Page 44 of Final Down

“Okay, but what about the uniform? That’s not good, is it?”

The way her face bunches up is answer enough.

“Ugh,” I groan, pushing my hand into my hair.

“You’re the worst sister in the entire world! You ruined my life! I hate you!” The barrage of vitriol hits me without warning. I didn’t hear the bus or her bike. And I’m so stunned and hurt by her words that I can’t even make sense of the scene until she’s halfway across the driveway on her way to the house.

“Ellie! Talk to me!” I move to follow her, but my mom grabs my wrist to stop me.

“Give her an hour. Let her process on her own. She’ll be ready to listen then. Well,moreready.”

I feel sick.

My sister’s bike is at the start of the driveway, lying on its side. She probably tossed it and sprinted with rage when she saw me. I barely got to take in her face. Was she crying? She was definitely spitting. I saw teeth. Lots of teeth. This is awful.

And just when I thought my universe had bottomed out for the day, my phone buzzes in my hand. Not a call, but a text. From the president of the school board.

DISTRICT OFFICE:Peyton, your presence is requested at 6 p.m. Tuesday. The board has some questions for you, as a decency complaint has been filed. Thank you for your understanding in this matter. Your athletes have been notified that practices are on pause until the board makes its determination.

And just like that, my day got infinitely more . . . awful.

Chapter Seventeen

Twenty-two-year-olds can be real assholes.

Chance Hickory is twenty-two.

I’m sure he took that photo, or one of his buddies did, but I’m tryingreallyhard to give him the benefit of the doubt. I’ve seen their likes on social media, the snarky comments some of them have made about the woman in the photo, questioning whether I’m stepping out on my wife. My gut tells me the reason Chance did it, or at least didn’t stop any of it. He wants to see my character take a hit.

He’s young. And he’s been given all this attention and power so early in his career. He’s not ready for it.

I bet someone said that about me my senior year at Arizona. I do my best to live up to my father’s standards, to mind my emotions, do the gut checks before speaking and acting out. But I’m sure I’ve messed up a time or two over the years. Especially when I first entered the draft. I get that saying about hindsight, now that I’ve got a few years to look back on.

When I took a year off to help Peyton, I went into the draft the next season with expectations—not of myself, but of thepeople who I felt would be stupid to pass me by. And when I didn’t get picked, that fucked with my head.

How could they not see what I had to offer?

What I should have considered, though, was what I didn’t bring to the table. Looking back, I left a whole host of things out of my first, second, and third impressions with a lot of the teams. I didn’t lead; I followed. I didn’t take risks on the field; I played it safe. I didn’t put in the extra hour of work; instead, I called it a day early. I didn’t stand out.

Chance stands out. Maybe a little too much. And I can’t let this photo thing go completely, not without words.

I stare him directly in the eyes as I enter the locker room. He took it easy at our workout today. And he was late to film this morning. I went extra hard—partly to let out some aggression, but mostly because I’ve decided I want this, and if Chance is the heir apparent, he’s going to have to sweat a little to take his crown.

“What’s that look for?” He spits out a laugh with two of the young receivers after I pass by where they’re sitting.

“Just taking a mental picture of you, man. You know, for my collection.” I don’t bother to turn around. I strip off my jersey and pads before glancing over my shoulder in time to catch them whispering.

“You know, if you want a photo of me, you can just ask. Here, I’ll even pose for you.” He gets up from his chair and walks to the center of the room, shirtless and in his boxers. He flexes a bicep and acts like he’s about to kiss it before laughing and waving me off.

I scoff. “I’d rather wait outside like a creeper and catch you in your apartment, or maybe the next team hotel. I hear those photos go for a lot. You know, the kind that invade someone’s privacy.”

Chance chews at the inside of his mouth as he takes his seat again and stares at me. I hold his gaze, internally willing my pulse to slow. I pick up the towel hanging in my cubby and twist it rather than forming a fist.

A slow smirk stretches across Chance’s face as he tips his chair back, balancing on the two back legs.

“Nah, you won’t get the good pics that way. I’m careful when I’m out with the ladies. You know . . . I like to keep shit private. Balconies, though? Oof, yeah. They’ll get ya.”

I run a palm over my mouth and let my focus drop to the floor while I nod slowly. I’m gonna lose my cool. I feel it, and my grip on my self-control is slipping. I pop my gaze up, making eye contact with one of the young receivers who thought Chance was funny a minute ago. He’s not laughing now, though. Neither is the other guy. These guys haven’t seen any time on the field. They know they’re probably getting cut after camp. But if they want to find their way onto a roster again for the next camp, they’ll step out of this situation fast.

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