I’m lifting weights when Ryker and a man I don’t recognize waltz into the gym. The guy he’s with is tall, maybe forty, and wearing a slick gray suit. Big and bulky, he looks like a former player.

Ryker sees me and throws up a wave as they make their way over to me.

I let the weights go and stand up taller, straightening my shoulders.

Ryker slaps me on the back. “Blaze Townsend, meet Cedrick Clemmons.”

I nod at the smiling man and shake his hand. Big money, no doubt. I feel it oozing out, from his expensive leather loafers to the styled hair and spray tan. “Sir. Nice to meet you.”

Ryker smiles. “He’s a scout for the Giants and came down to talk to me. They get the number one pick this year.” He waggles his brows. Dude is flying high with all the attention he’s getting. Rightly so. He’s got an agent already, and I haven’t asked what his signing advance was—not my business—but I bet it was better than a convertible Mustang.

“Awesome,” I say. “Glad you could make it down to check him out. Ryker is a sure thing, the real deal.”

We exchange small talk, but soon they’re discussing the offense of the Giants, and I just stand there, unsure of how to extricate myself and get back to my workout. I drift off and think about my study session later with Charisma. I saw a chance to spend more time with her and I took it.

Why? Am I insane?

Why would I put myself in the position to be with her again, especially in the library—

I come back when I see that Ryker is looking at me, his forehead furrowed. I guess they finished their conversation.

Get your ass in the game, his eyes say.

He glances at Mr. Clemmons and then me. “I thought it would be good for Cedrick to meet my main target for the past four years. We kicked ass, right, bro?”

Ah, I see. He’s working it, getting me an intro.

I smile broader. “Yes, we did.”

Cedrick studies me, an analytical look on his face, sizing me up, probably trying to figure out if he needs a wide receiver.

Sweat pops out on my forehead, more than just from the workout, and drips down my cheek. I rake a hand through my hair to get it out of my face. If I’d known a scout was going to be here, I would have planned better, maybe a shower with real clothes on. Shit. But then, I guess he wants to size me up, and the gym is the perfect place for that.

Cedrick’s got super white teeth when he smiles. “Ryker tells me you’re an overlooked commodity and you’ll make some pro team happy if they take a shot. People aren’t talking you up much, but you never know.”

I know they’re not. I wake up every day and check ESPN.

“Good to know, Mr. Clemmons.” My voice is stilted. He’s standing there in probably a thousand-dollar suit, and I’m just a kid from Mississippi.

“Cedrick, please. Mr. Clemmons is my daddy,” he says with a Southern drawl, but it almost sounds like he’s overplaying the accent. I’m sure it isn’t for my benefit, but Ryker’s.

He continues. “Of course, if you run well at the Combine, you’ll rise up everyone’s boards. You know what they say—you can’t teach speed.” He chuckles.

I have speed. I fucking have it all, but no one’s going to see it. “I haven’t gotten an invitation.”

Cedrick pauses, surprise on his face. He looks uncomfortable as he straightens his tie, and I can feel him losing interest with every second that passes. “Oh, I didn’t realize that.”

“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms.

Ryker gives me a brief frown, and there’s a long awkward pause—and I should probably say something right now, but for some reason I can’t.

I didn’t get invited.

Everyone knows, but he didn’t, because he doesn’t even know who I am.

He glances back at Ryker. “Well, I need to get to Jackson to catch my flight. Good talking to you, Ryker. I’ll see you at the Combine. Nice to meet you, Blaze.” He gives me a nod and a quick smile, but it doesn’t seem encouraging.

“Let me walk you to the door,” Ryker says and they head off to the front of the gym.

With a deep exhalation, I watch them leave for a few seconds then turn back to my workout.

A chuckle comes from Archer as he works a butterfly machine. “Smooth move, Blaze. An NFL scout in front of you and you went all pussy.”

My jaw tightens. He’s right. I should have been charming; I should have been on my knees begging him to watch me run.

Ryker comes back into the gym and stalks over to me. “What the hell was that? I just introduced you to the lead scout from the Giants, and you were off in la-la land. You need to be buttering these guys up, Blaze.”

