I shake my head. “The trainers will take care of that tomorrow.”

“What if you watch us?” Dani asks, edging closer to me. She pulls Candi along with her, lacing their hands together. “Then we work on you, whatever you want…” Her voice trails off, a hungry look in her gaze.

I rub the back of my neck and stare at the floor. “Tempting, so tempting. Maybe next time, girls.” I guzzle down my drink as they whisper back and forth, probably plotting how to change my mind. I can’t make out what they’re saying and don’t try to. My mind is scattered in too many directions.

All at once, I feel utterly exhausted, beat down. My bruises from the game are still healing, and all I can think about is crawling into my bed. Murmuring a final goodnight, I head down the hall to my bedroom. Just as I get my shirt off, I hear the front door slam. Dani’s disappointed, no doubt.

I take my jeans off, pull the small Ziplock bag out of one of the front pockets, and set it on my nightstand. I stare down at the small piece of paper inside, a note written on the back of a silver Big Red gum wrapper. It’s carefully folded into a square, the corners nice and sharp. I contemplate unfolding it and reading it, but in the end, I can’t.

A sigh of relief hits me as I crawl under the covers. The ceiling fan whirls over my head, and there’s enough light coming in from the window to watch it spin. I like it on even in the winter, gives me something to focus on as I try to tamp down the thoughts in my head.

Yet…

I keep circling back and worrying about football and classes.

I turn over and beat my pillow as emptiness creeps in. I don’t normally let dark feelings invade my thoughts, but I can’t let go of the fact that not one fucking person came to see me play my big game. Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Jack, the people who raised me since I was ten, weren’t there, even though I left tickets for them at the gate. Sure, I get that they’re busy and it’s hard to travel, but still, they haven’t shown up for any of my games, even the home ones. It’s as if I went away to college and became a distant memory for them.

And Charisma? My hands reach up and scrub my face. She didn’t even watch on TV.

I close my eyes and pray for sleep.

A Wildcat legend indeed.

*

I’m eight years old and walking down the candy aisle of the Exxon gas station, my hands holding a Snickers bar and a bag of Cheetos. My stomach rumbles, already imagining devouring them. I haven’t eaten today. Mama likes Fritos, so I grab those. Daddy likes Twix, so I balance that on top of the pile. Drinks, we need drinks. I head to the soda aisle. I’m feeling overwhelmed by the variety when the bell goes off inside the busy store, signaling someone entering or leaving. Instinctively, my head turns to the door as my parents walk out, both of them weaving. Mama stumbles over the curb outside and laughs, her eyes overly bright as she looks up at him. “You overdid it.” I heard Daddy tease her earlier. I know what that means. It means she’ll get that vacant look on her face and stare off into space. Daddy just grins and hooks his arm through hers then leads her to our car, an old white Volvo with a dent on the front fender. I dash back to the candy aisle and put everything back, but by the time I reach the front door, they’re pulling away, a cloud of smoke following the beat-up car. My heart drops and fear slides down my spine. No, no, no! I’m sorry I took too long in the restroom! I’m sorry I talked too much in the car! I’m sorry I can’t sit still! “Wait for me!” I scream as I run outside—

I snap awake in the dark and sit straight up in the bed, stomach in knots. I…I haven’t dreamed about my parents in forever, always able to push those memories away when I need to. I heave in a big breath and stand up, my mind lingering in the past. I recall the gas station incident with absolute clarity, down to the pimply-faced employee who found me hiding in the restroom hours later. He held a toilet scrubber in his hands, and I had packages of eaten food littered around me. I wiped my tears, stood up, and faced him, trying to be brave, terrified he was going to arrest me. I’d never stolen anything, and it had been easier to do than I’d thought it would be. He asked for my parents’ cell and had all kinds of questions, but I didn’t know their number, plus I knew to keep my mouth shut. Once I told a teacher I didn’t have my field trip permission form signed because my parents hadn’t been home the night before, and that turned into a visit from a stern-faced social services lady who sat in our trailer with a clipboard and asked if I was okay.

No, I wasn’t okay.

I fucking wasn’t.

But I didn’t even know it then, didn’t know my family was screwed up.

How was a kid supposed to know what normal was when he’d never seen it?

Somewhere down the road, though, my drugged-out parents remembered me and rolled back into the parking lot. I recall Mama running inside the store and plucking me from behind the counter where I was sitting. She hugged me tight and swore she’d never leave me again.

But she did. They both did.

*

After I’ve showered, I bring up ESPN’s draft page online to see if they’re mentioning me at all. Disappointment hits hard when I see I’m still listed as only a possible late-round or free-agent pickup. I need to be first or second round. I need reporters talking me up.

I shut the laptop, grab a protein bar, and head to the athletic center to work out.

What the hell does ESPN know anyway?

The facility is deserted since most guys are still recovering from the game or nursing a hangover from last night. Not me. After spending half an hour lifting, I jump on the treadmill and pound my shoes on the rubber, hoping to get ten miles in.

Coach Sanders, one of the wide receiver coaches, enters, and I hit the stop button on the treadmill.

I grab a towel and dry the sweat off my face. I’m out of breath but manage to call out. “Coach, you got a second?”

He looks back and pretends like he didn’t notice me when I’m the only one working out. Not a good sign.

“Uh, sure. Let’s hit my office.”

A big man in his early thirties with dark clipped hair and kind eyes, he’s one of the youngest, sharpest coaches in college football and the main reason I signed with Waylon. I still remember the night he came to my high school game and met me afterward then took me to dinner at a fancy steakhouse one town over from Alma, Mississippi. The waiter pulled out my chair, and when he draped the napkin over my lap, I barely kept myself from jumping up and punching him in the face. I legit thought he was trying to touch my cock. So dumb. Even the utensils on the table stumped me. I ended up just watching Coach to see which one he picked up. I mean, how many forks does a person need to eat? Apparently three. I’ve beefed up my knowledge these days to know that forks go on the left and the smaller one is used for salad. On the right—this is where it gets tricky—is the knife, the salad knife, the regular spoon, the soup soon, then a tiny little oyster fork. At the top of the plate is a dessert spoon and another freaking fork. I get overload just picturing it.

Coach gestures toward his office down the hall.

I follow him inside, anxiousness sitting heavy in my gut. I shut the door behind me and sit down in a chair in front of his desk. Clasping my hands in my lap, I try to feign nonchalance, but he has to know why I’m here.

“Have you heard anything about the Combine? Am I invited to Indianapolis?”

The Combine is a huge opportunity. It gives the NFL scouts a chance to look over the top college players and figure out how they compare, see if they want them on their team. It’s crucial if you want to be drafted. Ryker, Maverick, and Archer have all been invited. I haven’t. Dillon hasn’t, but he’s not ready to graduate like I am. He still wants to finish up another year at Waylon and rack up stats.

“No word yet, son,” he says as he shuffles some papers, not making eye contact with me. “Even if you don’t get the invite to Indianapolis, you’ll have a shot here at our Pro Day workout.”

Yeah, but hardly anyone important comes to Pro Day. It’s mostly for the fans.

Swallowing down disappointment, I sit for a second, not sure how to react. My hands clench. I felt sure I’d get invited after how well I played late in the year. Inside, I start to panic, but I battle it down when I see Coach is staring at me with worried eyes. How many times has he had to have this conversation with players? It’s a rare man who makes it to the NFL.

He must read my face.

“Don’t lose hope, Blaze. They haven’t finalized the list. My advice? You need to focus on training hard. Do you understand?”

My hands tighten around the armrests on the chair. “No one comes to Pro Day.”

He lifts his hands. “It’s all you have, son. Take what you get.”