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.”
Fine. It’s like that. I give him a sharp nod. “I’ll be flying around the gym like Superman, sir. I’ll be a Blaze blur every day, all day.”
“Good. You always are, but level up for me.” He gives me a concerned look. “You need that degree too. You need a fallback.”
My body tenses. “Right.”
“What’s your major?”
I’ve been staring at the floor. I look up at him. “History, sir. If the NFL doesn’t work out, I want to teach high school and coach.”
He nods and gives me a small smile. “I did the same thing. I was planning on being a PE teacher until I got a college coaching position. You’d be a fine teacher, Blaze. You’ve got an outgoing personality kids would gravitate to. Fine choice.”
“I failed a couple of classes last semester. I’m not the best student.” I try. I really do.
He frowns, maybe because he knows how much I struggle academically. “I get it. You’re a star here, and it’s a fine line balancing athletics and classes. You know the drill: get a tutor, study, lay off the alcohol.”
“Doing that already,” I say. “I’m dedicated, Coach. Any team would be lucky to have me.”
“I know, but we’ve got to get them to notice you first.”
My lips flatten. “If a national championship doesn’t get their attention, what will?”
He frowns and scratches his jaw. “I don’t know. Truthfully, I thought you’d be talked about more.”
Ah, shit, so I wasn’t wrong. For some reason, they just don’t want me. My shoulders deflate as all that anger whooshes out.
I’m not good enough.
Never have been.
Just the product of two meth heads from a nowhere place in Mississippi.
He toys with a pen. “Let’s not dwell on that. Put the media behind you, get out of here, and get back on that treadmill. I need you in tiptop shape, you feel me?”
“Yes, sir. I’m ready for it.” I stand, my legs heavy and tired as I face him. I don’t want him