I heave out a breath.

He frowns at me. “That was your shot.”

I settle the weight back down on the pole. “My shot for what? If they don’t see what I can do on the football field, that’s their loss. I don’t need you trying to get me pity-drafted.”

I don’t know where the words come from, only that I’m frustrated with myself.

His face goes red. “I’m just trying to help, dickhead.”

“I fucked it up. Fine,” I say tightly, anxiety churning inside me.

Ryker stands there for a moment, shakes his head, and walks off.

I finish my workout, pissed I didn’t say the right things. I never know what to say, not when it really matters. Give me a room full of fans and I’m the wittiest dude there, but put my future on the line and I hesitate.

Why do I do that?

Because deep down, no matter how hard I fight, part of me thinks I’m not worth it, that I’m not good enough to make it.

Later, Archer is in the locker room with two of the younger defensive players when I come in for a shower.

He eyeballs me. “Hey, wide receiver, maybe that scout wants to hire you to be Ryker’s water boy in New York.”

I roll my neck. “He clearly didn’t notice you.”

He stands from the bench he was sitting on, and his buddies follow. “You trying to piss me off, pretty boy?”

I turn to him, and he puts his face directly in front of mine, almost nose to nose. I take him in, assessing his height and muscle tone against mine. My hands curl. I can take him. We’ve been picking at each other for months now, and I can only take so much before I blow up. Normally, I’m not a hothead; I keep myself on a tight leash, keeping my goals front and center, but I’m sick of him. Schoolyard fights flash in my head, messy brawls I got tangled up in, usually over a comment about my parents and how they killed the mayor’s daughter. I learned how to use my fists then, how to stick up for myself.

He slaps his bare chest, where he has a tattoo of five huge stars, his high school recruiting ranking. “Don’t you know who I am? ESPN’s been talking about me since I was a sophomore in high school. Five, boy!” I was barely a three-star high school player.

I bark out a laugh. “It doesn’t matter what people thought when you were young. They’re looking at what you’ve done lately, and when it comes to you, I’d say not fucking much.” I give him a grin, but inside, my body is ready, coiled and tense.

He pushes my chest, but I immediately square back up and shove him until he stumbles over the bench behind him.

“Hold him!” he yells out to his posse as he scrambles to stand.

Hands grab each of my arms.

“Fuck that,” I say as I struggle to get out of their grip. I manage to shake one of his minions off and grab the other by the shirt just before Archer punches me in the stomach.

All the air surges out of my body, and I bend over to catch my breath.

He’s not stopping and comes right back at me. I duck under his next punch, which was intended for my face.

“Too slow,” I mutter.

He swings wide over my head, and I counter with an uppercut directly under his jaw. His head snaps back, his eyes pure evil when he focuses back on me. His leg kicks out at me and hits my shin.

Pain ricochets through me, and my teeth grit.

“You trying to injure me where it counts, huh? Asshole,” I call out, rushing him and landing my fist in his stomach like he did to me.

He gasps and clutches his waist.

Feeling someone behind me, I swirl around and face his buddies, but they step off.

“Whoa, whoa, we’re done,” they say, hands up, eyes wide. “Don’t want any trouble.”

“You better be. That shit isn’t fair,” I bite out.

Archer has straightened and wipes blood off of his lip.

“This is over,” I snap, pushing past him. “Let it go.”

“Not for me.” He grabs my shoulder and slams me into a locker.

I rub the arm that took the brunt of the impact, and every logical thought in my head, the ones telling me I need to end this, click off. I wrap my hand around the thick gold chain around his neck and yank on it, forcing him to get back up in my face.

“You want to get me riled up, Archer? You’ve got no clue what I can do to you. It’s a conscious choice every single day to not slam my fist into your face.”

“What the hell?” shouts Coach Sanders as he bursts into the locker room. He scans the place in a heartbeat. “Are you two crazy?”

Archer puffs out his chest and shoves my hands off him. “He started it, Coach.”