Page 30 of Forever Defiant
I wasn’t here for Noah. Or Dustin.
They weren’t my story, I reminded myself approximately every five seconds. But even on the other side of the field, which I kept at my back, Dustin was impossible to ignore. Because he raneverywhere. His speed was wicked fast. He ran routes up and down like a hyperactive cocker spaniel with limitless energy.
If the NCAA didn’t administer all the drug testing, I would seriously consider dropping an anonymous tip to check those sludge smoothies Mike told me they all drank every morning.
They had moved into some kind of formation that had both ends of the field moving together.Offense and defense, I reminded myself. I mean, I knew what football was. I knew that it took forever to play, and it was all about strategy. I winced as Noah laid out a guy across from him. Or maybe it was just about hitting people hard and tossing the ball around under the pretense of playing, other than knocking guys on their asses.
Noah laughed as he helped pull the guy to his feet.
“Hey, freshman!” Dustin called, smacking Noah on the helmet as he jogged past. “Keep those elbows in — you’re windmilling like an inflatable at a car dealership, dude. You’re giving Matthews all he needs to grab you.”
The freshman nodded and adjusted his stance.
I scribbled a note about team dynamics, even though I knew damn well Slater’s commentary wasn’t the dynamic I needed.
Then he noticed me. Dustin slowed, glanced at me, and looked me over like he’d spotted a snake in his shoe. His eyes narrowed. My pulse didn’t care for that at all. He turned, and his attention was back on the field.
Dante called out something unintelligible to anyone who wasn’t a football player, and then the ball arced through the air, and Dustin was running like a cheetah down the sideline. Some poor bastard was running after him like his life depended on it, and even my inexperienced self knew he had no chance of catching him. Dustin twisted around while he was running straight, his arms came out, and then he had the ball cradled in his arms, and he was still running forward.
The whistle blew, and I glanced back at Dante, who was grinning as his teammates whooped and hollered over Dustin’s run. When I turned back to look at Dustin, he was walking toward me, his helmet pushed up over his face, resting on his forehead. He had a slight sheen of sweat and a flush to his cheeksfrom the exertion, but his eyes were flat. The energy that he had just run with, all of it, was gone. Like a switch had been flipped.
“You’re paying too much attention to the wrong team member,” he muttered as he passed.
“You know I’m not here for you,” I shot back.
He snorted. “Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been watching me all practice.”
“Along with every other player on the field,” I snapped. His smirk was arrogance personified. God, he loved himself far too much.
But unfortunately, he was photogenic. He would have been a perfect feature piece, which was an infuriating thought to have.
Like him.
Infuriatingandphotogenic. The worst combination known to journalism.
By the end of their practice, I’d learned more about football than I even knew was possible, and I knew it still wasn’t enough. I’d followed Mike through things called drills, sled pushes, and positional work — which conveniently placed me right in the same orbit ashimagain and again and again.
Everywhere I turned: Dustin’s laugh. Dustin’s muscle. Dustin’s ‘I see you trying not to look at me’ swagger.
I ended up looking at the ground a lot.
“Hadley?” I looked up at Mike, who was towering over me. “Coach Holt says you’re okay to come with me to the weight room.”
“Why?” I stared at him blankly.
“I do weights after warm-ups.”
I looked at the field and then at Mike. “That was awarm-up?” I asked him incredulously. “Are you kidding?”
Mike flushed. “That was warm-up and practice routes.” He scratched the back of his head. “Then I do weights.”
“Weights, right.” I gave him a big smile. “Let’s go lift stuff.” I picked up my tote bag and tried to juggle my notebook, phone, and pen. Mike leaned over and took my bag off me. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” His hands were massive.
“Your hands are so big.”
He beamed at me. “Yeah, handspan is important,” he said, holding his hand out. “It gets listed as one of your stats.”
