Page 49 of Melting the Ice

“No,” Dean interrupted him. “No, you’re playing great.”

“I know,” Wes said, his smile bringing out his dimples. “I couldn’t figure it out, so I thought I’d ask you before you go back out there.”

Coach Stevens had pulled Wes, probably because he was a very visible part of the offense—themostvisible player on the whole goddamn team—and the media would rip him apart if Wes got hurt while the Evergreens were up three scores. But Dean was still out there, playing every down of the defense, because Coach had learned last year that when Dean’s future was on the line, he didn’t take being benched very well.

Even if it was supposedly for his own good.

“I’m notgrimacing. I’m fucking smiling,” Dean retorted.

Wes looked completely lost. “That’s not how you smile, you idiot. And why are you tryin’ to force yourself to smile?”

“Apparently I’m ‘wound too tight’ and a bunch of NFL scouts think I’m gonna bust up if I don’t magically become happy and relaxed. Ian suggested the smiling, but clearly that was a stupid move.”

“If you wereactuallysmiling, sure, but you’re . . .I don’t know how to even describe what you were doing, man. But it didn’t look like you were very happyorrelaxed.”

“Ugh,” Dean groaned.

“It’s just stupid noise. Those scouts always come up with the dumbest shit, you know that. It won’t matter on draft night.”

Dean knew all about the scouts and the way they liked to pick players apart. But he wasn’t willing to let his whole future ride on the assumption it wouldn’t matter. Maybe Wes didn’t know him as well as he thought—or as well as Dean had believed—if he didn’t understand that.

“But,” Wes continued before Dean could say any of that out loud, “I get why you’re worried. I wish I didn’t have as many sleepless nights as I do, worrying about where I’m gonna end up.” His gaze flicked towards the stands, where it was very likely Marcus was. “Wherewe’regonna end up.”

“It’s not your responsibility what happens to Marcus,” Dean reminded him. It was easier to talk about Wes’ baggage than his own.

Wes made a face. Probably not all that different than the ones Dean had apparently been making, while he wastryingto smile. “Yeah, easier said than done.” He slapped Dean on the shoulder. “Anyway, I get it. It’s tough.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.

It occurred to him thatthiswas why he and Wes were friends. Because they got it, both on this nearly impossible balancing act of a path they’d set for themselves.

On the field, the Evergreens’ kicker set up for a field goal, and Dean grabbed his helmet. In a few minutes, he’d be back on the field, where he belonged. Where nobody gave a shit if he smiled or not.

Where they only depended on him to be what he was best at: a human wrecking ball.

“Give ’em hell, alright?” Wes said, patting him again.

Dean nodded and jogged onto the field, entering the loose circle of defensive players huddling up before the first play after the kickoff.

Jordan, his partner on the other side, was subbed out. When Dean asked Nick, the safety who was calling the plays, he just shrugged. “Coach pulled him, probably. You shouldn’t be out here, either, Scott.”

“They’d never be able to drag Dean off the field,” Eaton, one of the corners, said with a snicker. “They’d have to fight him, first.”

“Exactly,” Dean said, not offended, because it wasn’t offensive to want to play. Toneedto play.

“One quarter left,” Nick said. He glanced over at Dean. “You still gonna keep rushing?”

“Like anyone’s gonna stop him,” Eaton said.

“Y’all could learn something from Dean,” Nick said firmly. “He doesn’t take a single fucking down off. He’s fightin’ for every single yard.”

Dean nodded. Because he did.

Every time he didn’t reach the quarterback or he didn’t stop the Trojans’ running game in its tracks felt like a loss.

And he didn’t take loss well.

Nick clapped, breaking up the huddle, and the players arrayed themselves in front of the line of scrimmage. Dean moved to the right, leaning down and digging his cleat and his fingertips into the turf.

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