He nods. “Sorry, it’s just I’m thankful for the job, sir—Jack. Not many people want to hire someone who’s been in jail.”

Lucy told me all about his drunken skirmish with another college kid, who happened to be the son of a senator. That kid ended up in the hospital with a broken arm and broken ribs. Quinn got six months, a tough sentence for a kid just starting his life, and from what I’ve seen of him, he’s polite and good at what he does, and he definitely looks the part with that brawn. And I’m a big believer in going with my gut, and my gut says Quinn’s a good kid.

“Hey. Forget that. It’s how you live your life now that matters.”

He exhales. “It was self-defense, sir—Jack. He brought it on himself, and I took it and took it until I snapped. The media blew it out of proportion.”

“No need to explain it to me. I’ve snapped a few times myself.” I recall a skirmish I got sucked into on the field just this last season, after a helmet grab that took me down hard and hurt my shoulder. And even though I didn’t start that fight, you better believe people think I did.

I slap him on the back. “Never look back, Quinn. Let people talk.” That’s my motto.

He gives me another hopeful glance. “You think you’ll need me tonight? I don’t have any plans. I can be here or wherever you need.”

I don’t really need him tonight. But I can tell Quinn wants to be busy. “Devon’s got a birthday party at the Razor. You can hang out if you want the hours.”

He grins. “Yes, sir.”

An hour later, I’ve gotten fifteen miles in on the treadmill when Aiden waltzes into the gym, his face fucking perky for the early hour. Looks like someone else is working on his game. Most of the team is on vacation right now, chilling out in some faraway place, enjoying their families or significant others during the off-season. Not me. Here I am, working my ass off to keep my number one spot.

And Aiden . . . yeah, he’s a real go-getter too.

Twenty-three and a superstar draft from Alabama, he’s been breathing down my neck since he got on the roster, just waiting for me to screw up so he can step right into my shoes.

He doesn’t speak as he walks past me, but those eyes are all over me. A little smile curls his lips as he leans on the treadmill next to me.

I click off the machine and tug out my earbuds. “Like what you see? Need some pointers on how to run?”

A lot of this game is in the head, and nobody’s as good at that as me. Sure, my private life might be piling up around me, but I know when a young buck is aiming for my heart. Football is all I have, and I’ll do anything to protect my game.

“Ease up there, old man. I’m just here to work out.”

Uh-huh. He’s been here every morning like clockwork, staying as late as I do.

“You need some help with your passing game? You hesitate half a second on a blitz. You better fix that before you even dream of taking my spot.”

He frowns.

I grin.

“I do not hesitate.”

“Yep. You do.” I shrug and grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face, knowing he’s playing back that last horrible game we had.

He rolls his shoulders before picking up a barbell, doing reps for his arms. “I just want what’s best for this team—”

“And you think that’s you?”

He sets down his weight and pushes back brown hair, flashing me a cocky grin.

“Yeah, man. Think about it. You’ve been here for seven years, and I don’t see a Super Bowl ring on that finger. You messed up that game good, Hawke. Five interceptions. Five. You choked last month in front of millions, and this town remembers. And now . . .” He laughs as he sets the barbell back on the shelf, grazing his hands over the selection, idly picking up a heavier one. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Dude. You’re practically handing me the starting position. You hit a little kid in your big-ass Escalade last week. They might have forgiven you the loss of that trophy, but a young fan . . .” He lifts a shoulder nonchalantly.

Anger ratchets up. “I didn’t see you out there trying to score when they put you in that game. You couldn’t move the ball one inch. You. Hesitate.” I continue, “You might be bright and shiny now, but you don’t have the grit, Alabama.”

He bristles.

The double doors of the gym open.

I turn as head coach John Connor walks in, his gaze beady. “Everything all right?” He moves his eyes between us.

I cross my arms. “Aiden and I were just jawing.”

“Yeah,” Aiden adds. “Jack was saying how great I am.”

