Page 83 of The Wrong Quarterback

I forced myself to stay calm, even though my heart was attempting to beat its way out of my chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said flatly, meeting his gaze head-on. “Sphinx? Hazing? I don’t know anything about that.”

The officer’s mouth twisted, his jaw tightening. “You’re really going to play this game, aren’t you?”

I shrugged, feigning indifference. “I’m not playing anything. You’re accusing me of something I didn’t do. I have no idea why you’d think I’d be involved in something like that.”

The officer scoffed, crossing his arms. “Come on, Davis. Everyone knows you’d do anything for that damn football career of yours. Think about it. A little confession, and this all goes away. You’ll be back on the field before you know it.”

I bit down, every muscle in my body tense. “I’m not admitting to something I didn’t do.”

“Fine,” he sneered, pacing in front of me. “But think about this: we leak this story. All those scouts, every single NFL team? They’re gonna hear all about the golden boy grave robber. Your face will be plastered on every news channel. You’ll be ruined.”

Ruined. I wasn’t a big fan of that word at the moment.

His partner leaned in, joining the act. “Last chance, Davis. Tell us what happened. Call it hazing, say it was just some Sphinx stunt, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll let you keep your dreams.” He let out a slow, mocking chuckle. “Otherwise? Well, good luck trying to throw touchdowns in jail.”

I swallowed, keeping my breathing steady. The last thing I would do was give them what they wanted. If I cracked now, it was over. I held my gaze steady, refusing to flinch under their scrutiny.

“Sorry,” I said, my voice cold and calm. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about. And since you don’t seem to have any real evidence, I think I’ll be wanting my one phone call now.”

I didn’t get my phone call.

Instead, the hours dragged on in a haze of questions, accusations, and threats. Every time they left, I thought maybe, just maybe, it was about to be over. But then the door would open, and another round would start—questions about the Sphinx, demands that I just admit to the crime, taunts about how I was ruined. They even threw in details about the woman’s family and how they wanted to see me punished to the fullest extent of the law. Evidently, grave robbing was a Class E felony in Tennessee, and I could look forward to at least four years in prison for my future.

Sometimes they would try the “nice guy” routine, where one of them would pretend to be sympathetic about my situation. Say that he understood what the Sphinx represented, and he could understand how I would be tempted.

“It’s a lot of pressure, isn’t it, looking after your mom?” the tall one said. I stiffened, resisting the urge to jump over the table and drop kick him. “And those famous brothers of yours. That’s a lot of pressure, too, living up to that?” he continued, because I think of the two of us, he was the one who liked digging a grave. “What’s going to happen to your mom when you’re in prison, Davis? Who’s going to watch over her then?”

I bit my lip so hard it started to bleed. Whatwasgoing to happen? My brothers would do their best, but what were they supposed to do, drop everything to take care of her? They would, but I didn’t want that for them.

Fuck.

I was exhausted, every muscle aching from hours of sitting, my wrists raw from the handcuffs, my mind a tangle of tension and fatigue. Maybe I should just tell them what happened.

I was about to break, and then the officer stood. “We’ll give you some more time to think,” he snapped, leaving the room with his partner.

That was close.

I shook my head, blinking my eyes several times, because what the fuck was I about to do? They didn’t have anything on me. I just needed to keep my damn mouth shut.

The silence pressed in, and my mind drifted between anger and sheer exhaustion. I reviewed film on Sundays with the coaching staff, so all my mistakes were fresh. Even if I got out, that was going to be a fun conversation with Coach about why I’d missed that. And Casey, I had planned to be over there the second I was done, convincing her she was the love of my life. I was going to send her breakfast…and flowers. The last thing I needed was to give her space, and now here I was, completely silent for who knows how long.

The door was thrown open, and the cops filed in again, and judging by their faces, the nice guy routine was done.

How fun.

In my next bout of “quiet time” I couldn’t fight it anymore. My eyes drifted shut, my head drooped down onto the cold surface of the table. I let myself slip into sleep, even though I was the opposite of comfortable. My wrists might be permanently impaired at this point.

I’d just nodded off when the door opened again, the sudden noise jolting me awake. I wearily blinked at the door, feeling like a zombie. But it wasn’t the same cops coming back to torture me. Instead, a guy I didn’t recognize, with a shock of blond across the front of his dark hair, stood there. He was dressed in a fitted suit, but he looked completely casual, leaning in the doorway as if he owned the place, his expression unreadable.

I blinked, trying to place him. There was something vaguely familiar about his face…or maybe it was his eyes. Where had I met him? Before I could ask who he was or why he was here, he took a key out of his pocket and ambled over to me, with a quick click undoing the cuffs around my wrists.

I hissed as the blood rushed back into my hands. Fuck, that did not feel good.

He straightened up, giving me a slow, deliberate look. “The Sphinx sends its congratulations. Sometimessilenceis trust,” he said, his tone low, almost amused.

And then, he turned on his heel, slowly walking out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.

I sat there, staring after him, my mind reeling. This had been a setup—the cops, the endless questions, the threats. This hadn’t been a real interrogation. This had been my second trial.

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