds, in the space of thirty minutes, he becomes my closest friend at Rusk.

Besides Dallas.

Sitting at the weight machine, working my lats, I pull down a little too hard on the bar, and then let it go too fast, and a loud bang follows.

Ryan raises an eyebrow at me. “Now, what did that machine ever do to you?”

I grip the narrow bar and pull it down more smoothly this time.

“Wrong place, wrong thought, wrong time.” I need to leave all thoughts of Dallas at the door. I’m doing a shit job of that, though.

He nods but doesn’t ask questions, and I’m glad for it. I increase the weight so that it takes more of my concentration. I’ve hit my stride by the time a gruff voice barks, “Blake!” from the direction of the coaches’ office.

We both turn to see Coach Cole leaning out of the doorway. I focus on staying steady, but the head coach is only looking at Ryan, not me.

“Yes, sir?”

Coach Cole’s looks are as intimidating as his background. He’s tall, about the same height as me, but he’s as thick around as one of the hundred-year-old oak trees in the campus commons. In twenty-two years of coaching, he holds seven state championships and nearly double that many regional championships. And he has a history of taking failing programs and turning them into powerhouses in astonishingly short time frames. Hence his appointment as the head coach here, where despite having a program with decent financial backing and solid recruiting, the team has had six losing seasons in a row.

“We good to go?” Coach asks Ryan.

“Yes, sir. All set up.”

Coach’s eyes stray to mine then, and though they stay there for several long seconds, I see nothing in them.

He leaves, and I take that as my cue to wrap up my additional workout. I use my towel to wipe off the machine first, followed by my face.

“Thanks for the spot, man,” I tell Ryan. I don’t thank him for the company too, even though I am grateful.

“Sure thing.”

He disappears to do whatever it is managers spend their time doing, and I head for the locker room. It’s half-full when I enter, with more players streaming in by the second. I stand at my cubby, rubbing at my face with my towel. My muscles are fatigued, and I think maybe I should have taken it a little easier today. My shirt is already soaked with sweat as I pull on my shoulder pads.

I’ve been tuning out the conversation in the room, but raucous laughter draws my attention.

“Dude, she shot you down so hard I felt it out in the hallway.”

There’s a group of guys gathered around Levi Abrams as he razzes his friend Silas about something. One of them pipes up to add, “Yeah, Moore. I was downstairs, and I felt you crash and burn.” Silas slugs the guy in the shoulder, but doesn’t seem too bothered by it.

“I would have had her if it weren’t for Abrams. She hates you so much, she blew me off just for talking with you.”

Abrams shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a heartbreaker.”

“Could you get her back?” one of the other guys asks. “Before Moore, that is?”

Silas laughs so hard, he sounds like he’s on the verge of choking. He pulls off his shirt, following the rest of the team as they change from street clothes into their workout gear. “No f**king way,” he says to Abrams. “That girl is likely to break your dick off if you come within two feet of her.”

“You, my friend, underestimate the power of first love.”

Silas shakes his head. “You’re just asking to get your ass handed to you by Coach, man. You got lucky first time around when she didn’t say anything; no way you’ll get that lucky a second time.”

“It has nothing to do with luck,” Abrams says. “Coach loves me, and so does she, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.”

“When I sleep with her, and trust me, I will, QB, you’re stocking my fridge with beer for a month.”

Abrams surveys his friend, and then shrugs. “Sure. I’ll take that bet.” Silas grins and a few of the surrounding guys laugh and cheer, egging him on. Abrams adds, “Because it’s never going to happen.”

“What if one of us gets to her first?” another guy joins in, blond and heavyset, one of the defensive linemen.

Abrams surveys the bulky guy and says, “Carter, if you somehow manage to work a miracle and sleep with her before either of us, I’ll stock your f**king fridge for a year.”

The locker room descends into laughter, and the topic falls away, and I wonder which poor coach’s daughter they’re targeting. We’ve technically got nine coaches on staff. I don’t know any of them well enough to know which ones have kids our age, but I’m fine being left out of that particular piece of information.

In fact, I wish I were in a different part of the locker room. It would be better for my focus if my cubby weren’t so close to Abrams and Moore.

Coach comes in not long after, and I wonder what would have happened if he’d come in a few minutes earlier.

“Listen up!” He doesn’t really need to yell. The team has a sort of sixth sense for when Coach enters the room, and everyone was already quiet. But his loud voice echoes around the room, and it makes him that much more intimidating. “As you know, we’re cutting practice a little short today.”

Some idiot behind me has the nerve to cheer, but from the “Oof!” that follows, I’m guessing someone already shut him up.

“Hot date tonight, Coach?” Abrams asks.

“Shut your mouth, kid,” he growls, but I can tell there’s no heat behind the words, not like there would be if someone besides his QB had said it.