I bend down to grab my water bottle on the bench; my lips tighten as a fissure of pain races down my left shoulder, tingling all the way to my arm. Gritting my teeth, I force my shoulders to relax. No way do I want Aiden to get a whiff of weakness. Or anyone. I shake it off, rolling my shoulders, relaxing as it fades.

Coach frowns as he takes in my running joggers and sweaty face. “The press conference is in two hours. You know what you’re going to say?”

The press conference.

A tight feeling grows in my chest. Do I know what I’m going to say? No.

I pray I can speak at all.

I give him a tight nod and stalk out of the gym. Lawrence meets me out in the hall, his Armani suit gray and as sharp as his face. He straightens up from the wall he was leaning against. “First things first, you look like shit.”

“Thanks.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Late night.”

“Also, there’s a pic of you online in Milano’s with a woman, drinking. What part of keeping your head down until this blows over did you not understand, Hawke?”

“It was a date. And it was one drink with dinner.”

His mouth gapes. “A date?”

I scrub my face. “Wasn’t planned.”

He nods, eyeing me carefully. “There’s a video of you getting in some guy’s face too—”

“I did not get in his face. God damn it, Lawrence. I have a life. Why does everything I do have to be picked apart?” I push off past him, and he follows, his legs considerably shorter than mine, so he scurries to keep up.

“Because you’re you, and the media hates you.”

“They love the lies.”

“But it makes for a good story.”

I walk into the locker room and yank open my locker, eyeing the clothing I have there, everything from street clothes to a couple of suits.

Lawrence looms over my shoulder, rifling through the rack and pulling out a yellow polo with the Tiger emblem and a pair of designer jeans. “You need to dress casually for the reporters, nothing flashy. I know you like your pressed shirts and slacks, but look relatable. Be nice. Try a smile. Soften that growly voice.”

My shoulders tighten as I take in a deep breath. “I am relatable. I grew up poor as shit. I won the Heisman my junior year in college. Why doesn’t anyone remember that, huh?” I send him a side-eye. “And we both know I can’t stand those reporters in my face. I can’t do it, Lawrence. I don’t know why I’m even going to this thing.”

“Because Coach is making you.”

I turn to face him and see the sympathy on his face. He knows the panic I feel whenever a crowd is hounding me. I wasn’t this way in high school, or maybe I was and just didn’t recognize the symptoms because I never really had to put myself out in public. In college, I recognized it right away as soon as I came off the field after a big game and a reporter stuck a microphone in my face. I brushed past them and kept on going. Sometimes I’d be okay if my helmet was on. A few times, my teammate Devon would stand next to me, and I’d let him do the majority of the talking. Lord knows he can’t shut up anyway. Later, after I was drafted and came to Nashville, everyone expected me to be friendly with the media, give interviews to the local guys whenever they wanted, be the MC at galas. Never in a million years.

And my reputation as an arrogant, unemotional asshole was born.

“The press conference isn’t a bad idea. You’ve barely spoken at one in years, and trust me; they’ll be salivating in that room.”

“Not helping, Lawrence.”

“Too much has been said about you in the past—including Sophia’s lies—and you’ve never defended yourself. You lost the Super Bowl. You ran over a kid—accidentally. It’s time to buckle down and think about putting yourself out there. Look, you hired me to fix your image issues. You have this anxiety thing when it comes to reporters in your face, but just try this time. Stare at the ground if you have to. Just get the words out about what happened. It wasn’t your fault, Jack, but when you won’t even tell people, they form their own opinions.”

I stand there, mulling. I don’t even know the root of the fear. It’s just there.

He exhales. “People like a villain, Hawke, and you make a great one. There are rumors of trading you.”

“Rumors from whom?”

“I don’t have specifics.”

I close my eyes.

There are always rumors, especially after a big loss, but if they do trade me . . . it’s a death sentence. It says, Jack has problems, and Nashville doesn’t want him. Plus, this damn shoulder. I rub it for a moment, then grab the hangers he’s holding and head to the showers.